The Golden Bough

CHAPTER V

KHODKINE

Was it imagination that gave him the idea that the manner of Tanya Korasov betrayed a sudden inquietude at the mention of the name of the newcomer? He was sure that the fingers which touched his sleeve in warning were trembling as she glanced wide-eyed toward the door into the garden by which Monsieur Khodkine would enter. Who was this visitor, and what his mission, what his power, what his authority?

Stepan threw the door open and stood aside, bowing as the visitor entered, followed by Issad and Picard. He was tall and well built, with blonde hair brushed straight back from a broad fine brow, below which steel-blue eyes appraised the room and its occupants. His nose was straight and well chiseled, and his small brown mustache carefully groomed, defined rather than concealed the straight firm line of his rather red lips, which parted slightly as he saw the figure of Rowland before him. His glance met the American's, hovered a second and passed to Tanya, who had risen and stood mute and expectant.

The Russian crossed the room quickly to the girl, and taking the fingers she extended, bowed over them and pressed them to his lips.

"Tatyana!" he said in French, with a deep and pleasant voice. "The days have sped into weeks, the weeks into months, since I have seen you-"

"Grisha Khodkine, you are welcome!" said the girl, withdrawing her hand, and as the Russian straightened, turned toward the American whom she indicated with a graceful gesture. "You are to meet a-a visitor to Nemi, Monsieur. Permit me to present Monsieur Rowlan'."

The Russian straightened and his clear and slightly surprised gaze passed impudently over the American's ill-fitting clothing from head to foot. Rowland had a sense that it was the garments which Monsieur Khodkine noted, not the man within them, and had a feeling of being still further ignored when the Russian, after the slightest inclination of the head, which indeed had seemed a part of his cursory inspection, turned again quickly to Tanya.

"Where is Kirylo Ivanitch?" he asked.

The girl leaned with one hand upon the table, her gaze upon the floor. Her voice trembled a little as she replied.

"Kirylo Ivanitch is-is dead."

Khodkine started violently.

"Dead! Ivanitch-!" He turned a quick look at Stepan and at Rowland. "When did this happen?" he questioned eagerly. "And who-?"

His look as though impelled returned to Rowland, who had picked up one of the cigarettes of Monsieur Ivanitch from the table and was now lighting it, very much at his ease. Rowland made no reply, and Tanya, with a gesture of her extended fingers:

"It happened but just now, – this morning, Grisha Khodkine," she said. "For some days Kirylo Ivanitch had been distraught with nerves, in a kind of strange fit of uncertainty. He was frightened… He bade us keep watch upon the Tree and what lies below it day and night. And to humor him we obeyed. We did not know what was to happen-something strange, Grisha Khodkine-"

As she paused the Russian looked from one to the other in astonishment and mystification.

"Dead! – but how? What happened?"

"This morning," the girl went on, choosing her words carefully, "he attacked Monsieur Rowlan', in the garden, as he was leaving Nemi. Monsieur Rowlan' defended himself, and struck-struck-" Tanya hid her face in her hands, trembling.

"Go on-" said the Russian.

"There is little else to tell," said the girl, raising her pallid face from her hands, "Kirylo fell-He is-dead!"

Khodkine's gaze sought the eyes of the other men in confirmation.

"It is the truth, Monsieur," muttered Picard. "We saw. It was a fair combat. But it was written-what happened!"

Monsieur Khodkine's look passed slowly from one to the other and at last rested on Rowland, who met his glance calmly, soberly, without deference-but without defiance.

"He tried to kill me, Monsieur," he said quietly, "he was dangerous, and so-" He shrugged. "What would you? He fell and his head struck a stone-"

The Russian stared a moment.

"Then you-" He paused.

Rowland smiled a little.

"It seems, Monsieur," he said coolly, "that I am your new Priest of Nemi."

There was a long silence during which the Russian stared at Rowland more intently as though correcting a former and mistaken impression. At last he took a pace forward and the eyes of the two men met.

"You-you knew?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Rowland.

"And now-?"

