Mikhail Ossipoff appeared, his hands secured behind his back by a cord, each extremity of which was held by a guardsman with a revolver in his other hand.
At the sight of Sharp, the old scientist released a cry of joy. “You here, my dear friend!” he said, taking several steps forward in spite of the guards’ efforts to hold him back.
“Me, Monsieur Ossipoff,” the permanent secretary of the Academy of Science replied, coldly.
Had a bucket of cold water been poured over his head, Ossipoff could not have been more amazed than he was by the attitude and tone of his colleague and friend. He fixed Sharp with a stare full of astonishment and reproach, and said, not without bitterness: “I scarcely expected to see you here, Monsieur.”
“Believe, Monsieur Ossipoff,” the other relied, “that it was only with the greatest reluctance that I accepted the painful mission with which I am charged…but I am, before anything else, a faithful servant of the Tsar, and I could not do otherwise than obey him.”
A mocking smile played upon Mileradovich’s lips. “Have the accused sit down,” ordered the magistrate.
At these words however, instead of sitting down on the stool that his guards indicated to him, Ossipoff leapt forward, red with anger. “Accused!” he cried. “Oh, so I’m accused—of what, pray?”
Mileradovich made a sign. The guards grabbed hold of Ossipoff and pushed down on his shoulders with all their strength, obliging him to sit down.
“Your name?” asked the magistrate.
“Mikhail Ossipoff.”
“Your age?”
“59.”
“Your profession?”
“Member of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, correspondent of all the scientific societies of the world.” And he added, raising his head proudly: “One of the glories of Russia, as the Tsar recently took the trouble to inform me.”
A flood of bile rose to Monsieur Sharp’s face; beneath his lowered eyelids, he directed a furious gaze at his colleague.
The magistrate continued: “Is the house in which we are located yours?”
“It’s mine.”
“This room is your laboratory, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“You recognize all the objects that are in it as yours?”
Ossipoff nodded his head affirmatively.
“As you also declare that you have fabricated all the substances to be found in your laboratory with your own hands?”
“Certainly.” The scientist pronounced this word with an assurance punctuated with pride. Sharp felt it, and lowered his eyes.
The magistrate fell silent and perused the transcriptions that the clerk had made of Ossipoff’s replies.
“Now that I’ve answered all your questions meekly,” said the scientist, with exaggerated courtesy, “may I be permitted to ask you one?”
“Speak,” Mileradovich replied.
“Why am I here, in my own house, with my hands bound and hidden from sight like a criminal, while strangers sit before me like judges, having turned my entire house upside-down?”
The rotund Mileradovich turned his round face, brightened by a sly smile, toward Sharp, shrugging his shoulder slightly in a gesture of commiseration. Then, addressing the old scientist, he said: “Although you have no right to ask that question, what we can tell you, knowing perfectly well what your case involves, and as it is customary—for form’s sake—to inform an accused person of the accusation laid against him, is that you, Mikhail Ossipoff, have been accused of the crime of high treason.”
The old man’s amazement was so great that he kept silent, his tongue stuck to his palate, his eyes wide, his lips partly opened by an exclamation caught in his throat.
Mileradovich misinterpreted this expression and continued, emphasizing every syllable that fell upon the prisoner’s skull like a blow from a sledgehammer: “You have conspired against the security of the State and the life of the Tsar.”
Ossipoff felt as if his limbs had been broken by these words. Him, accused of wanting to overthrow the State! Him, accused of wanting to put Tsar Alexander to death!24 Him, in a word, a nihilist! Either the people who had accused him must be mad, or he was a victim of the grossest of misunderstandings. It was upon this latter supposition that his mind, momentarily deranged by this frightful accusation, eventually settled after a few seconds of reflection. He recovered the use of his limbs; his tongue loosened, and he burst into hearty laughter, extending his hand to Sharp—who looked at him through his spectacles, as stiff and stern in his chair as if he were carved in wood.
