Among the passengers who were leaving the Caucasus, Michael recognized the troop of Tziganes who, the day before, had appeared in the Nizhny Novgorod fair. There, on the deck of the steamboat were the old Bohemian and the woman. With them, and no doubt under their direction, landed about twenty dancers and singers, from fifteen to twenty years of age, wrapped in old cloaks, which covered their spangled dresses. These dresses, just then glancing in the first rays of the sun, reminded Michael of the curious appearance which he had observed during the night. It must have been the glitter of those spangles in the bright flames issuing from the steamboat’s funnel which had attracted his attention.
“Evidently,” said Michael to himself, “this troop of Tziganes, after remaining below all day, crouched under the forecastle during the night. Were these gypsies trying to show themselves as little as possible? Such is not according to the usual custom of their race.”
Michael Strogoff no longer doubted that the expressions he had heard, had proceeded from this tawny group, and had been exchanged between the old gypsy and the woman to whom he gave the Mongolian name of Sangarre. Michael involuntarily moved towards the gangway, as the Bohemian troop was leaving the steamboat.
The old Bohemian was there, in a humble attitude, little conformable with the effrontery natural to his race. One would have said that he was endeavoring rather to avoid attention than to attract it. His battered hat, browned by the suns of every clime, was pulled forward over his wrinkled face. His arched back was bent under an old cloak, wrapped closely round him, notwithstanding the heat. It would have been difficult, in this miserable dress, to judge of either his size or face. Near him was the Tzigane, Sangarre, a woman about thirty years old. She was tall and well made, with olive complexion, magnificent eyes, and golden hair.
Many of the young dancers were remarkably pretty, all possessing the clear-cut features of their race. These Tziganes are generally very attractive, and more than one of the great Russian nobles, who try to vie with the English in eccentricity, has not hesitated to choose his wife from among these gypsy girls. One of them was humming a song of strange rhythm, which might be thus rendered:—
“Glitters brightly the gold
In my raven locks streaming,
Rich coral around
My graceful neck gleaming;
Like a bird of the air,
Through the wide world I roam.”
The laughing girl continued her song, but Michael Strogoff ceased to listen. It struck him just then that the Tzigane, Sangarre, was regarding him with a peculiar gaze, as if to fix his features indelibly in her memory.
It was but for a few moments, when Sangarre herself followed the old man and his troop, who had already left the vessel. “That’s a bold gypsy,” said Michael to himself. “Could she have recognized me as the man whom she saw at Nizhny Novgorod? These confounded Tziganes have the eyes of a cat! They can see in the dark; and that woman there might well know—”
Michael Strogoff was on the point of following Sangarre and the gypsy band, but he stopped. “No,” thought he, “no unguarded proceedings. If I were to stop that old fortune teller and his companions my incognito would run a risk of being discovered. Besides, now they have landed, before they can pass the frontier I shall be far beyond it. They may take the route from Kazan to Ishim, but that affords no resources to travelers. Besides a tarantass, drawn by good Siberian horses, will always go faster than a gypsy cart! Come, friend Korpanoff, be easy.”
By this time the man and Sangarre had disappeared.
Kazan is justly called the “Gate of Asia” and considered as the center of Siberian and Bukharan commerce; for two roads begin here and lead across the Ural Mountains. Michael Strogoff had very judiciously chosen the one by Perm and Yekaterinburg. It is the great stage road, well supplied with relays kept at the expense of the government, and is prolonged from Ishim to Irkutsk.
It is true that a second route—the one of which Michael had just spoken—avoiding the slight detour by Perm, also connects Kazan with Ishim, passing by Telaburg, Menzelinsk, Birsk, Glatsoust, then leaving Europe, Chelyabinsk, Shadrinsk, Kurgan.
It is perhaps shorter than the other, but this advantage is much diminished by the absence of post-houses, the bad roads, and the paucity of villages. Michael Strogoff was right in being satisfied with the choice he had made, and if, as appeared probable, the gypsies should follow the second route from Kazan to Ishim, he had every chance of arriving before them.
An hour afterwards the bell rang on board the Caucasus, calling the new passengers, and recalling the former ones. It was now seven o’clock in the morning. The requisite fuel had been received on board. The whole vessel began to vibrate from the effects of the steam. She was ready to start.
Passengers going from Kazan to Perm were crowding on the deck.
Michael noticed that of the two reporters Harry Blount alone had rejoined the steamer.
Was Alcide Jolivet about to miss his passage?
But just as the ropes were being cast off, Alicide Jolivet appeared, tearing along. The steamer was already sheering off, the gangway had been drawn onto the quay, but Alcide Jolivet would not stick at such a little thing as that, so, with a bound like a harlequin, he alighted on the deck of the Caucasus almost into his rival’s arms.
“I thought the Caucasus was going without you,” said the latter.
“Bah!” answered Jolivet, “I should soon have caught you up again, by chartering a boat at my cousin’s expense, or by traveling post
