Stolen Souls. Le Queux William

I left, half an hour later, I went straight to my bachelor lodgings in a tall and rather gloomy house on the other side of the Moika. Lighting a cigarette, and drawing my armchair close to the stove, I sat for a long time in my dimly-lighted sitting-room, pondering over the events of the evening. How long I sat there I have no idea, but I was aroused by distinctly hearing a woman’s shrill scream. At the same time, I felt a tight pressure on my right wrist, as if it were being held by bony fingers, and on my throat I felt a strange, cold sensation, as if a knife had been drawn across it.

      Again I was mystified on discovering that I was alone; that it was nothing but a weird sensation! Yet, on removing the green shade from my reading-lamp, and going over to the mirror, I saw upon my throat a thin red line, while upon my wrist were three red marks that had apparently been left by unseen fingers!

      During the weeks that followed, I seemed filled with a terrible dread of some utterly vague danger, and before my eyes came frequent visions of the pale, handsome face of the beautiful woman who had allied herself with the most dangerous group of the Narodnaya Volya. Was there, I wondered, some mysterious affinity between us? So puzzled was I to account for the strange phenomena, and the fact that the curious marks upon my wrist still remained, that I began to fear that the periodical fits of passion and despair were precursory of madness.

      Lounging aimlessly along the streets in the hope of meeting her, I was walking one afternoon along the English Quay, when a drosky drove swiftly past, and pulled up before one of the great palaces that face the Neva. A woman, wrapped in costly furs, alighted, and in a moment I recognised her. As I approached, she halted, with her eyes fixed upon me, her mouth slightly open, and the same curiously blank expression on her countenance. At first I was prompted to stop and speak, but the tall man-servant in livery who had thrown open the great door looked down upon me with suspicion, therefore I hesitated, and walked on.

      As I brushed past her, I thought I heard a long sigh, and, turning, I was just in time to see her enter the palace, saluted by the gigantic dvornik.

      Stumbling blindly on for a few hundred paces, I met a man I knew, and, pointing out the house, asked him who lived there.

      “The woman has enmeshed you, eh?” he suggested, laughing. “Well, you are not the first who has been smitten by her extraordinary charms.”

      “What do you mean?” I asked.

      “Flirtation is a dangerous pastime here, in Petersburg,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders ominously. “Especially so if one’s idol is Agàfia Ivanovna, the Princess Tchikhatzoff.”

      “Princess?” I echoed, in surprise.

      Then, linking my arm in his, I begged him to tell me what he knew of her. But he only replied —

      “I really cannot tell you anything, mon cher, except her name. Ugly rumours were once afloat, but perhaps the least said of her the better.”

      And, waving his hand and wishing me a hurried adieu, he went on.

      A month later, having received instructions from London to proceed to the cholera-infected districts of Vologda, in order to describe the hospitals, I had obtained the necessary permit from the Ministry of the Interior, and one evening had taken my seat in the mail train for Moscow. Scarcely had I arranged my traps and prepared for the long night journey, when a rather shabbily-attired female appeared at the carriage door.

      “M’sieur,” she exclaimed in a soft, musical voice. “It is M’sieur Wentworth that I address, is it not?”

      Replying in the affirmative I alighted.

      “You are going to Pavlova, in Vologda?” she said in broken English. “I – I am in a great difficulty – a great danger threatens me. If you would only render me a service, I should indeed owe my life to you.”

      “What can I do?” I asked.

      “I have here a message to a – a friend who is lying ill of cholera in the hospital at Pavlova;” and she drew forth a letter from under her faded shawl.

      “You wish me to deliver it?”

      “Yes,” she replied anxiously. “Were I able to travel, I would not ask this favour; but only the journalists are allowed to pass the cordon, and the post is suspended for fear of infection.”

      I took the letter slowly from her hand, and as I did so, was amazed to discover that on her slim white wrist there were three red marks, exactly similar to those I bore!

      “I shall be pleased to act as your messenger,” I said, placing the letter in my pocket; “you may rest assured it will be delivered safely, Princess.”

      “You recognise me, then?” she cried, starting back. “I – ”

      But her sentence remained unfinished, for the train was moving off slowly, and I had barely time to scramble in without bidding her adieu.

      The mid-winter journey by sleigh through the remote, plague-stricken district, where poverty, disease, and death were rife on every hand, was a terrible experience. The distress and suffering I witnessed is photographed indelibly on the tablets of my memory. Not without difficulty, I one night found Nikanôr Baranovitch, the addressee of the letter, who was lying on the point of death in the filthy log-built hospital. He was young, dark-haired, emaciated, but still conscious. When I handed him the missive, he tore it open eagerly and read it by the aid of the guttering candle I held.

      Suddenly his face was convulsed by anger, and, crying, “Agàfia – Agàfia!” he uttered fearful imprecations in Russian. Then, crushing the letter in his hand, he thrust it into the flame of the candle, and in a moment the flimsy paper was consumed.

      Gasping a word of thanks to me, and crying for the vengeance of heaven to descend upon some person he did not name, he sank wearily back upon the dirty straw pallet, and a few moments later had passed to the land that lies beyond human ken.

      Two years had gone by. I was back again in England, writing descriptions of events at home, and holding myself in readiness to journey to any quarter of the globe, should occasion arise.

      Frequently in my day-dreams the countenance of the Princess Agàfia Ivanovna passed before me, always serious, always haggard, always intense.

      When, after my journey through Vologda, I returned to the capital, the Tchikhatzoff Palace was closed, and the only information the burly dvornik would vouchsafe was that the Princess had gone abroad.

      I longed to penetrate the mystery surrounding her, and obtain some explanation of the extraordinary coincidence of the marks upon her wrist and mine. I had never been entirely myself since first seeing her. Some strange, occult spell seemed to enthrall me, for the phenomena I had experienced were remarkable, while the varied mental sensations were utterly mystifying.

      Horribly morbid thoughts constantly oppressed me. Sometimes they were of murder, which I felt impelled to commit, even though the very suggestion was repugnant. At others, in moments of blank despair, I contemplated the easiest modes of suicide; while through all, I cherished a deadly hatred towards some person of whose identity I had not the remotest notion.

      In the months that had elapsed after returning to England, I had gradually grown callous to mental anguish; yet the bodily pain I frequently experienced in the wrists and across the forehead was remarkably strange, inasmuch as livid marks would sometimes appear on my arms without any apparent cause, and disappear as suddenly as they came.

      Through the hot August days I was idling in that part of Norfolk that is justly termed Poppyland, making my headquarters at a farmhouse near Cromer. I had been unusually perturbed regarding Agàfia Ivanovna, and such an intense longing to see her had seized me, that I even contemplated returning to Petersburg.

      One very hot afternoon, while sitting on the bench outside the house calmly smoking, some unknown force prompted me to rise and set out for a long walk along the cliffs. I had no motive for doing this, yet a lichen-covered stile, nearly five miles in the direction of Yarmouth, was fixed in my mind as my destination, and I felt myself compelled to reach it.

      The sun blazed down mercilessly, notwithstanding the cool breeze that had sprung up, and sparkling waves were breaking