“Magistrate,” said Ossipoff, when his hilarity had calmed down, “to your accusation I can only ay one thing: there has been an error. I only require, as a witness to that, Monsieur Sharp, here present, my excellent colleague in the Academy of Sciences, who will tell you whether Mikhail Ossipoff could ever be plausibly accused of nihilism.”
In the face of the poor scientist’s expectation, however, the permanent secretary of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences remained immobile and mute.
Mileradovich resumed speaking. “The very honorable Monsieur Sharp,” he said, dryly, “has no say in this; the accusation that weighs upon you is no concern of his.”
“If Monsieur Sharp has no say in this,” retorted Ossipoff, becoming impatient, “what is he doing here?”
“He was appointed by the chief of police to assist me in the investigation that I had to carry out here—an investigation which, I must admit, clearly establishes your guilt and the truth of the accusation.”
Ossipoff bowed his head, his ears buzzing with the two relevant words: “Guilt…accusation…guilt…accusation.”
“For several months,” Mileradovich went on, “your neighbors have been alarmed by your mysterious comings and goings, and your strange ways. You spend almost all your time here in your laboratory, rarely going out except at night, to undertake journeys through St. Petersburg whose objective no one knows.”
The scientist raised his hand again and opened his mouth to reply, but the magistrate continued: “Loud explosions have been heard on several occasions emanating from your house. The neighboring dwellings have been shaken many times by powerful shocks that have even made deep cracks in the ground; flames have been seen through the ventilation shafts of this cellar. All of this is strange and incomprehensible…”
“Is that sufficient reason to treat me as a thief or an assassin?” demanded the indignant Ossipoff.
Without answering him, Mileradovich said, brutally: “Mikhail Ossipoff, in your own interests, I advice you to change your defensive strategy. A full confession might save your head from the severity of the Tsar.”
“I have no fear of the severity of the Tsar,” said the scientist. “I only ask for his justice.”
Mileradovich shrugged his shoulders and glanced sideways at Monsieur Sharp, then continued: “What is it that you do?”
At these words, Sharp raised his had and stared at the accused.
“I carry out chemical experiments,” Ossipoff replied.
“On explosives, isn’t that so?” asked the magistrate.
“The principal object of my studies is, indeed, explosive compounds.”
Miladerovitch rubbed his hands and leaned over his clerk to make sure that he as transcribing the accused responses accurately. “And for what purpose,” he asked, in an insinuating tone, “are you seeking an explosive so ardently?”
“For a scientific purpose, you may be sure. What other purpose could I have?”
The magistrate laughed, and shook his head. “You’re forgetting that the manufacture of explosives is the monopoly of the State—and, in consequence, strictly forbidden to individuals.”
“But it’s not a matter of manufacture—purely of research.”
Miladerovich thumped the table forcefully with his fist. “If you continue to lie in this fashion,” he growled, “I’ll have you gagged. To devote yourself as secretly as you have to the manufacture of a powerful engine of
destruction—selenite, as you call it…”
Ossipoff started.
“…You must, therefore, have a terrible goal—and you cannot be far from attaining that goal, for in consulting your records, Monsieur Sharp has discovered under yesterday’s date the formula for a powder indispensable to the projects of the association of which you are a member.”
The permanent secretary of the Academy of Sciences moved his thin and bony finger over the page of the enormous volume open in front of him, murmuring: “KO2AZO5 + BaO + C2O4”25
Mikhail Ossipoff raised his head and fixed his colleague with a profound stare.
“Fortunately,” Mileradovich continued, “the attention of your neighbors had been attracted by your mysterious behavior and your dangerous exploits. The police, who were already watching, had been alerted by a friend of public security.” Abruptly, he added: “Where were you coming from yesterday evening, when you were arrested with one of your accomplices?”
Ossipoff could not prevent himself from shrugging his shoulders. “Your error,” he said, a trifle sarcastically, “is manifestly too gross for my replies to assist you to recognize it.” And he fell silent, attentively examining Monsieur Sharp, who was still riffling through papers, making notes in a notebook open beside him.
