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Updated: May 14, 2025
He injected with a small syringe several drops of the liquid under Dmitry Matov's skin. Matov gave a feeble cry and fell heavily to the floor. In a few moments the body lay before them, blue and apparently lifeless. Lunitsin examined Matov and said: "He's done for." The men left one by one. Trirodov alone remained with Matov's body. Trirodov took off Matov's clothes and burned them in the stove.
Dmitry had left them, placing the coffee on the table as he went, and a bottle of the rare golden wine. Then this strange lady grew more tender still. She must lie in Paul's arms, and he must feed her with strawberries. And the thought came to him that her mouth looked as red as they. To say he was intoxicated with pleasure and love is to put it as it was.
Who could have small or unworthy thoughts who had known her this splendid lady? And his worship grew and grew. That night, as they looked from the loggia on the Grand Canal after dinner, the moonlight making things almost light as day, Dmitry begged admittance from the doorway of the great salon. The lady turned imperiously, and flashed upon him.
Each year Dmitry had sent him a letter of news, and each year that day had held ghastly hours for him in the reopening of old anguish the missive to be read and quickly thrust out of sight, the thought of it to be strangled and forgotten. And now the little one would soon be five years old, and his father's living eyes had never seen him!
Anna was sent on with their things in case this contingency occurred. And earth, water and sky seemed smiling them a welcome. Just before they started, Dmitry, after the gentlest tap, noiselessly entered Paul's room. Paul was selecting some cigars from a box, and looked up in surprise as the stately servant cautiously closed the door. "Yes, Dmitry, what is it?" he said half impatiently.
The father put on his spectacles. "Do read it!" The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: "At eleven o'clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . ." "You see, you see! Go on!"
The time had come when he could bear the mystery no longer, but he would not question Dmitry. All his force was turned to extracting every detail of his darling's health and well-being from the old servant, and in his guarded, respectful manner he answered all he could. His lady had indeed been very ill, Paul gathered at death's door.
The meeting at which the documents were to be exchanged for the money was designated to take place in a small borough close to the town in which Trirodov then lived. At the appointed hour Dmitry Matov got out of his train at a little station. It was late in the evening. Matov wore blue spectacles and a false beard, as was agreed upon.
Tuesday passed, and Wednesday, and on Thursday a telegram came for Paul which drove him mad with joy. It was short and to the point: "Meet Dmitry in Paris," Then followed an address. By rushing things he could just catch the night boat. He went to his father's room, where Sir Charles was discussing affairs with his land steward. The man retired.
At the risk of our lives, we two went to save the Czar of all the Russias, though well we knew that Dmitry Nolenki, chief of the secret police, had offered a reward on our capture. Boris Kojukhov and the other seven trainmen who came with him had been chosen, with ten others who were not Nihilists, to operate the train that was to bear His Imperial Majesty next day to St. Petersburg.
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