On a cold January night in the first year of the nineteenth century, a state ball, given by command of the fair young queen, Louisa, was held in the Royal Palace at Berlin.

Of those who attended this fête, many, chiefly of the masculine sex, were indifferent to polonaise or waltz, finding their entertainment in the galleries where, somewhat after the fashion of a modern restaurant, stood little tables, at which parties of two or more, while glancing at the dancers, could at the same time regale themselves with a supper and converse upon the topics of the day. This was a feature recently introduced by the Russian Count Wengersky, and though Court fossils stood aghast at the innovation, it had met with the approval of Queen Louisa and had brought immense popularity to the Count.

In one of these balconies sat round a table some officers, who, though of youthful aspect, were more interested in politics than in the charms of the ladies. Their talk, which was extremely animated, turned chiefly upon the question whether their sovereign lord, Frederick William III., would permit himself to be drawn into the confederacy formed by the four Powers, France, Russia, Sweden, and Denmark—a confederacy whose object was to resist by armed force the right claimed by Great Britain of searching on the high seas all vessels suspected of carrying contraband of war.

As these fire-eaters talked, they cast cautious glances in the direction of Viscount Courtenay, an Englishman, who sat alone at a table sipping his wine. A member of a famous historic house and patriotic to the backbone, the quick-spirited viscount was not the man to allow any disparagement of his country to pass unchallenged, and as his reputation for swordsmanship was such as not to be disputed even by “Fighting Fitzgerald,” then in the height of his glory, the Prussian officers took good care that any remark uncomplimentary to his native land should be spoken in a low tone.

Wilfrid Courtenay’s life should have been cast in the Middle Ages. He was a romantic freelance, whose ideas were more akin to the age of chivalry than to the nineteenth century. The spirit that finds a zest in danger, the spirit that made the vikings the terror of all coasts from the North Cape to Sicily, the spirit that sent the Crusaders forth to do battle with the Paynim beneath the blazing sun of Syria, the spirit that has caused Englishmen to plant colonies in the very teeth of hostile savages—that spirit still ran strong in the blood of the Courtenays. Accordingly, on the attainment of his majority, Wilfrid, leaving to his widowed mother the care of his patrimonial acres, had set out like a knight-errant to wander over Europe in search of adventure, in which quest he had fleshed his sword in more than one campaign, earning thereby from no less a personage than the Count d’Artois, himself a pattern of chivalry, the proud title of Le Bayard de l’Angleterre.

To this taste for fighting was added another, in singular contrast with it. Just as Frederick the Great, in the intervals of campaigning, found a strange pleasure in writing what his admirers called poetry, so Wilfrid was wont to devote some of his leisure to the study of painting, but whereas Frederick in his art never rose above mediocrity, Wilfrid, in his, succeeded in attaining a high degree of excellence.

For the rest he was tall, with fair hair, blue eyes, and that indefinable air that is always the accompaniment of aristocratic birth: shapely and muscular in limb; a giant in strength; a stranger to fear; chivalrous in his dealings. Among his faults was that of acting upon impulse rather than upon the cooler dictates of reason. But where would be the great deeds of history if their authors had always paused to weigh consequences?

Now as Viscount Courtenay sat alone toying with his wine glass, a familiar voice suddenly broke in upon his reverie.

“Wilfrid, that our respective countries, or shall we say our stupid cabinets, are at war with each other, is surely no ground for breaking off our personal friendship?”

“Prince Ouvaroff! You in Berlin!” exclaimed Wilfrid, his face brightening; and, somewhat apprehensive lest the other should salute him, continental-fashion, with a hearty kiss, he quickly extended his hand, and was relieved to find Ouvaroff content with the English mode of greeting.

“‘Prince’ do you say?” returned Ouvaroff in a tone of quasi-reproach. “It was ‘Serge’ in the old days.”

“Then let it be Serge still. I am glad to see a familiar face.”

The new-comer was of Russian nationality, with a countenance decidedly unhandsome, a genuine Kalmuck physiognomy, though its ugliness was redeemed by the mild expression of the dark eyes. But however unprepossessing in face, his figure was tall and well proportioned, and arrayed in the blue uniform of the Preobrejanski Guards, who formed, in 1801 at least, the corps d’élite of the Czar’s army.

During his term of service as attaché to the Russian Embassy in London, the Prince had become well-known in West End salons, where he had met Wilfrid, who, in spite of an unreasoning prejudice against Muscovites, made an exception in favour of Prince Ouvaroff, appreciating his sterling qualities. The two had, therefore, become fast friends.

