“It has not exploded!” they panted, in one breath.
“No,” I said. “How do you account for it?”
“The tube of acid has not broken,” Karamasoff said. “I predicted failure when I saw it. But let us go. Sooner or later a horse will kick it, or a wheel will pass over it, and then – pouf!”
“Farewell,” I said, and we hurriedly separated, each going in a different direction, both of my companions momentarily expecting to hear a terrific report.
But they were disappointed, for a quarter of an hour later I dropped Nikiforovitch’s bomb into the Thames from Waterloo Bridge, and next day an urchin was rewarded with a shilling for bringing to my chambers a copy of Lamb’s works. It was sadly soiled and damaged, but bore on its fly-leaf my name and address. He said he had found it in the gutter in Burleigh Street!
Events have occurred rapidly since that memorable evening. The Tzarevitch, unaware of how near he was to a swift and terrible death, is now Nicholas II of Russia; while the pretty Sonia Ostroff, still in ignorance of how her plot was thwarted, is at the present moment toiling in the gloomy depths of the Savenski mine in Eastern Siberia.
Chapter Eight.
One Woman’s Sin
Frith Street is the centre of the foreign quarter of London. The narrow, shabby thoroughfare retains, even on the brightest day in summer, its habitual depressing air of grimy cheerlessness; but enveloped in the yellow fog of a November evening, its aspect is unutterably dismal. Its denizens are a very shady colony, mostly the scum of Continental cities, who, owing to various causes, have been compelled to flee from the police and seek a safe asylum in the region between Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street.
In a meagrely furnished sitting-room on the top floor of one of the dingiest houses in this mean street, a young man sat gazing moodily into the fire. He was of foreign appearance, about twenty-six years of age – tall, dark, and rather good-looking. His negligence of attire gave him a dash of the genial good-for-nothing, yet his pale face wore a grave, thoughtful expression, as his chin rested upon his hand in an utterly dejected attitude.
Beside him, with her hand placed tenderly upon his shoulder, stood a tall, fair-haired woman several years his junior. She was eminently beautiful, with delicately-moulded features and soft grey eyes that betrayed an intense anxiety. It was evident that she was not an inhabitant of that dismal quarter, for the hat she wore was of the latest French mode, her cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the floor, was heavily lined with sable, while upon her hand were several fine rings, that gleamed and sparkled in the feeble rays of the solitary candle.
“But, Paul, why cannot you remain? Here in London you are safe,” she argued, speaking in French, and bending over him with earnestness.
“Impossible,” he replied, shaking his head gloomily. “It is unsafe to stay here. I must start for America to-morrow.”
“And leave me?” she cried. “No, no; we must not part. You know how madly I love you;” and she smoothed his hair tenderly.
“Ah, Adine,” he sighed, “Heaven knows, mine will be a bitter sorrow!”
Taking her hand, he raised it reverently to his lips. In the silence that followed, the bells of a neighbouring church chimed slowly.
“Seven o’clock!” she exclaimed suddenly. “I must go at once, for I have invited some people to dine at the hotel. Come now, promise me you will not leave London. You are quite safe here, in this place. Besides, what have you to fear?”
“The police are searching all over Europe for me.”
“Do not be discouraged – we shall baffle them yet. I shall return to-morrow afternoon at four, when we can discuss matters further. Be cheerful for my sake, Paul;” and she bent and kissed him.
“Ah, Adine, you are my only friend,” he said brokenly. “I am tired of being hunted from place to place, and have been thinking that away in Mexico or Argentina I might be safe.”
“But you are not going. We shall not part,” she said decisively.
As she spoke, she picked up her cloak and wrapped it about her. Then, shaking hands with him, and lingering for a moment in his embrace, while he kissed her passionately, she opened the door and passed down the rickety stairs to the street.
Paul Denissoff did not offer to accompany her, but stood listening to her retreating footsteps, afterwards sighing heavily and flinging himself back again into his chair, where he sat staring aimlessly at the meagre fire.
It was nearly midnight. In a cozy and well-furnished private room at the Savoy Hotel, Adine, whose guests had departed, was sitting alone with her slippered feet upon the fender, reading. She had exchanged her dinner-dress for a loose gown of pearl-grey silk, and her hair, unbound, fell in rich profusion about her shoulders. Presently her French maid entered noiselessly, and asked —
“Will mademoiselle require anything more?”
