Gontran burst out laughing. “What kind of fairy tale is that?” he cried.
“It’s not a fairy tale, it’s the truth; at least, the investigating magistrate, enlightened by Monsieur Sharp’s advice, says so.”
“What! But yesterday evening we were at Pulkova Observatory—didn’t you tell these gentlemen that?”
A rapid gleam flashed in the year of the permanent secretary of the Academy of Sciences, and Mileradovich cried: “You spent the evening at the Observatory? Do you swear that’s true?”
“We swear it,” replied the two men, in unison—and the Comte de Flammermont added: “It’s my own droshky that took us there.”
The investigating magistrate sniggered. “Your coachman, under interrogation, stated that he stopped the carriage in a deserted street where he waited for you for nearly two hours—which led me to suppose that you had taken precautions to ensure that no one knew where you were going.” He paused briefly, then went on: “You’ll agree with me that going to the Observatory to study the stars is not an occupation that needs to be surrounded by such mystery.”
Gontran bit his lip, remembering that the old scientist had indeed arranged things in such a manner as not to leave any trace of his visit in the observatory. Despairing of that alibi, which escaped him as well as Ossipoff, he looked at the latter with eyes that seemed to say: “Why, then, did you keep silent, instead of proving your innocence…which would have been very easy.”
To this mute interrogation, Mikhail Ossipoff as about to make a mute response, when the policeman that the examining magistrate had dispatched to the French embassy came back, out of breath. Without saying a word, he handed Mileradovich a large envelope, whose red wax seals the fat man broke with feverish fingers.
As the magistrate progressed in reading the hastily-written lines, the set of his features visibly altered. Finally, he straightened up, bowed to Gontran, and said: “You’re free to go, Monsieur le Comte. Be assured that I regret what has happened most sincerely. The police sometimes have a heavy hand, which weighs blindly upon the innocent as well as the guilty, but they frankly admit their error when it is demonstrated to them, and try to make reparation.”
“That’s good, Monsieur,” Flammermont replied, dryly. “As far as I’m concerned, I know what I have to do. However, from what you have just said, I retain one thing: the police make reparation for their error when it is demonstrated to them. Why, then, are you not giving the order for Monsieur Ossipoff, who is as innocent as I am, to be set free?”
Mileradovich shook his head. “As for Ossipoff,” he said, “his case is as clear as his crime is conclusive…the gallows awaits him.”
“But that’s an infamy!” cried Gontron.
“Monsieur de Flammermont,” Sharp retorted, in a menacing tone, “permit me to tell you that here, as in France, there are laws designed to obtain respect for justice and its representatives. Don’t oblige us to apply them.”
“Defend yourself!” the young man cried, turning to Ossipoff. “Prove that they’ve taken a false path—that, far from thinking of killing the Tsar, you think only of giving one more glory to your fatherland, that the purpose of this powder that accuses you is not to destroy anything whatsoever, but quite the contrary…”
The old man put out his hands excitedly to implore Gontran to be silent. “Say no more, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, in a firm voice. “All that you might say, and all that I might say, would be futile. I sense that I have been caught in the meshes of a terrible plot, whose apparent objective I can deduce. If I’m not mistaken, I’m doomed…”
“But I shall save you!” exclaimed Gontran, with superb alacrity.
Ossipoff shook his head. “Alas, I know my country. I know that it’s impossible to prove one’s innocence of a crime such as the one of which I’m accused.”
“But the Tsar is just!”
“Yes, but they’ll blind him, if it’s in their interests…”
“But you have proofs of your innocence. Produce them, and this terrible but absurd accusation will fall apart.”
The old man stood up straight, and replied hoarsely: “Remember what I told you yesterday evening—and see how accurate my presentiments were. I have been suspected, spied upon, and now…” He fell silent, sensing Sharp’s eyes fixed upon him. Then he continued, firmly: “It’s hardly probable that I’ll see you again. Farewell, then—and be assured that, whatever fate awaits me, I shall submit to it with resignation if you will swear to protect my Selena, my poor daughter, whom my disappearance will leave without protection…without support.” Moved by the thought of his child, the old man stopped, strangling a sob in his throat, and a tear rolled along the edge of his eyelid. “Swear, Gontran!” he went on. “Swear!”