There was a mystery attending Ouvaroff. He had been brought up by a boyar of high rank, who would never, even on his deathbed, reveal to his adopted son the secret of his parentage.

“Your father lives and knows of your existence. ’Tis for him to speak—not me,” were almost the last words of his guardian.

The matter troubled Ouvaroff a good deal. He had often talked it over with his English friend, and now, their first greetings over, that friend reverted to the old theme.

“Any nearer to—to the discovery?”

The Prince’s face assumed a somewhat sombre look.

“No nearer, and, truth to tell, I hope I may never be any nearer than I am at present.”

Wilfrid lifted his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“Do you remember,” continued the Prince, “that old gipsy fortune-teller, whom you and I once met near your place in Surrey? She predicted that my father would become known to me in the very moment of my killing him.”

“My dear Serge, surely you don’t attach any importance to her words?”

“I do, and—fear. Her prophecies were three—first, that on my return to Russia I should be created a prince; second, that I should become aide-de-camp to the Czarovitch Alexander. Both these have come to pass. Why should I refuse to believe the third?”

“Why? Because the old sibyl assured me that within a year I should save the life of the fairest princess in Europe, gaining her love by that act. Eight years have passed since then, and so far I haven’t saved the life of any woman, whether princess or peasant. Since she can prophesy falsely as well as truthfully, dismiss your gloomy forebodings.”

Ouvaroff changed the conversation.

“What’s this I hear you’ve been doing at Paris?” he observed. “I am told that a picture of yours exhibited there last Christmas almost created a riot.”

“A riot? Nonsense!”

“I see you do not like to—what do you say in England?—blow your own trumpet. But for once lay aside your modesty, and let me have this story.”

“Well, since you insist on being bored. You are referring, I suppose, to my picture, ‘The Last Moments of Marie Antoinette?’ Despite what French newspapers may say, I had no political motive. The work was done merely to please my own fancy. When finished my poor old drawing master saw it, and begged for the loan of it, to place it among a small exhibition of his own pictures. I consented. The result was marvellous. Thousands came to view the picture. Republicans who had once yelled for the head of ‘The Austrian,’ and had gleefully seen her perish on the scaffold, now melted to tears at sight of her image on the canvas. Bonaparte got wind of the affair, and, on the ground that it was creating a sentiment in favour of Royalism, ordered the picture to be destroyed. The gendarmerie were stoutly opposed. Shouts of A bas Napoleon were raised, a struggle ensued, and the gallery had to be cleared with fixed bayonets.”

“And is it true that you challenged Napoleon to a duel?”

“I demanded compensation for the loss of my picture or—satisfaction at the sword’s point.”

Ouvaroff could not help smiling at his friend’s colossal audacity.

“And General Bonaparte’s answer——?”

“Was a police order to cross the frontier within forty-eight hours.”

“You went?”

“I stayed. You see, the First Consul’s sister, the dark-eyed Pauline, with whom I had had some love passages—platonic, of course—had invited me to a ball a fortnight later. My dear Serge, how could I refuse? On the evening of the dance I presented myself, greatly to the dismay of my friends, who were aware that the First Consul was expected. I had purposely arranged to take my departure at the moment of his arrival.”

“He saw you?”

“Certainly. Figure his rage as he saw me raising Pauline’s hand to my lips as I took my leave! The music, the dancing, the conversation—all stopped. The stillness was painful. ‘Did you not receive an order to quit France a fortnight ago?’ he thundered. ‘Why have you not gone?’ ‘And did you not receive a challenge to fight a fortnight ago?’ I answered. ‘Why have you not fought?’

“He couldn’t speak for passion.

“‘As to quitting France, Citoyen Bonaparte,’ I continued, ‘in such matters as coming and going, we Courtenays are accustomed to please ourselves. I had fixed upon to-night as the time of my departure, and, as you now perceive, I—er—depart. Adieu, citoyen.’

“With that I passed, by preconcerted arrangement, through a circle of friends, and before he had time to order my arrest I had reached a private gateway, where a carriage was awaiting me. As I had taken the precaution to have relays of horses in readiness, I succeeded in crossing the Eastern frontier a few hundred yards ahead of the pursuing carabineers.”

“And so General Bonaparte declined to measure swords with you?”

