“Yes—yes; and tomorrow—”
“Come then—”
He hesitated to finish his sentence, as if he had wished to end it by the name of his companion, of which he was still ignorant.
“Nadia,” said she, holding out her hand.
“Come, Nadia,” answered Michael, “and make what use you like of your brother Nicholas Korpanoff.” And he led the girl to the cabin engaged for her off the saloon.
Michael Strogoff returned on deck, and eager for any news which might bear on his journey, he mingled in the groups of passengers, though without taking any part in the conversation. Should he by any chance be questioned, and obliged to reply, he would announce himself as the merchant Nicholas Korpanoff, going back to the frontier, for he did not wish it to be suspected that a special permission authorized him to travel to Siberia.
The foreigners in the steamer could evidently speak of nothing but the occurrences of the day, of the order and its consequences. These poor people, scarcely recovered from the fatigue of a journey across Central Asia, found themselves obliged to return, and if they did not give loud vent to their anger and despair, it was because they dared not. Fear, mingled with respect, restrained them. It was possible that inspectors of police, charged with watching the passengers, had secretly embarked on board the Caucasus, and it was just as well to keep silence; expulsion, after all, was a good deal preferable to imprisonment in a fortress. Therefore the men were either silent, or spoke with so much caution that it was scarcely possible to get any useful information from them.
Michael Strogoff thus could learn nothing here; but if mouths were often shut at his approach—for they did not know him—his ears were soon struck by the sound of one voice, which cared little whether it was heard or not.
The man with the hearty voice spoke Russian, but with a French accent; and another speaker answered him more reservedly in the same language, evidently however, not his native tongue.
“What,” said the first, “are you on board this boat, too, my dear fellow; you whom I met at the imperial fête in Moscow, and just caught a glimpse of at Nizhny Novgorod?”
“Yes, it’s me,” answered the second drily.
“Well, really, I didn’t expect to be so closely followed by you.”
“Indeed! I am not following you sir; I am preceding you.”
“Precede! precede! Let us march abreast, keeping step, like two soldiers on parade, and for the time, at least, let us agree, if you will, that one shall not pass the other.”
“On the contrary, I shall pass you.”
“We shall see that, when we are at the theater of war; but till then, why, let us be traveling companions. Later, we shall have both time and occasion to be rivals.”
“Enemies.”
“Enemies, if you like. There is a precision in your words, my dear fellow, which is particularly agreeable to me. One may always know what one has to look for, with you.”
“What is the harm?”
“No harm at all. So, in my turn, I will ask your permission to state our respective situations.”
“State away.”
“You are going to Perm—like me?”
“Like you.”
“And probably you will go from Perm to Yekaterinburg, since that is the best and safest route by which to cross the Ural Mountains?”
“Probably.”
“Once past the frontier, we shall be in Siberia, that is to say, in the midst of the invasion.”
“We shall be there.”
“Well! then, and only then, will be the time to say, Each for himself, and God for—”
“For me.”
“For you, all by yourself! Very well! But since we have a week of neutral days before us, and since it is very certain that news will not shower down upon us on the way, let us be friends until we become rivals again.”
“Enemies.”
“Yes; that’s right, enemies. But till then, let us act together, and not try and ruin each other. All the same, I promise you to keep to myself all that I can see—”
“And I, all that I can hear.”
“Is that agreed?”
“It is agreed.”
“Your hand?”
“Here it is.”
And the hand of the first speaker, that is to say, five wide-open fingers, vigorously shook the two fingers coolly extended by the other.
“By the by,” said the first, “I was able this morning to telegraph the very words of the order to my cousin at seventeen minutes past ten.”
“And I sent it to the Daily Telegraph at thirteen minutes past ten.”
“Bravo, Mr. Blount!”
“Very good, M. Jolivet.”
“I will try and match that!”
“It will be difficult.”
“I can try, however.”
So saying, the French correspondent familiarly saluted the Englishman, who bowed stiffly. The governor’s proclamation did not concern these two news-hunters, as they were neither Russians nor foreigners of Asiatic origin.
They had set out, however, being urged by the same instinct, they had left Nizhny Novgorod together. It was natural that they should take the same means of transport, and that they should follow the same route to the Siberian steppes. Traveling companions, whether enemies or friends, they had a week to pass together before “the hunt would be open.” And then success to the most expert! Alcide Jolivet had made the first advances, and Harry Blount had accepted them, though he had done so coldly.
That very day at dinner, however, the Frenchman, open as ever, and even too loquacious, the Englishman still silent and grave, were seen hobnobbing at the same table, drinking genuine Cliquot, at six rubles the bottle, made from the fresh sap of the birch-trees of the country.
On hearing Alcide Jolivet and Harry Blount chatting away together, Michael Strogoff said to himself: “Those are inquisitive and indiscreet fellows whom I shall probably meet again on the way. It will be prudent for me to keep them at a distance.”
The young Livonian did not come to dinner. She was asleep in her cabin, and Michael did not like to awaken her. It was evening before she reappeared on the deck of the Caucasus.
The long twilight imparted a coolness to the atmosphere eagerly enjoyed by the passengers after the stifling