“On all that I hold most sacred in the world,” Gontran relied, “I swear to love Selena, to respect her, to defend her and to do everything possible with her to save you.” He leaned toward the old man, kissed him on the forehead and went out of the laboratory without even deigning to look at the magistrate and his companion.
In the vestibule, he bumped into Vassily.
“Oh, Monsieur le Comte!” the domestic exclaimed. “You’re free! And my master…?”
Gontran made a despairing gesture.
Vassily immediately launched into lamentations, which the young man immediately cut short. “Save your wailing for later,” he said, “and take me to Mademoiselle Selena.”
“Mademoiselle Selena?” Vassily repeated. “What do you want with her?”
“I need to talk to her. Take me to her room—or, rather, ask her in my name to come down.”
“Neither of those things is possible,” retorted the domestic, shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“Because Mademoiselle’s room is locked, and the key is in the hands of a guardsman who is standing guard at the door.”
Gontran reflected momentarily, and said: “Take me all the same; I’ll figure something out.”
After going up 20 stairs behind Vassily, the Comte found himself on a landing in which a patrolling policeman was marching back and forth, looking profoundly bored. At the sight of the newcomers, he came forward and demanded rudely: “What are you doing here?”
“Tell him,” Gontran said to Vassily, “that I want to talk to Mademoiselle Ossipoff.
The domestic translated the reply into Russian. The guardsman burst into brutal laughter. “It’s not possible to speak to the young lady,” he replied.
“Why?” asked Vassily, on the Comte’s instruction.
“Because that’s the orders.”
The Comte took a gold coin from his pocket, which ignited a covetous gleam in the policeman’s eye.
“Offer him this,” said Flammermont, “if he’ll let me talk to Mademoiselle Ossipoff for five minutes.”
The guardsman undoubtedly guessed the meaning of these words, for he took the key out of his pocket, introduced it into the lock, activated the bolt and stuck out his hand, into which Vassily dropped the gold coin. Then the man opened the door, and Gontran went into the room.
Selena was sitting in an armchair, her face buried in her hands, sobbing. At the sound of the door opening she raised her head and, seeing Flammermont, ran towards him with her arms extended. “My father!” she cried.
“Alas, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Ossipoff, your father, is a prisoner—the victim of a police error or an odious plot.”
“A prisoner? But that’s infamous! It’s horrible! I want to see him.” So saying, she went to the door.
“That’s not possible,” said Gontran. “There’s a guard there, who won’t let you pass. I had to bribe him in order to get in.”
The young woman wrung her hands desperately. “But they can’t take my father away without me seeing him, without me embracing him.”
Gontran shook his head. “Alas,” he murmured, “it’s more than probable that the magistrate will refuse you that concession…but I’ve come to find you in order to assure you of my en
tire devotion and to tell you that you can count on me no matter what, for anything.”
“You must save my father, Monsieur. You must save him….”
“I’ll run to the embassy, and through the intermediary of my ambassador, I’ll ask for an audience with the Tsar. If I don’t succeed in that first interview, I’ll try to obtain a second, and take you with me…your tears and prayers might perhaps obtain justice…”
“But of what is my poor father accused?” she asked.
“They claim that he’s a member of an association of nihilists.”
One might have thought that this reply had fallen on the young woman’s head like the blow of a sledgehammer; she shut her eyes and would have fallen on the floor if Gontran had not caught her in his arms.
“Here, Vassily, to me!” he shouted.
The domestic came in, followed by the guardsman, who made a sign to Flammermont to leave the room—and when the Comte turned a deaf ear, declaring that he would not abandon Selena in her present state, the domestic said; “Go, Monsieur le Comte…this man is capable of locking all three of us in…and who would busy himself trying to free my poor master then?”
