A week before the last rising of the Poles took place, an officer of high rank in the Russian service came in the dead of night, and wrapped in a great fur cloak, to a friend of mine living in St. Petersburg, with whom he had little more than a passing acquaintance—
"I am going out," he said, "and I have come to ask a favor and say good-bye."
"Going out!"
"Yes," said his visitor. "My commission is signed, my post is marked. Next week you will hear strange news."
"Good God!" cried my friend; "think better of it. You, an officer of state, attached to the ministry of war!"
"I am a Pole, and my country calls me. You, a stranger, can not feel with the passions burning in my heart. I know that by quitting the service I disgrace my general; that the Government will call me a deserter; that if we fail, I shall be deemed unworthy of a soldier's death. All this I know, yet go I must."
"But your wife—and married one year!"
"She will be safe. I have asked for three months' leave. Our passes have been signed; in a week she will be lodged in Paris with our friends. You are English; that is the reason why I seek you. In the drojki at your door is a box; it is full of coin. I want to leave this box with you; to be given up only in case we fail; and then to a man who will come to you and make this sign. I need not tell you that the money is all my own, and that the charge of it will not compromise you, since it is sacred to charity, and not to be used for war."
"It is a part, I suppose," said my friend, "of your Siberian fund?"
"It is," said the soldier; "you will accept my trust?"