“No, not to-night, Ninette,” she replied, glancing up from her novel.
“Bon soir, madame,” exclaimed the girl, and withdrew.
When she had gone, Adine took a cigarette from her silver case, and, lighting it, lay back in her chair in a lazy, contemplative attitude, watching the blue smoke curl upward. For nearly half an hour she sat engrossed in her own thoughts, when suddenly the door was thrown open. Turning, she saw a middle-aged, well-dressed man, wearing the conventional silk hat and overcoat.
“Colonel Solovieff!” she gasped, jumping to her feet.
“Yes,” said the intruder coolly, as he closed the door and turned the key. “I have the honour to bear that name. And you? I need not ask, Madame Adine Orlovski, subject of my Imperial master, the Tzar.”
Pale, trembling, and with teeth clenched, she felt in the pocket of her dress, and drew forth something bright and shining. It was a small revolver.
“No, no,” exclaimed the colonel, laying his hand upon her arm. “Put away that toy. Remember that I am chief of the English Section of Secret Police, and to shoot me will not be a profitable pastime. I shall not harm you.”
“Why do you intrude here, at this hour?” she asked indignantly.
“I come – as your friend.”
“My friend! Dieu! Can you believe that I have forgotten the insult you offered me when we last met? My friend! – you, the chief of the Tzar’s spies!” she cried angrily.
“And you, Nihilist and assassin, eh?” added the other, with a sinister grin. “Well, well, ma belle, we will not speak of such gruesome subjects as the murder of your husband in Petersburg a year ago.”
“My husband?” she gasped. “Have you discovered who murdered him?”
“Ah! then you do not forget the facts? Neither do I. He was found shot through the heart within a hundred yards of his house in the Vosnosenskoi Prospekt. The Third Section of Imperial Police have not been idle, and as a result of their inquiries, a warrant has been issued.”
“For whom?”
“For the arrest of the woman who chooses to call herself Adine Orlovski, on a charge of murdering her husband.”
“Me?” she cried. “Such imputations are infamous!”
“Pray, don’t be alarmed,” continued the colonel, speaking in Russian, and taking a cigarette from the case that lay open on the table. He seated himself, and calmly lit it, saying, “Sit down; I wish to talk to you.”
Breathless with anxiety, she sank into the nearest chair.
“You see,” he began, “it is impossible to escape us. Our agents are everywhere. Outside the hotel at this moment are three officers ready to arrest you – ”
“They shall not. I’d – I’d rather kill myself.”
“Very well. You have the means; do so,” he said, with a brutal laugh.
“Ah!” cried the unhappy woman. “You, the chief of the Tzar’s bloodhounds, have tracked me here, and I know that, although I am innocent, it is useless for me to expect or plead for mercy.”
“Yes, madame, the warrant from the Ministry of the Interior enables me to hand you over to the English police. When you are charged before the magistrate to-morrow morning, I shall apply for your extradition. That will be your first stage upon that long, straight road which leads to Siberia. Your dossier at the bureau is complete. Listen; I will relate the details of your crime – ”
“No, no! I do not wish to hear,” she said, covering her face with her hands. “I am innocent. I admit that I quarrelled with my husband, but I had no thought of such a horrible deed.”
“You confess to the quarrel? Good! Now we may advance a step further,” said the colonel, stretching out his legs and contemplating the end of his cigarette. “I have also discovered that you know something about the recent attempt at the Winter Palace – in fact, I have indisputable proof that you are a Nihilist.”
“Ah! I understand now the depth of your villainy,” she said, with fierce indignation. “The charge of murder is brought against me in order that I may be extradited to Russia and tried as a Nihilist! It is another of your devilish schemes.”
“You are shrewd,” observed the chief of Secret Police, with a grim smile. “But I ought to indicate that I require to know more of the plans of that highly interesting circle of gentlemen who comprise the Revolutionary Executive Committee; and you are the person to furnish it.”
“How can I, when I am not a member of the organisation?”
“To prevaricate is useless. It is only by consenting to become an agent of the Third Section that you can escape arrest and punishment,” he said slowly.
“A police agent?” she gasped. “It would mean death!”