The American shrugged but Picard broke in eagerly: "All the conditions have been fulfilled, Monsieur Khodkine-all from the first to the last-"

And while Rowland stood silent, in good-humored contempt, the Frenchman told all that had happened, including the American's escape from imprisonment and the breaking of the Bough. Rowland keenly watched all the actors in this drama, the zealous sincerity of the excitable Frenchman, the mystic absorption of Stepan, the fixed burning gaze of Issad, sure that those who played the minor parts were committed beyond question to a strict interpretation of the symbols of the order. Tanya, the color coming slowly into her cheeks, answered briefly and clearly the questions that were put to her. If there had been restraint in her acceptance of this successor to Ivanitch, or wonder at the strange chain of facts which linked this matter-of-fact American with the destinies of Nemi, she spoke now with an air of definite assurance and fatalism which went far to convince Rowland that if she were not sincere in her beliefs she was playing a skillful part which warned him how deeply he too was committed to his strange new office. But it was Monsieur Khodkine that Rowland watched the closest. From an expression of consternation the face of the Russian settled into a frowning inquiry and then as his glance and Rowland's met, into a mask-like immobility which revealed nothing of his own state of mind. As one by one the facts were revealed to him, his voice became more quiet, his manner more suave, while he nodded his head in solemn deliberation. The phrases he used were theirs, the jargon of mysticism, and yet to Rowland, the man of the world, this change of tone and demeanor failed to comport with the very obvious air of modernity and materialism which Monsieur Khodkine had brought in with him from the world outside.

"The Bough-broken," Khodkine was muttering, "an escaped prisoner of the Germans, – a slave surely! And the combat-either one may challenge… The Visconti… There seems no doubt. Yes-it is strange. You say that Monsieur Rowland did not know the tradition…?"

"Not until after Kirylo Ivanitch was dead," said Tanya calmly. "I told him."

"It is most extraordinary," repeated Khodkine, turning to Rowland with level brows. "An act of Destiny, striking as with the hand of God from out of the mists of the Eternal ages. But it is a sign too definite to be ignored-an act of Revelation and a Prophecy."

The words were spoken soberly, with an air of rapt introspection, but Rowland missed nothing of the alert intelligence of Monsieur Khodkine's pale blue eyes, keen and observing, which unlike Issad, the dreamer's, fairly blazed with objectivity.

The impression that Monsieur Khodkine was playing a part, became more definite. He acted a little too well. The talk of mysticism and destiny fell a little too glibly from his lips to be quite in keeping with Rowland's reading of his character, which made the Russian out to be a politician of an advanced type, a doctrinaire perhaps, but an intriguer with a definite and perhaps sordid purpose, who had come expecting to find the dreamer Ivanitch, and instead had found a heretic and an unbeliever. But under this skillful camouflage of mere words, which though they may have meant much to Issad, Stepan and Picard, conveyed nothing to Rowland, he hid his disappointment well, and when all questions had been answered, he went and viewed the dead Ivanitch and agreed as the others had done to an immediate interment of the body.

Through it all Rowland had said little, reading in the quick furtive glances of the girl Tanya a silent petition to accede in these arrangements, and so when the orders had been given Rowland returned with Monsieur Khodkine to the room on the lower floor where Tanya, after a warning glance which Rowland interpreted and answered, left the two men to their own devices. Rowland, now fully aware that he was to deal with a man of no ordinary ability, took a leaf from Monsieur Khodkine's book and fairly met him at his own game.

"An American, Monsieur!" began the Russian, after they had lighted their cigarettes. "It is indeed a far cry from the 'white lights' of Broadway to the Priesthood of Nemi-"

"Ah, you know New York?" asked Rowland.

"I have been there. An extraordinary city-a wonderful people-intensely practical. But you are no nation of dreamers, Monsieur."

"Upon the contrary," replied Rowland, politely. "Were we not dreamers-we should long since have finished disastrously our experiment in individualism. Like you in Russia we dream, Monsieur, but unlike you, our dreams come true."

Khodkine gazed at Rowland with a new interest. Was this smiling American less stupid than he looked?

"Individualism! Yes. You are even slaves to liberty, which has made you the mere creatures of your own desires."

"You are a monarchist, Monsieur Khodkine?" asked Rowland, with an innocent gaze.

"May the good God forbid!" cried Khodkine abruptly. "I am a Russian, of the heart of Russia which throbs with the pulse-beats of humanity. The Czar has fallen, but the era of absolutism in Russia is not yet over."

Rowland shifted his knees and fixed a cool look of inquiry upon Khodkine.

"I am only a soldier, Monsieur," he said. "For a year I have been in a prison camp. As you must see, I am vastly ignorant of what is going on in the world."

"Then you must know that my country has changed in nothing but a name. Instead of monarchy we have oligarchy-a band of men bent upon usurping the rights of the people. The people of Russia are drunk with freedom and accept the new order of things because they think it is what they have long fought for. But the men now in power in the Provisional Government are not to be trusted-capitalists, bureaucrats, the enemies of-"

"You are a Socialist Democrat, then, Monsieur?" put in Rowland.