“Clerk,” said the irritated magistrate, “write that the accused refused to admit that he went to a nihilist meeting yesterday evening.”
Ossipoff burst out laughing.
“And this,” Mileradovich continued furiously, putting a piece of paper covered with names and numbers under the old scientist’s nose. “What’s this?”
“As to that,” replied the accused, quite self-composed, “you can read as well as me.”
“Jupiter…Mars…Saturn…Sirius, and a lot of other bizarre names,” proclaimed the magistrate. “Do you deny that these are the pseudonyms that conceal the most dangerous of conspirators?”
The bewildered Ossipoff remained silent momentarily, then pointed at Sharp: “Have you asked Monsieur Sharp what he thinks of the theory you’ve just put forward?” he asked, sarcastically.
“Monsieur Sharp shares my feelings on the subject,” Mileradovich replied, hotly.
The permanent secretary of the Academy of Sciences started so violently that the enormous steel-rimmed spectacles sitting astride his nose leapt on to the table. “Pardon me,” he said, “but I never told you that.”
Mileradovich’s apoplectic face turned a deeper shade of purple. “What!” he cried, folding his arms across his breast. “What did you say, then, when I showed you this list?”
“That they were the names of stars and planets.”
“That’s true—and what did I say to you?”
“As far as I can recall, you told me that the names of stars must serve to designate Monsieur Ossipoff’s accomplices.”
The magistrate’s face lit up triumphantly. “And to that, what did you add?”
“Nothing,” Sharp replied, hiding a sly smile.
“Therefore, you shared my opinion.”
“Ah!” exclaimed he permanent secretary. “Pardon me, but I’m here to give you my opinion when you ask for it, not to give you a course in astronomy. You don’t know what Mars, Saturn and so on are—that’s your right—but don’t make me out to be an imbecile.” Having said that, he took a huge handkerchief from the pocket of his frock-coat and set about cleaning the lenses of his spectacles carefully.
Mileradovich, slightly vexed, shrugged his shoulders. “I may not know anything about astronomy,” he said, “but, with all due respect, most honored Monsieur Sharp, you don’t know all the tricks employed by rogues to escape the police.” Addressing himself to Ossipoff, he went on: “Your precautions were clever, but you’ve been caught, and, in your own interests, I strongly advise you to make a full confession.”
He leaned against the table, advancing is luminous face towards the scientist, and lowered his voice confidentially, saying: “Come on, the fate that awaits you is as certain as it is that Monsieur Sharp and I are honest men, while you’re nothing but a scoundrel. If you persist in denial, you’ll be hanged. Right! With regard to each of these names of stars, give me the name of your accomplice, and I promise to commute your sentence to banishment.”
“Truly, Magistrate,” Ossipoff retorted, “You speak marvelously, and it’s obvious that treason doesn’t cause you any difficulty.”
Monsieur Sharp’s spectacles glinted vividly, and the furious Mileradovich cried: “Clerk, write that the accused has accomplices, but that he refuses to name them.”
“Eh? For the excellent reason that I don’t have any. Now, if it will give you pleasure, write: Uranus, Neptune, Betelgeuse, Capella…but I warn you that they’re stars.”
Behind his spectacles, Monsieur Sharp narrowed his eyes, allowing a sharp glance to filter through his lashes. “So why have you occupied yourself with so many stars?” he asked. “What can astronomy and ballistics possible have in common?”
Ossipoff turned to his colleague and, in spite of the feeling of foreboding that Sharp’s attitude and language inspired in him, he might well have been about to release some confidence regarding the gigantic project that he had mentioned to Gontran de Flammermont, when a frightful racket broke out in the next room. It was like the noise of a fight, mingled with exclamations in the Russian language and heavily emphasized French curses.
Monsieur Sharp looked at the examining magistrate, who leaned toward the clerk to instruct him to go and see what was happening. The shifty and shabby little man put down his penholder, pushed back his stool, and headed for the door at a slow pace. Scarcely had he opened it, however, when a tumultuous group was precipitated into the room, to Monsieur Sharp’s great amazement and the considerable alarm of the portly Mileradovich, who stood up hurriedly in order to put the entire breadth of the table between him and the newcomers.