“Ah! – so you are a Revolutionist! I was not mistaken. Very well, I put it plainer. Either you will enter our service, and, while retaining your connection with the Nihilist Circle at Petersburg, disclose their secrets, or I shall execute the warrant. Remember, the Ministry of Police are liberal, and you will be well paid for your information.”
Adine was silent. This man was her enemy, and she saw the deeply-laid plot to secure her conviction and exile to Siberia. The allegations against her of promoting the Nihilist propaganda and taking part in conspiracies were true, and she well knew how easily they could be proved. She had been an active agent in a recent attempt to wreck the Tzar’s palace, the discovery of which plot had caused Paul Denissoff’s flight from Russia. But, on the other hand, she remembered that with members of the Circle treachery was punishable by death.
“Come, I am awaiting your decision,” he said impatiently.
In desperation she asked for time to consider. But he was inexorable, and she saw there was but one course open to her – namely, to become a spy.
“I – I will enter your service,” she said at length, in a low, hoarse voice. “I cannot refuse, since you make it the price of my freedom.”
“Very well,” he exclaimed, with satisfaction. “You will find our Tzar a liberal master, and should occasion arise, you will receive our protection. As for your secret alliance with us, no one will be aware of it except yourself. Let us shake hands, madame – or is it mademoiselle? – upon our agreement.”
“No, Colonel Solovieff,” she replied, drawing herself up haughtily. “I have sufficient reason for declining that honour. It is enough that I have allied myself with your despicable spies. I must wish you good-night.”
“Very well, very well,” he said in a tone of annoyance, as he picked up his hat and bowed. “Au revoir, madame; we shall meet again before long,” he added meaningly, and, turning, he unlocked the door and went out.
“To-night – to-night I am vanquished!” she muttered fiercely between her teeth when he was out of hearing; “but henceforward I shall play a double game; and, ma foi! I intend to be victor!”
A year later, Colonel Solovieff had been recalled from London and appointed chief of the Secret Police of St. Petersburg. His success in discovering Nihilist plots in London and Paris had mainly been due to the information furnished by Adine, therefore he had compelled her to return to the Russian capital and take up her residence in the great mansion that had belonged to her late husband. Her implication in the revolutionary conspiracies had placed her completely in his power, and although forced to obey, she made one stipulation – that Paul Denissoff should be allowed to return to Petersburg unmolested. For a long time the colonel withheld this permission, but at length consented, and the fugitive returned to the woman he loved. He was unaware of Adine’s alliance with the police, and she feared to tell him, lest he should despise her. A few members of the revolutionary party living in various parts of Russia had been denounced by her, and the Ministry of the Interior, believing the arrests of great importance, had commended Solovieff in consequence; but, truth to tell, the persons convicted were of the least dangerous type, and she always exercised the utmost caution, lest she should bring to justice any enthusiastic member of the party or compromise herself.
Number 87 Nevski Prospekt was a small, rather dilapidated house of three storeys. The window shutters of the ground and first floors being closed, gave it the appearance of being uninhabited. One apartment on the top floor, however, was furnished as a sitting-room, and was tenanted occasionally by Colonel Solovieff. It would have been folly for Adine to have met the chief of police at her house or at any place where they might be observed; therefore, in order to elude the vigilance of spies, both police and revolutionary, that everywhere abound in the Russian capital, he had taken the house in order to provide them with a secret meeting-place.
One afternoon early in spring, she was standing alone in this room, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, awaiting the man she despised and hated. Though possessing wealth, beauty, and influence, her life had been fraught with much bitterness. While she was yet in her teens, she loved Paul Denissoff, at that time a student at Moscow University; but her mercenary mother had compelled her to marry Orlovski, one of the merchant princes of the capital. For two years they lived together very unhappily, until late one night he was found lying dead in the street, shot by an unknown hand.
Adine mourned for him, but it was scarcely surprising that she felt some secret satisfaction at her freedom; especially when Paul, hearing of her bereavement, sought an interview and expressed his sympathy. Then she was unable to conceal the fact that she still loved him, and their mutual affection was resumed. By her marriage Paul’s life had become embittered, and this had caused him to develop into a fearless Terrorist, reckless and enthusiastic in the cause of Russian freedom. When she discovered he was a Nihilist, she at once joined the Circle, rendering considerable pecuniary assistance to the cause, and taking a prominent part in the fierce and terrible struggle between the people and the bureaucracy.
