The muzjik raised his arms to Heaven. “That I don’t know,” he said. “The police are keeping it secret.”
Gontran picked up his hat and put on his cloak. “Does Mademoiselle Ossipoff know about her father’s condemnation?” he asked, as they went downstairs.
“I don’t think so,” Vassily replied. “I was hanging around the court and learned it from a guardsman—then I ran to warn you straight away, in order that you could tell poor Mademoiselle yourself.”
“You did well, Vassily,” the young man said. “Go back to the house, and don’t say anything to your mistress. I’ll get more information.” Climbing into his droshky, he instructed the coachman to take him to the chief of police.
As he got down again, an individual hurrying down the steps bumped into him in such a rude fashion that the young Comte cried, in a furious voice: “What the Devil’s the matter with that stupid fool!”
The other stopped short, politely raised the traveling cap he was wearing, and said: “A thousand apologies, Monsieur, I’m merely clumsy!” And he added, cheerfully: “You’ll permit me, however, to bless my stupidity—for, in consequence of it, I’ve been able to hear the melodious tones of my native language again.” Bowing again, he was about to leave when Gontran put a hand on his arm and drew him towards the carriage in such a manner that the light of the lantern fell full on his face.
The young Comte saw a rounded face, in which two very bright black eyes shone, as piercing as a drill. Beneath a snub nose was a mouth like the gash of a saber, edged with highly-colored lips. Here and there, irregularly-planted tufts of black hair formed what is known in vulgar terms as a “gardener’s beard.” The man was certainly not handsome; in fact, he was ugly, but in a rather appealing way. Furthermore, a rare intelligence was visible in the broad and high forehead, topped by a shock of thick curly hair. As for the rest of the body, although it was wrapped up in a thick fur cloak, it was evident nevertheless that it was thin and lanky. The length of the arms allowed the length of the legs to be presumed. The hands were beefy and the feet could easily stand comparison with miniature boats.
“My God, Monsieur!” said Gontran, hesitantly. “Aren’t you Alcide Fricoulet?”
The other uttered an exclamation of surprise. “How do you know my name?” he stammered.
Without answering, the Comte de Flammermont threw his arms around the other’s neck, crying: “Alcide! Alcide! Don’t you recognize me?”
Somewhat troubled by this sudden manifestation of amity, the stranger detached himself from the Comte’s grip, murmuring: “There must be some mistake, Monsieur, for I confess…”
“Don’t you remember Gontran…Gontran de Flammermont?”
With a joyful gesture, the other threw his hat into the air—it fell into the snow—and simultaneously precipitated himself upon the young Comte, squeezing his arms and crying: “Gontran! Gontran! Fancy seeing you here!” Then, after a momentary pause: “But what are you doing in St. Petersburg?”
The young Comte started. “Didn’t I write to you several times? Didn’t you get my letters? Don’t you know that I’m at the French embassy?”
Alcide Fricoulet slapped his forehead. “Of course! That’s right…but I’ve been so busy, I completely forgot.”
“And you,” said Monsieur de Flammermont, “how does it come about that I meet you on the bank of the Neva, 500 leagues from the Boulevard Montparnasse?”
“I’m only passing through...I’m leaving tomorrow for the Nertchinsk district, where I’m to survey a mine in the capacity of an engineer. If you’ve nothing better to do, let’s spend the evening together.”
The young Comte did not reply immediately. He lowered his head, thoughtfully. Then he said: “Come on—climb into my droshky and wait for me, without getting impatient. It’s absolutely necessary for me to talk to the chief of police with regard to a matter about which I’ll talk you later.”
While Alcide Fricoulet installed himself under the warm fur covers, Gontran slowly climbed the steps and disappeared into the interior of the somber building. When he took his seat in the droshky again after a quarter of an hour, beside his friend, the latter was struck by the change in his expression.
“What’s up?” Fricoulet asked, solicitously.
“I’ve…something very unpleasant to do.”
“Something very unpleasant?” the other repeated, in an interrogative tone.