“Bonaparte is a Corsican—that is to say an Italian bravo, who prefers darker methods. Listen to the sequel. A few days later, as I was sitting at the card table in the kursaal at Homburg, a man suddenly rose, accused me of cheating, and ended his remarks by flinging the contents of his wine glass in my face. Of course, a meeting was inevitable. It was to be a duel to the death. Later that night my second came to me in great distress, advising me to cry off. He had discovered that my adversary was a secret agent of the First Consul—none other, in fact, than the famous, or infamous, Abbé Spada.”

“I have heard of him. The first swordsman of France?”

“So-called. Well, we met, and considering the many men whom Spada has killed in his day, I felt justified in giving him his passport to Gehenna.”

“You killed him!”

“Within three minutes.”

Ouvaroff regarded the speaker with admiration.

“That’s Bonaparte’s way of dealing with the objects of his displeasure,” concluded Wilfrid. “But I’ll be even yet with the Little Corsican for destroying my picture.”

Now, as Wilfrid gazed down upon the dancers swaying rhythmically to the sound of the music, his eye was caught by a lofty figure standing, solitary and contemplative, within an arched entrance that opened upon the ballroom. It was a middle-aged man with silvering hair, whose cold, handsome face wore a somewhat sombre expression. He was clad in Court costume, carried his hat under his arm, and sparkled all over with diamonds from his powdered queue to his shoe buckles. It was the diamonds that attracted Wilfrid’s attention; he did not like to see a man so bedizened.

“Do you know that gentleman, Serge?” asked Wilfrid, indicating the magnate in question. “His face seems familiar to me.”

“Count Arcadius Baranoff, one of the Czar’s ministers. You must have seen him in London, for he was formerly ambassador at the Court of St. James’s. As rich as Crœsus. One of the men,” the Prince went on in tones of contempt, “who in the last reign climbed to power through the bedroom of the Empress Catharine. He is a proof of the power of the personal equation in international politics.”

“How so?”

“He is a rank barbarian, whose polish is but skin deep. When he was in London his brusquerie offended the men, his coarseness the women, and he left England burning with a desire to do her hurt, and now the time has come, he thinks.”

“Thinks!”

“You are aware that, after fighting each other for a year or more, the Czar Paul and Consul Bonaparte are now fast friends. This is mainly due to the diplomacy of Count Baranoff, who was sent to Paris as the Czar’s envoy: it was his hand that signed the Franco-Russian treaty. While in the French capital he tickled the Parisian fancy with a pamphlet, ‘Is it possible for an Englishman to possess sense?’”

“Oh, indeed!” muttered Wilfrid, with a glance at the distant pamphleteer.

“And now, on his way back to St. Petersburg, he tarries at Berlin in the hope of persuading the Prussian King to join the league against England.”

“Humph! Is he likely to succeed?”

“There’s no telling. He has had two interviews with the King. Frederick William is an amiable, weak-minded man. Were it not that Queen Louisa insists upon being present at these interviews, Baranoff might have carried his point. He is to have a final interview on the fourth day from this, and—mark this significant point—the Queen knows nothing of this intended meeting.”

“And Prince Ouvaroff as a Muscovite patriot,” smiled Wilfrid, “hopes that Baranoff will gain his ends?”

“By no means,” responded the other quickly. “Personally, I am opposed to the war, and—but let this be kept secret—so is the Czarovitch. Why should we give an opportunity to your Nelson to earn fresh laurels at Russia’s expense? But a truce to politics—I shall be letting out more than I ought,” he continued with a laugh, and then, by way of changing the subject, he added—

“You are not married yet?”

“No, nor likely to be. Waiting for the promised princess,” said Wilfrid mockingly. “But you—? What of the lady you loved five years ago?”

“I love her still,” replied the Prince moodily.

“She remains unwed?”

“So far. But she is ice to me.”

“Take heart. The Neva is not always frozen. That she does not marry should encourage you to continue your suit.”

“Give me your face and figure and I might succeed. Is it likely that she, confessedly the most beautiful woman in Moscow, will marry an ugly fellow like me?”

“What have looks to do with love? What says your own Russian proverb: ‘I do not love thee because thou art pretty, but thou art pretty because I love thee.’”

These words failed to arouse Ouvaroff.

“I have discovered of late that I have a rival, and a successful one. There is peril in aspiring to her hand.”

Before Wilfrid had time to ask the meaning of these mysterious words a liveried attendant approached, carrying a silver salver, upon which lay a sealed envelope. This with a bow he presented to the Prince, who, upon opening it, found therein a card inscribed with the words:—