"A friend of Russia's freedom-call me by whatever name you please."

Khodkine shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke.

"You mean that there are still those in power who are in sympathy with Germany?" asked Rowland.

Khodkine rose and walked the length of the room while Rowland watched him keenly.

"What else? Is it not clear to you?"

"I am perhaps dull, Monsieur," said Rowland, vacuously. "Rasputin is dead. The Czarina has gone. In them you will admit the fountain heads of German intrigue have been destroyed."

"Diverted, let us say, Monsieur-upon the surface. But the evil stream still flows-secretly, below the ground, to appear in high places where least expected."

Rowland rose and threw his cigarette into the hearth.

"I have no doubt that what you say is true, Monsieur Khodkine. I am not wise. If I am to be of service here" – Rowland paused significantly, until he found Khodkine's gaze-"if I am to be of service here, I must trust myself into the hands of those who have a deeper insight into the politics of Europe than myself. I have promised Mademoiselle Korasov to stay at Nemi and do what I can. I would like to help." He paused again and then, with an air of frankness: "Perhaps, Monsieur Khodkine, I could do no better than to entrust myself into your hands."

Khodkine turned half toward him, his fine white teeth showing in a smile and then thrust forth a hand in confirmation.

"Can it be that you will trust me?"

"Implicitly."

Khodkine's pale eyes glowed with purpose.

"Ah, that is good, Monsieur Rowlan'. It seems that the hand which guides the destiny of Nemi is still unerring." And then more quietly, "You know what power is yours to command?"

"Mademoiselle Korasov has told me something, – but with skillful advisers-

"All will be well, Monsieur. But you will have many advisers. They are coming here today, but you must select the wheat from the chaff. I shall tell you whom to trust. Russia must be born again. You shall help her in the pains of birth-save her from the malevolent hands which threaten to throttle her in the very act of being."

"It is a great destiny you plan, Monsieur. The society of Nemi may be powerful, but I can hardly believe that such a powerful autocracy as Germany-"

"Tst-Monsieur! You have heard some of the rumblings in the Reichstag. Liebknecht the elder blazed the way. His son has followed-"

"Oh, yes, Liebknecht. I've heard-"

"Only the military might of Germany holds the nation intact, but even in its might it trembles. Nemi is strong in Germany. In many regiments the socialists have revolted and in the navy-mutiny. Those men realize that there is a force let loose into the world, before which the selfish aims of the rulers of the countries of the earth are as chaff in the wind. Not one nation shall rule, or several, but all-Monsieur. All! Internationalism-! Do you know what that means?"

And as Rowland remained silent, as though in deep thought, Khodkine threw his long arms out in a wide gesture.

"You shall see. The time comes soon-"

"And you will help me, Monsieur?" Rowland asked urbanely.

"With all my heart and intelligence."

Khodkine smiled and the two men clasped hands. Monsieur Khodkine's hands were very white and as smooth as a woman's, but there was strength in the sinew beneath. Internationalism! A fine word! which might mean anything… If this man were Rowland's enemy, at least he should not start with any advantage. The new Leader of Nemi was learning, still moving in the dark, for the names of those who had come into power in Russia, Lvoff, Rodzianko-and the others had seemed to stand for all that was best in the interests of free government. And so he had led Monsieur Khodkine out, that he might inspect, in profile, as it were, the motives which underlay his politics. As yet nothing definite-only a suspicion. As to the sincerity of his beliefs in the ritual of Nemi, Rowland was soon enlightened.

"You are a practical man, Monsieur Rowland," Khodkine went on easily. "You are no doubt mystified by the curious sequence of events which have brought you here to Nemi, as titular head of this great and secret order. But I too am a practical man, and I will be frank with you. I care nothing for symbols. Whatever the society of Nemi is in the minds of its legion of followers, to me it is merely a means to a great end-the safety and peace of all Europe. The fulfillment of the promises of the legend is extraordinary-almost incredible, but neither you nor I as men of the world can believe that it comes from any supernatural agency. Kirylo Ivanitch was immolated upon the altar of his own fears, a sacrifice to his own superstition. He killed the Priest who preceded him. For years his Nemesis, a true Nemesis, my friend, has pursued him. But you, Monsieur, must permit no such doubts to poison your usefulness."