Gontran, in distress, lifted the young woman’s inert hand to his lips, and then went out precipitately, went down the stairs four at a time and launched himself into the street like a madman, elbowing his way pitilessly through the curiosity-seekers massed in front of the little house.
In the laboratory, the interrogation was drawing to a conclusion. The magistrate Mileradovich had conducted it as spitefully as possible, tightening a net of insidious and ambiguous questions around the accused. He was already furious at having seen the Comte de Flammermont escape, and dreaded that the superb affair which might bring him so many benefits—as we saw at the beginning of the chapter—might be aborted.
The old scientist only made brief and perfunctory replies, and only when the demands became more incisive and venomous. Finally, Ossipoff lost patience, and cried: “My colleague, Monsieur Sharp, permanent secretary of the Institute of Sciences, knows perfectly well that your accusation is ridiculous, and that I am neither an assassin nor an agent hired by any secret society.”
Sharp stood up and put his hand on his heart. “God is my witness,” he said, in a tearful voice, “that I have only fulfilled a painful duty here, which hurts me…it hurts me to have to analyze the work of a former colleague. But having been drafted and designated as an expert witness by the chief of police, I have been obliged, whether I liked it or not, to study your notebooks and render an account by an examination of your laboratory of the kind of work in which you have involved yourself.”
Ossipoff shivered and asked: “And your investigations…?”
“…Have discovered certain indications that I could not do otherwise than communicate to the magistrate. For me, as for any scientist who might examine your laboratory and your books, it is indisputable—and you have admitted it yourself—that you have fabricated a terrible explosive. With what purpose? I don’t know, and I leave it to the law to construct hypotheses, whose value I shall not attempt to estimate, desirous of confining myself strictly to my expert role.”
Ossipoff allowed himself to be convinced by the utterly sincere tone in which these words were pronounced, and unreservedly took back the dire thoughts concerning Monsieur Sharp that had crossed his mind a little while before. Then again, what would happen to him if he could not prove his innocence of the crimes of which he was accused? Must he renounce forever the project of celestial exploration that he had cherished for so long, and to which he had dedicated a substantial part of his life? And must he abandon all hope of ever holding his daughter, his dear Selena, in his arms again? He resolved to confide partially in his colleague, in order at least to have one advocate convinced of the reality of his assertions involved in the legal proceedings.
“Magistrate,” he said, in a slightly tremulous voice, “I ask your permission to converse with Monsieur Sharp privately for a few moments.”
Mileradovich turned to the expert, whose mask had become impassive in response to these words. “Did you hear the prisoner?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Do you consent?”
Sharp nodded his head.
The magistrate made a sign to the policemen, instructing them to go away, and got up from his own chair. Followed by his clerk, he headed for the door. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” he said to Ossipoff, in a gruff tone. Then, turning to the expert, he added: “As for you, my dear sir, I recommend the greatest prudence. These people are extremely dangerous.”
The permanent secretary smiled in a strange fashion and the magistrate went out. Left alone, the two scientists looked at one another silently, each attempting to deduce what the other was thinking.
It was Mikhail who spoke first. “In truth, my dear Sharp,” he exclaimed, with a forcefulness he could not restrain, “how could you consider me guilty, having known me for so many years?”
“What?” retorted the permanent secretary. “My dear Ossipoff, it’s not for me to make any judgment whatsoever…in doing that, I would be surpassing the duty that has been entrusted to me.”
“But it’s not prohibited for you to interpret the results of your investigation in a manner favorable to me.”
Sharp drew nearer to the accused. “I’d like nothing better,” he said, “but you’ll have to help me.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ossipoff, surprised.
“This powder that forms the basis of the most terrible accusation that can be held over the head of a Russian—what is its exact formula?” He had pronounced these words in a breathless voice, the words whistling through clenched teeth, and he had put his hands on Ossipoff’s shoulders, looking at him in anxious anticipation of the reply that might be given to him.