As for Mikhail Ossipoff, maintained immobile in his seat by the guardsmen in charge of him, he recognized among those who had just invaded the laboratory Gontran de Flammermont—who, although his hands were tied behind his back, was energetically shaking four policeman hanging on to his clothing, as a wild boar does to dogs that have collared it.
“Where’s this magistrate?” cried the young Frenchman, in a thunderous voice. “Where is he? Show him to me, if he exists!”
Seeing the prisoner solidly contained by his guards, Mileradovich recovered his assurance somewhat, and responded in a less-than-firm voice: “You’re asking for a magistrate, Monsieur? Here I am.”
The Comte de Flammermont, dragging his guardsmen, launched himself to the table behind which Mileradovich was entrenched.
“Ah! So you’re the magistrate!” he exclaimed, his lips tremulous with anger and his eyes aflame. “It’s on your orders that I’ve been treated as a criminal and am still, at the present moment, bound like gallows-prey. Well, since you’re the magistrate, I demand that you set me free forthwith. I warn you that every minute that goes by aggravates your offence, as I also warn you that when I leave here I shall address, through the medium of my ambassador, observations to your government…”
Stunned by this torrent of words, and disturbed by the young man’s self-confidence, Mileradovic kept silent.
The Comte went on, in a calmer tone: “I am outraged, Monsieur, by the manner in which Russians treat the representatives of a friendly nation. No one behaves in such a manner. It’s necessary to come to your nation of Russia to be treated as brutally.” Then, wrath taking possession of him more fully, he cried: “Well, what are you waiting for?”
The investigating magistrate had recovered his self-possession. “Just one thing, Monsieur,” he replied, with obsequious politeness. “For you to tell me who you are and on what your claim is based.”
Gontran started violently. “Who I am?” he shouted. “You ask me who I am! Didn’t you know that when you had me arrested?”
“The orders concerned Mikhail Ossipoff alone,” Mileradovich replied. “Seeing
that he was accompanied, the guardsmen took the person accompanying him for an accomplice and thought they ought to arrest him too—for which I cannot blame them until you have proved to me…”
“That my name is Comte Gontran de Flammermont and that I belong to the diplomatic service!” the young man continued. “Send one of your men to the French embassy and it will not be long before you have proof of the gross error that you have committed.”
“Not me, but the guardsmen,” the investigating magistrate protested, swiftly, beginning to dread, on account of Gontran’s tone and attitude, that he had taken a wrong turn. So saying, he scribbled a few lines hastily on a piece of paper, which he gave to one of the police agents saying; “Hurry up!”
The man went out at a run.
Then, in order to conciliate the prisoner, in case he really had made the gross error of arresting a member of the French embassy, the magistrate gave orders that his hands should be untied and that a chair should be brought for him.
Instead of sitting down, though, Gontran ran to Ossipoff.
“And you!” he cried. “My dear, venerable Monsieur Ossipoff, can they not recognize, equally, that they are mistaken in subjecting you to such shameful treatment?”
The old scientist smiled sadly. “Alas,” he said, “personally, I do not have the honor, as you do, of belonging to the diplomatic service.”
“But all the scientists of the world will protest!” Gontran retorted, vehemently.
Ossipoff nodded his head in the direction of Sharp, who was watching the scene mutely and motionlessly, and said: “This gentleman is the permanent secretary of the St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, and his mission is to prove to the judge the crime of which I am accused.”
The young man’s eyes widened and he exclaimed: “The crime of which you’re accused! You’re accused of a crime! Good God, what is it?”
“I belong to the terrible association of nihilists,” the old man replied, ironically. “Yesterday, when we were arrested, we were coming back from a secret conference of the conspirators, which probably had the objective of organizing a new attempt on the Tsar’s life.”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 8