Then, impelled by the urgent need a man has to share his troubles with his friend, as he shares his joys, Flammermont briefly told his friend about the affair in which he was mixed up.
At the first words that were said to him, Fricoulet cried: “But I know this story…it’s made a great deal of noise in Paris. You must know that Ossipoff is held in high esteem there in the scientific world, which is very upset by his arrest.”
Gontran explained how, softly and without him quite being aware of it, the seed of love had germinated in his heart, and how he had perceived one day that the love in question had put down such solid roots that he could not imagine dislodging it.
While the young Comte was speaking, Fricoulet fidgeted on the cushions of the carriage, frowning, clicking is tongue, and eventually giving signs of the most profound discontentment. “Well, of course,” he finally cried, no longer able to contain himself, “if you let a woman into your life…it doesn’t surprise me that all these misfortunes have descended upon you.”
Without paying any heed to this sally, Gontran concluded by saying: “In brief, I decided to ask for Selena’s hand.”
The strangeness of the name made Fricoulet forget his ill-humor. “Selena!” he exclaimed. “The girl you’re in love with is called Selena? Only a scientist—and a Russian scientist, at that—could name his daughter after the Moon.”
“After the Moon?” repeated the Comte. “Why after the Moon?”
Fricoulet was astounded. “What!” he exclaimed. “You’re in love…your beloved has a bizarre name that isn’t to be found in any calendar,26 and you don’t bother to investigate the etymology of the name?” Folding his arms in a gesture of comic indignation, he went on: “The roots of your love, Monsieur le Comte, do not appear to have extended to the determination of Greek roots. What do you do in the diplomatic service, to neglect the mother tongue in this fashion? If you had Burnouf27 a little more present in your memory, you’d know that Selena comes from Selene, which means the Moon.” Then, with a slightly ironic smile, he added: “I’ll wager that your fiancée is blonde—blonde and pale, like Phoebe on a beautiful spring night…” He paused momentarily and resumed, with a mocking laugh: “Anyway, what does her coloring matter? A woman, blonde, brunette or redhead, is still a man’s evil genius.”
The Comte shrugged his shoulders, and murmured: “You haven’t changed. I remember you had that same horror of women…”
“A horror that I count on preserving until death!” exclaimed Fricoulet.
“At least until you, too, encounter…”
Fricoulet grabbed his friend by the arm. “Shut up!” he said. “Shut up! The merest suggestion of that sort upsets me…for two pins I’d jump out of the carriage.” Then, calming down, he added: “And the end of your story?”
“Oh, there’s not much more to tell,” Gontran continued. “The unfortunate Ossipoff, victim of an odious plot, was arrested, accused of nihilism and plotting against the Tsar’s life—and, in spite of all my efforts and those of my friends, he’s been condemned to deportation this very day.”
“Damnation!” murmured Fricoulet. “Deportation to Siberia is a death-sentence.” Privately, he added: One father-in-law less—that’s one fewer black cloud on the conjugal horizon. As Flammermont shook his head, he said aloud: “The chance that brought you so unexpectedly into contact with me might send Ossipoff to the mines for which I’m bound.”
“I’ve just been told that Ossipoff will be leaving St. Petersburg for Moscow tomorrow, to join a convoy of deportees bound for Ekaterinburg.”
“Ah, yes!”
murmured the engineer. “I know there are important platinum mines there.”
The droshky had stopped outside Ossipoff’s house. Vassily, who was doubtless on the lookout for the young Comte, opened the door and came out to meet him. At the sight of Fricoulet, the muzjik raised his lambskin cap and stood aside.
“Do you live here?” asked the engineer.
“No, it’s Mademoiselle Ossipoff’s house.”
Fricoulet moved as if to throw off the furs that were covering him, but Flammermont murmured to him in a pleading tone: “Please wait for me here. I might need your advice…in any case, we can’t part so abruptly.” Without waiting for his friend’s reply, he followed Vassily.
At the sound of the door opening, Selena swiftly got to her feet and came towards Gontran, her arms outstretched. Her face was pale and her eyes were still red with the tears she had shed during the day. Since misfortune had befallen her, the young woman had worn mourning-dress, and the black that enveloped her from head to foot made her unpolished ivory skin seem more translucent and diaphanous than ever, while her long gilded plaits hung down more heavily.
