Michael Strogoff

“Sire, a fresh dispatch.”

“Whence?”

“From Tomsk?”

“Is the wire cut beyond that city?”

“Yes, sire, since yesterday.”

“Telegraph hourly to Tomsk, General, and keep me informed of all that occurs.”

“Sire, it shall be done,” answered General Kissoff.

These words were exchanged about two hours after midnight, at the moment when the fête given at the New Palace was at the height of its splendor.

During the whole evening the bands of the Preobrazhensky and Pavlovsky regiments had played without cessation polkas, mazurkas, schottisches, and waltzes from among the choicest of their repertoires. Innumerable couples of dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the palace, which stood at a few paces only from the “old house of stones”⁠—in

The Czar again looked him full in the face and their eyes met. Then in an abrupt tone:

“Thy name?” he asked.

“Michael Strogoff, sire.”

“Thy rank?”

“Captain in the corps of couriers of the Czar.”

“Thou dost know Siberia?”

“I am a Siberian.”

“A native of⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Omsk, sire.”

“Hast thou relations there?”

“Yes sire.”

“What relations?”

“My old mother.”

The Czar suspended his questions for a moment. Then, pointing to the letter which he held in his hand:

“Here is a letter which I charge thee, Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no other but him.”

“I will deliver it, sire.”

“The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk.”

“I will go to Irkutsk.”

“Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this letter.”

“I will traverse it.”

“Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet thee on the way.”

“I will beware of him.”

“Wilt thou pass through Omsk?”

“Sire, that is my route.”

“If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk of being recognized. Thou must not see her!”

Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment.

“I will not see her,” said he.

“Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowledge who thou art, nor whither thou art going.”

“I swear it.”

“Michael Strogoff,” continued the Czar, giving the letter to the young courier, “take this letter; on it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother the Grand Duke.”

The two reporters held out their hands to Michael with the intention of cordially shaking his, when the sound of a carriage was heard outside.

Almost immediately the door was flung open and a man appeared.

It was the traveler of the berlin, a military-looking man, apparently about forty years of age, tall, robust in figure, broad-shouldered, with a strongly-set head, and thick mustaches meeting red whiskers. He wore a plain uniform. A cavalry saber hung at his side, and in his hand he held a short-handled whip.

“Horses,” he demanded, with the air of a man accustomed to command.

“I have no more disposable horses,” answered the postmaster, bowing.

“I must have some this moment.”

“It is impossible.”

“What are those horses which have just been harnessed to the tarantass I saw at the door?”

“They belong to this traveler,” answered the postmaster, pointing to Michael Strogoff.

“Take them out!” said the traveler in a tone which admitted of no reply.

Michael then advanced.

“These horses are engaged by me,” he said.

“What does that matter? I must have them. Come, be quick; I have no time to lose.”

“I have no time to lose either,” replied Michael, restraining himself with difficulty.

Nadia was near him, calm also, but secretly uneasy at a scene which it would have been better to avoid.

“Enough!” said the traveler.

Then, going up to the postmaster, “Let the horses be put into my berlin,” he exclaimed with a threatening gesture.

The postmaster, much embarrassed, did not know whom to obey, and looked at Michael, who evidently had the right to resist the unjust demands of the traveler.

The boat was in the middle of the current, at nearly equal distances from either shore, and being carried down at the rate of two versts an hour, when Michael, springing to his feet, bent his gaze up the river.

Several boats, aided by oars as well as by the current, were coming swiftly down upon them.

Michael’s brow contracted, and a cry escaped him.

“What is the matter?” asked the girl.

But before Michael had time to reply one of the boatmen exclaimed in an accent of terror:

“The Tartars! the Tartars!”

There were indeed boats full of soldiers, and in a few minutes they must reach the ferryboat, it being too heavily laden to escape from them.

The terrified boatmen uttered exclamations of despair and dropped their poles.

There were twenty people in the public room. Among them were, perhaps, spies, and was it not known in the town that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the corps of the couriers of the Czar?

Michael Strogoff did not move.

“Michael!” cried his mother.

“Who are you, my good lady?” Michael Strogoff stammered, unable to speak in his usual firm tone.

“Who am I, thou askest! Dost thou no longer know thy mother?”

“You are mistaken,” coldly replied Michael Strogoff. “A resemblance deceives you.”

The old Marfa went up to him, and, looking straight into his eyes, said, “Thou art not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?”

Michael Strogoff would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms; but if he yielded it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes, in order not to see the inexpressible anguish which agitated the revered countenance of his mother. He drew back his hands, in order not to touch those trembling hands which sought him.

“I do not know in truth what it is you say, my good woman,” he replied, stepping back.

“Michael!” again cried his aged mother.

“My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Korpanoff, a merchant at Irkutsk.”

And suddenly he left the public room, whilst for the last time the words reechoed,

“My son! my son!”