Seized by a presentiment, the prisoner stepped back and replied: “But you found the formula in my records.”
“No—it’s incomplete. I know enough chemistry to understand that one of the constituent elements of this selenite is missing.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” Sharp growled. “If you want to save your head, you must give me the entire formula.”
“And if I refuse…?”
“You’ll go to the gallows within a month, if I say so,” Sharp sniggered.
“Wretch!” cried Ossipoff. “Tell me frankly that everything that has befallen me is your work and that you want to steal the fruit of my labor.”
“The formula?” the permanent secretary repeated, coldly. “I need that formula.”
Impelled by anger and indignation, Mikhail Ossipoff made a movement so abrupt that the cords tying his hands broke. Heedless of anything but fury, the little old man rushed at Monsieur Sharp and grabbed him by the throat.
The permanent secretary, surprised by this unexpected attack, moved back precipitately, but his legs encountered the chair left vacant by Mileradovich and he fell backwards, dragging Ossipoff—who did not let go—down with him.
Hearing the noise of the struggle, the magistrate raced into the laboratory, followed by the guardsmen, who tore Ossipoff away from the unfortunate Sharp within the blink of an eye. They gagged him, tied him up, and transported him, in response to Mileradovich’s orders, to a secure carriage—which, to the cheers of the crowd, set off on the road to Roggatznaya Prison.
Half an hour later, Mikhail Ossipoff was thrown into a cell, whose threshold he would only cross again to go to the scaffold, unless the Tsar’s clemency sent him to Siberia.
Chapter IV
In which Providence presents itself to Selena
in the form of Alcide Fricoulet
A month went by, during which Selena passed between the extreme alternatives of wild optimism and profound despair. Had it not been for Gontran de Flammermont, who visited her every day and found means of renewing her courage, the poor young woman would undoubtedly have died; but the embassy attaché was so very skillful in persuadin
g Mademoiselle Ossipoff—although he did not believe a word of it—that the judges could not be so blind as not to recognize the error made by the police, that Selena’s tears eventually dried up. Whenever Gontran took her back to the threshold of the little house her expression was more serene and her heart less inflamed.
One evening—which was, we repeat, a month after the old scientist’s arrest—Flammermont was preparing to leave the lodgings in the Avenue Voinnensky that he occupied, not far from the embassy, when a loud altercation became audible in the antechamber. He opened his door and said: “What is it, Jean?” Jean was the manservant he had brought from Paris.
“It’s some kind of Cossack, Monsieur le Comte, who wants to force his way in and talk to Monsieur.”
Gontran immediately recognized Mademoiselle Ossipoff’s muzjik, and ran to him. “Selena?” he asked, his throat anxiously constricted.
“Mademoiselle is well,” Vassily replied, “but my poor master…” And the servant dissolved in tears.
Seized by a presentiment, Gontran said: “Have you had news?”
“Condemned, Monsieur le Comte!” stammered Vassily, amid his sobs. “They’ve passed sentence on him!”
The young man shuddered. Although he had expected the outcome, the news struck him hard. A question was burning his lips, but he remained silent, fearful of the response. To what had Ossipoff been sentenced—death or deportation? Considering things coldly, the former was certainly preferable to the latter; what is death, as a torture, compared with life without liberty? But what about Selena? What a terrible blow it would be for the young woman if it were necessary for her to renounce all hope—however far-fetched it might be—of ever holding her adored father in her arms again. The blow might kill her.
At that thought, poor Gontran felt his heartbeat slow down, as if life were about to abandon him.
“The swine!” moaned Vassily, still weeping. “The poor old fellow! It’ll kill him for sure.”
These few words brought the Comte some relief. The fate that had befallen Ossipoff and inspired such mortal apprehension in Vassily was not the gallows. He breathed deeply and said: “Where are they sending him?”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 9