As on every other day, her first words posed the question that invariably began their conversation: “Is there any news?” And her gaze plunged into that of the young Comte in order to divine the truth, afraid that, for love of her, he might seek to hide it from her.
Contrary to his habit, Gontran did not reply. Without letting go of the young woman’s hands, he led her to a sofa on which he made her sit down, applying gentle pressure. He sat down beside her.
Troubled by his silence, Selena cried; “There is something!”
Mutely, not having the courage to break her heart by announcing the fatal news, Gontran nodded his head.
“Oh, my God!” she moaned. Dolorously, she bowed her head, with her eyelids closed and her lips convulsively taut, like a mortally-wounded bird falling lifeless on to the ground.
“Selena,” murmured the young man, fearfully.
But Mademoiselle Ossipoff had a valiant nature, which pitiless fate could bend but not break. She raised her head again, looked Gontran in the face, and stammered: “They’ve condemned him, haven’t they?”
“Yes,” said Gontran, in a low voice.
“The wretches!” she cried. Then she went on: “But the Tsar is just…he’s merciful…he’ll have mercy…you’ll go with me, won’t you, Gontran? You promised me. I’ll throw myself at the Tsar’s feet and beg him to let my father go…” When the Comte remained silent, she realized that she was deluding herself, and that it was necessary to abandon all hope. Then terror seized her; the sinister vision of the scaffold loomed up before her. She uttered a cry of horror, shielded her face with her hands, and murmured: “Death! My God, death!”
“No!” Gontran made haste to reply. “Deportation.”
She shuddered, seizing is hand, and said in a strangled voiced: “Then why give up attempting further measures?”
He hesitated momentarily; then, having nothing else to say now that he had been cornered by the truth, he said: “Because, at dawn tomorrow, Monsieur Ossipoff will already be on his way to Moscow.”
Selena cried out, sat up very straight and repeated: “To Moscow!”
“Yes, on his way to Ekaterinburg.”
The young woman made a despairing gesture. “Him! Him, condemned to the mines, like a thief, like a murderer! Oh, the wretches! The villains!” She fell silent, her features contorted by pain, her eyes shining indignantly. Then, suddenly raising her head again, and shaking her closed fist, she said: “But we’ll save him, Monsieur de Flammermont. We’ll take that man innocent away from them.”
“What can we do?” the young man murmured, pensively. “What imaginable means…? What subterfuge could we employ?
Selena stamped her foot and cried, with a certain bitterness in her voice: “I thought that a great man from your country had declared that the word impossible was not French! Are you backing out?”
“No—but I’m intimidated by the innumerable difficulties that now stand between us and our goal. There’s no question of saving your father on Russian territory, before he’s taken into the Siberian desert…measures are taken to prevent any escape attempt, and anything we did would only make the situation worse.”
Selena bowed her lead, thus admitting the wisdom of what Flammermont had just said.
Suddenly, the latter got up and went to the door of the room. “I had a chance encounter today with one of my good childhood friends—a young French scientist who knows Monsieur Ossipoff by reputation and is keenly interested in his unfortunate fate. Would you allow me to introduce him to you?” As Selena remained silent, he went on: “He’s a worthy fellow, very ingenious and knowledgeable. I brought him here because I thought he might be useful to us.”
“Have him come in,” Mademoiselle Ossipoff replied. “He’s welcome in advance; he already has all my gratitude.”
A few moments later, Gontran came back into the room, followed by the young engineer. “Dear Mademoiselle,” he said, addressing Selena, “permit me to introduce one of my good friends, a French scientist, Monsieur Alcide Fricoulet, an engineer by profession and a prolific inventor.”
Selena offered the newcomer a chair, then sat down. Smiling sadly, she said, graciously: “You’re doubly welcome, Monsieur. As a friend of Monsieur de Flammermont, the doors of this house are open to you no less widely than they are to you in your capacity as a scientist.”