Now, however, as a spy, her position was extremely dangerous, and as she stood looking down into the broad thoroughfare, she was reviewing her past, and vainly trying to devise some means by which she could escape from the web that the detested Solovieff had cast about her.
In a few minutes the man with whom she had an appointment entered.
“Ah! good afternoon,” he said, tossing his hat and stick upon a divan, and taking a chair at the table in the centre of the room. “Be seated. I have some news for you. Do you recollect that soon after you consented to assist us, you gave me some information regarding a conspiracy at Moscow?”
Her face twitched nervously as she replied in the affirmative.
“Well, we acted upon your statement, and arrested sixteen of the revolutionists, all of whom have been tried by court-martial and sentenced to the mines. In recognition of your services in this instance, I am directed by my Imperial master, the Tzar, to give you this.”
And, taking from his pocket-book a bank-note for five hundred roubles, he handed it to her.
She took it mechanically, scarcely knowing what she did. The touch of the limp paper, however, brought to her mind that it was the wages of her treachery. This filled her with indignation, and her face flushed crimson.
“Have you come to offer me yet another insult, Colonel Solovieff?” she cried. “Can you believe that I have fallen so low as to accept money as the price of the lives of poor wretches who are drawn into your merciless clutches? No, tell His Majesty that he may in future keep his paltry roubles. I do not require them. See how I value the Imperial munificence!”
And, taking the note between her fingers, she tore it into small pieces, which she scattered upon the carpet.
“We are not all so wealthy as yourself, madame,” he said, somewhat surprised at her unusual independence. “Yet, after all, your scruples regarding these miserable curs, the Nihilists, amount to no more than mere caprice.”
“That may be so,” she replied quickly; “but in future, whatever information you require, you will obtain for yourself. My efforts on your behalf have been rewarded by gross insult; therefore I shall refuse to disclose any other revolutionary secrets.”
“Pardon me, madame; I have no time to bandy words with you, but your decision is somewhat too hasty. I have discovered that three days hence a desperate attempt is to be made upon the life of His Majesty during the review at Peterhof, and further, that you are implicated in it!”
She started; she had believed her secret safe.
“I have resolved to preserve silence,” she said abruptly.
“The plot is a most serious and widespread one,” he continued, “and I tell you plainly that if you refuse to inform me where the meeting to arrange the final details will take place, I shall arrest both Denissoff and yourself as Nihilists. You have your choice.”
She was nonplussed, and sat twirling the ribbons of her dress with nervous fingers, while he leaned his elbows upon the table, looking at her intently.
“I scarcely think it would be worth your while to refuse,” he remarked.
“For myself, I care nothing. I am tired of being your puppet.”
“You love Paul Denissoff; surely you will save him from Siberia?”
She hesitated. She saw that to avoid Paul’s arrest she would be compelled to sacrifice all the members of the committee to whom the elaborate plot against the autocrat Alexander had been entrusted. She shuddered at the thought of the scandal it would create were she arraigned before a court-martial for conspiracy against the Tzar, and thought of the dreary, lifelong exile that would inevitably follow. In her bewilderment she resolved to secure Paul’s freedom at any cost.
“So this is but another illustration of your Satanic cunning,” she said at last, with knit brows. “I – I suppose it is imperative that I should betray my friends;” and she sighed heavily.
“Ah! I thought you would not care to bear the consequences of refusal,” he exclaimed, smiling at her perplexity.
“You laugh!” she cried, her eyes flashing with anger. “It is true that you hold my destiny in your hands, but take care you do not provoke me to desperation.”
“Threats do not become you, madame,” he replied coolly. “Tell me, where shall I find these conspirators?”
She paused. She was thinking how she could save her friends.
“You know the Bolshaia Ssattovaia?” she said suddenly. “Well, almost exactly opposite the Commercial Bank there is a small leather-shop, with a large kitchen below. Go there to-morrow night at ten o’clock.”
“Not to-night?” asked the chief of police, scribbling a memorandum.
“No; to-morrow.”
“Very well,” he said, rising and putting on his hat. “I am obliged for your information. Bon jour, madame. If I have been a little – a little abrupt, forgive me.”
A moment later he had gone.
