“But His Majesty shall hear—and he shall take notice! I will demand in inquiry into the arrest and exile of Madame de Rosen.”
“I thought you told me that you had already mentioned her name to His Majesty,” Hartwig said quietly.
I had forgotten. Yes. His words recalled to me my effort on her behalf, and the futility of my appeal. I sighed, and bit my lip. The two innocent ladies were on their way to that far-off dreaded penal settlement of Yakutsk. From the time which had elapsed since their arrest I calculated that they were already in Siberia, trudging that long, never-ending post road—that wide, deeply-rutted track which runs across those boundless plains between Tobolsk and Tomsk—on the first stage of their terrible journey of over six thousand miles on foot.
A sudden suggestion flashed across my mind. Should I follow, overtake them and hear the truth from Marya de Rosen’s lips?
Yet before doing so I should be compelled to apply for a passport and permits at the Ministry of the Interior at Petersburg. If I did this, Markoff would at once suspect my intention, for travellers do not go to Siberia for pleasure. And if he suspected my intention a way would quickly be found by which, when I arrived at my destination, neither of the ladies would be alive. In Siberia, where there is neither law nor inquiry, it was, I knew, very easy to close the lips of any person whose existence might be prejudicial to the authorities. A word from General Markoff, and an accident would certainly occur.
No. I realised that to relax my vigilance over the safety of Natalia at that moment would be most injudicious. Besides, was not Natalia herself aware of the contents of the letters? If not, why had her enemies made the firm determination that she should meet with a sudden and mysterious end?
I mentioned to my companion my inclination to travel across Siberia in search of the exiles; but he only shook his head gravely, saying:
“You are, no doubt, under very close observation. Even if you went, you might, by so doing, place yourself in grave personal peril. Remember, Markoff is desperate. The contents of those letters, whatever they may be, are evidently so damning that he cannot afford exposure. The pains he took to secure them, and to send Madame de Rosen into exile, plainly show this. No,” he added, “the most judicious plan is to remain here, near Her Highness, and watch Markoff’s operations.”
“If Her Highness would only reveal to me the secret of those letters, then we should be in a position to defy Markoff and reveal him before the Emperor in his true light,” I said.
“She has refused—eh?”