Alcide Fricoulet bowed in recognition of this amicable speech. “Mademoiselle,” he replied, “my friend Gontran, who told me a little while ago about the great misfortune that has overtaken you, came to find me to ask my advice. Alas, I have no pretension to bring you any great wisdom…but feeble as my resources are, they are entirely at your disposal.” He turned to the young Comte and said: “Let’s deliberate, then.” Addressing himself to Selena, he added: “Do you have any maps of Russia?”
The young woman rang a bell. Vassily came back with a gigantic map, which was opened up on Ossipoff’s work-table.
For a few minutes, Fricolet remained hunched over the canvas, attentively examining the map of Siberia, carefully measuring the distance that separated the mines of Ekaterinburg from St. Petersburg and verifying the height of the Ural Mountains. As his study progressed and he took account of the difficulties to be overcome, his brows furrowed and his lips elongated into a significant moue.
“Diabolical country!” he grumbled. Then, lifting his head: “Unless the circumstances are exceptional,” he said, “I believe that it’s impossible to escape from Siberia.”
“You also despair, Monsieur!” cried Selena.
The engineer put out his hand sand said: “I said ‘unless the circumstances are exceptional,’ Mademoiselle. So, I continue: the passes are guarded, it’s said, by observation-posts. It would be necessary to follow the mountains as far as Urenburg, cross plains devoid of vegetation, continually pursued by the Kirghiz tribesmen who hunt for escaped prisoners.” Shaking his head energetically, he declared: “A man on his own, with no one to rely on but himself, cannot flee the mines; he would inevitably be recaptured, whether he were on foot or mounted on a sturdy horse, or even if he followed the rivers of the region by boat.”
“But then,” said Gontran, whose face had grown longer as his friend spoke, “if you declare all mans of escape impracticable…if one cannot save oneself by land or by water, nothing else remains…”
“What about air!” exclaimed Fricoulet. “Do you, by chance, consider the aerial route inferior to the others?”
“A balloon!” exclaimed the young Comte, in a tone that was half-incredulous and half-enthusiastic.
The engineer shrugged his shoulders. “A balloon!” he repeated, rather disdainfully. “Good God—what could you do with one of those? When you want to go to Siberia, it will take you to Norway…you know full well that such machines are not dirigible.”
Gontran lowered his head. “What, then?” he murmured.
/> Alcide Fricoulet remained motionless, his brow furrowed as if contracted by a violent mental effort, with a vague and indecisive gaze filtering through his lowered eyelids. Suddenly, he straightened up and addressed Flammermont: “I repeat,” he said, vibrantly, “that the air is the only way by which it will be possible for us to make an attempt to save Monsieur Ossipoff.”
“The air…the air!” Gontrant objected. “That’s all very well…but we need a means of making use of it.”
“I think I’ve found that means.”
Selena leapt out of her chair and seized the young scientist’s hands. “Oh, Monsieur, don’t lead us on! Don’t give me vain hope! If you undertake to save my father, he must be saved!”
“Mademoiselle,” Fricoulet replied, gravely, “I will undertake to attempt the impossible—that’s all an honest man can do.” He turned to the young Comte. “Are you ready for any sacrifice?” he asked.
“Even that of my life,” replied Gontran, vibrantly.
In spite of the gravity of the situation, an imperceptible smile creased Fricoulet’s lips. “I’m not asking as much as that,” he said.
“What do you need, then?”
“First of all, that you can act freely—and for that, you must hand in your resignation.”
“I’ll see the ambassador this evening,” the young diplomat replied, unhesitatingly, “and while waiting for my resignation to be accepted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I’ll obtain an immediate leave of absence.”
Selena looked at Gontran, her eyes moist with tears. “Oh, Gontran,” she murmured, her voice full of gratitude.
He took her hands, squeezed them gently, and replied: “What’s that little sacrifice, if, by that means, I can dry up your tears and bring a smile back to your lips?”
Fricoulet shrugged his shoulders slightly. All the same, he thought, not one of these people in love can find other things to say than the phrases repeated endlessly since the creation of Adam and Eve.
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 10