The scene was a weird one. In a low, damp, underground cellar, a dozen men and women were sitting around a table, upon the centre of which a playing-card was pinned by a thin ivory-hilted dagger. A couple of guttering candles shed a feeble light upon the pale, determined countenances of the conspirators, among whom sat Paul Denissoff.
The elderly, wild-haired man who sat at the head of the table was speaking authoritatively, and had been explaining to those assembled, the proposals for the coup at Peterhof, a map of the neighbourhood being spread before him.
“And now,” he said gravely, “we must draw lots for the removal of the traitor to whom I referred at the opening of our council.”
A dead silence followed, while a man who sat on the president’s right prepared a number of small folded slips of paper. Upon one of these the president scribbled a name. Then they were placed together in a small box, and each of the revolutionists drew. In addition to the president himself, only the person who drew the paper with the name upon it knew who had been guilty of treachery, while all remained in ignorance of the chosen assassin.
Then the council broke up, arranging to meet on the following night.
At nine o’clock on the next evening, Paul Denissoff, pale-faced and haggard-eyed, entered the hall of the great house of the Orlovskis.
“I must see madame at once,” he said to a lackey. “Take me to her.”
A few moments later he was ushered along a spacious corridor filled with palms and exotics, through a great white and gold ballroom, and presently admitted into a small, exquisitely furnished little apartment, wherein sat Adine, in a lounge chair, doing fancy needlework.
“Ah, Paul?” she cried, starting to her feet. “Why, what ails you?”
“Hush, Adine,” he said hoarsely, when the door had closed. “Some one has denounced you to the executive as a traitor. The council have passed sentence of death, and I – I have drawn the fatal number. You must fly – you must leave Russia at once – to-night – for at midnight I must return here to —to murder you!”
“Dieu!” she gasped. “Then my secret has been divulged! I confess – it is true, Paul. I have been guilty of double dealing, but it was to save – Hark! Listen!”
There were sounds of voices outside the door, which a moment afterwards was flung open, revealing two ordinary-looking individuals, accompanied by several grey-coated police officers.
“Paul Denissoff,” exclaimed one of the detectives, stepping forward, “in the name of our father, the Tzar, I arrest you for conspiracy.”
“By Heaven! I’ll not go with you. I – ”
In a moment he had drawn a revolver and placed himself on the defensive; but a second later the weapon was wrenched from his grasp. Adine, pale and weeping, threw herself between him and his captors, but she was roughly thrust aside, and he was handcuffed and conveyed away to the Police Bureau.
The Assize Court of St. Petersburg was crowded to suffocation, for a great trial of Nihilists was concluding. Paul Denissoff, as a preliminary to his punishment, had been kept in solitary confinement in one of the cells deep down under the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. Together with thirty other revolutionists, including those arrested in the Bolshaia Ssattovaia, he was now brought up for sentence. The rays of the afternoon sun were slanting across the court, lighting up the daïs whereon sat the grave-looking judge, over whose head hung the golden double-headed eagle, surmounted by an ikon, or picture of the Virgin.
Those in court were breathless, for sentence was about to be delivered. Presently the judge spoke.
“Prisoners,” he said, addressing the motley row of eager-faced men and women before him, “you have all been found guilty of conspiracy to cause the death of His Imperial Majesty the Tzar. There is but one sentence the Swod allows me to pronounce, and it is that you shall be banished and kept at labour at the mines for the remainder of your lives.”
Above the sobs and wailing which came from the public portion of the court sounded a shrill, piercing, hysterical shriek. Paul, turning sharply, saw that a poorly-clad woman, sitting in the front row of the spectators, had fainted. Her clothes were common, her hair was parted in the middle and brushed back severely; but, notwithstanding the disguise, he recognised her. It was Adine Orlovski.
Two years had gone by. Colonel Solovieff, promoted to the rank of general, had been appointed by the Tzar as Governor of the Asiatic Province of Trans-Baikál.
In the whole of Siberia there is no region more desolate than around the Nerchinsk silver mines of Algachi and Pokrovski. Situated far away in Eastern Siberia, near the Mongolian frontier, and distant five thousand versts from St. Petersburg, there is not a tree or bush to be seen in any direction, and the rolling, snow-clad hills suggest in general contour the immense surges and mounds of water raised by a hurricane. The buildings at the entrance to the Pokrovski mine consist only of a tool-house, a shed for the accommodation of the Cossacks of the guard, and a few log-built cabins occupied by convicts allowed out on licence for good behaviour; while dotted here and there are sentry-boxes, before which stand Cossacks leaning on their rifles.