"Why should I," laughed Rowland. "A man attacks me, stabs me with a knife. If he is killed, is it my fault? My conscience is clear."

"Good. Then we understand each other." He broke off with a shrug.

"As to the ritual of Nemi. There is a strength in mysticism, a fact which the vile Rasputin was not long in finding out. A little ceremonial does no harm and you, Monsieur, must play your part with skill and some caution."

"By all means," said Rowland, with a laugh. "Until the new priest of Nemi shall find me out. Then at least I assure you that I shall not stand on ceremony."

"Ah, as to that, you may reassure yourself," said Khodkine, easily. "A Miracle such as this may sometime happen by chance, but not twice in one generation."

"At least," Rowland concluded cheerfully, "you may be sure that I am not afraid."

"Perhaps it is well that we have a soldier at Nemi," said Khodkine with a smile. And then after a pause-"Tell me, Monsieur. Did Mademoiselle Korasov commit to your keeping any documents-any papers?"

"None," lied Rowland coolly. "As you know, this affair has happened so recently-"

"There were no papers found upon the body of Monsieur Ivanitch?"

"If they have not been removed by Issad or Stepan, they should be upon his body now."

"Ah! I will inquire." And getting up quickly, Monsieur Khodkine made his way out of the room in the direction of the adjoining apartment.

Tanya, a warning finger to her lips, joined Rowland immediately. It seemed that she must have been near the door, waiting for the chance to speak with him alone.

"You were careful?" she asked.

"As careful as a person may be who walks on a floor carpeted with egg-shells," said Rowland with a smile.

"He asked if I had told you anything, given you anything?"

Rowland nodded.

"He has gone to search the body," he said.

"For the paper I gave you," whispered Tanya. "I found it in the pocket-book of Kirylo Ivanitch. I took it-there in the garden as I knelt beside him. You have committed it to memory?"

"Yes. Droite 72 Gauche 23 Droite 7-"

"Sh-! You can remember it?"

"Yes."

"Then destroy it quickly."

Rowland struck a match, lighted the scrap of paper and threw it into the hearth. She went toward the door, stood in a tense moment of listening and then quickly returned.

"Do not trust him, Monsieur, and be upon your guard against him always. For the present nothing more. I shall contrive to meet you tonight."

She walked to the chair which Monsieur Khodkine had left and motioned Rowland to another, and then raising her voice, spoke easily in a conversational tone of the members of the Council who were to join them later in the day. A few moments later Monsieur Khodkine, his brows troubled in thought, came into the room.

"You found nothing?" asked Tanya.

"His watch, the talisman, some keys, a little money. Nothing else."

"What was it you were looking for, Monsieur?" enquired Rowland.

Khodkine glanced at Tanya and shrugged.

"A memorandum-it does not matter."

CHAPTER VI

ZOYA

During the afternoon other members of the Council of Nemi reached the village and arrived at the gate in the wall where Issad, clad in his dark robes and sensible of his own importance, greeted them with all solemnity and conducted them to the house where Tanya Korasov, Khodkine and Rowland received them. First, Shestov, who was blonde, bald and slightly pock-marked, with a long neck consisting mostly of tendons and Adam's apple. Shestov spoke French with a thickness of tongue which gave the impression of a being constantly under the influence of liquor, – a mere impediment of the speech, for as Rowland afterward discovered, no spirits of any kind had ever passed his lips. Then came Liederman and Mademoiselle Colodna. Liederman was heavy, Hebraic and noisy; Irina Colodna silent, abstracted and intense; Monsieur Barthou, mild mannered, quiet but eager, his sandy hair cropped short, his little red-rimmed eyes magnified many fold behind his enormous goggles. And lastly Madame Rochal.

If internationalism was the keynote of Monsieur Khodkine's politics, the term might in a general way be applied to the curious and striking personality of Madame Rochal, for she reflected such an intense cosmopolitanism that it was at first difficult to identify her with any nation of Europe. Her name might have been French, Russian or Spanish, and her gown might have come from Paris or Vienna. She spoke all languages, French, German, Russian, English with equal facility, each it seemed with a slight accent or tinge of the others, but without preference or favor. Her eyes, set a little obliquely in her head, were of the night, dark and unfathomable, and her hair, black with a faint green-violet gloss, was folded back at each side over her ears like the two wings of a raven. She was jeweled, exotic, slightly tinted, and exhaled a faint suggestion of daintily mingled perfumes. To all appearances she was less than thirty in years, though in her eyes lurked the wisdom of the centuries.