It is impossible to imagine a more terrible and hopeless existence than that to which Paul Denissoff had been consigned, working all day in the damp, muddy galleries of the mine, and at night trudging through the snow back to the close, foul prison of Algachi. It was, indeed, worse than the life of any pariah dog, for, recognising the hopelessness of the situation, he had given way to that inertness begotten of despair.
He had been toiling with his pick for nearly fourteen hours in the gloom of one of the lower galleries of the mine, when an armed warder came and told him it was time to leave. Casting down his pick, he sighed, and rose from the crouching position in which he was compelled to work. The dim candlelight showed he had aged considerably. The iron fetters upon his feet clanked ominously as he walked, and upon his ragged, mud-stained clothes was stitched the great yellow diamond denoting a life sentence.
Presently prisoner and warder came to the foot of the shaft, and both ascended the rickety ladders which led to the surface. At length they emerged into the light of day, and saw standing before one of the log-sheds a row of silent convicts guarded by Cossacks, waiting to be marched back to prison. Paul walked over and joined them. The wind was biting cold, and snow lay deep upon the road.
Outside the cabin of one of the convicts of the “free command” stood two well-appointed four-horse sleighs; and while the shivering men were wondering who could be travelling in this remote colony, another sleigh came rapidly along the road, preceded by two mounted Cossacks.
The vehicle drew up before the convicts, and its occupant, flinging off the rugs that covered him, stepped out. The men removed their hats and cheered, but Paul remained motionless. He recognised that the traveller was General Solovieff, the governor. Enveloped in a great sable-lined coat, from beneath which his sword trailed in the snow, he walked with difficulty over to where the captain of the Cossacks stood. After a few minutes’ conversation, the captain turned and shouted —
“Let the convict Denissoff come here!”
Paul stepped forward and saluted.
“Ah, yes,” said Solovieff, when he saw him, “This is the man; I knew him in Petersburg. He is very dangerous, therefore, in future, he is not to go to the mines. Let him remain in the prison always. You understand?”
“Yes, your Excellency,” replied the captain, wondering why such additional torture should be heaped on a prisoner so well-behaved; for he was well aware that work in the mine was even preferable to life in the foul, overcrowded prison.
“But, your Excellency,” protested Paul, “I have not been mutinous. I – ”
“Silence!” thundered the general. “Get back to your place!”
As he turned, two persons confronted him – a man who wore an official uniform with the Imperial eagle upon his cap, and a woman wrapped in a great fur-lined travelling cloak.
The recognition was mutual, and in a moment he was wringing Adine’s hand.
Meanwhile the man had stepped forward, and, addressing the Cossack officer, said —
“Captain Yagodkin, we have not met before, my name is Ivan Torsneff, and I am an aide-de-camp of His Majesty, the Tzar.”
“Ah, I remember you, Torsneff!” cried the general, stretching forth his hand. “What brings you here, so far from Petersburg?”
“An unpleasant duty, General Solovieff,” replied the Tzar’s messenger coldly. Taking an official document from the pocket of his greatcoat, he added, “I have here a warrant from His Imperial Majesty, my august master, ordering Captain Yagodkin to release the prisoner Paul Denissoff immediately; and, further, to arrest and detain at hard labour the governor of the Trans-Baikál, General Solovieff.”
“What?” cried His Excellency. “You’re mad!”
“Captain Yagodkin,” continued Count Torsneff, “In the name of the Tzar, I hand the warrant to you. It is in His Majesty’s own handwriting – read for yourself.”
The Cossack officer opened it eagerly, read it through, and glanced at the Imperial signature and seal. Then, addressing the governor, he said —
“General Solovieff, you are under arrest, by order of the Tzar!”
“What for?”
“It has been proved by an accomplice of yours, one Sergius Baranoff,” replied the aide-de-camp, “that you are a murderer – that, with the object of eventually marrying Madame Orlovski, you waylaid and murdered her husband. Afterwards, when she rejected your proposals of marriage, you brought circumstantial evidence to bear and accused her of the crime. In your absence, the case has been tried in Petersburg, and your sentence is hard labour in the mines for life.”
A few hours later, Paul and Adine had started on the first stage of their journey back to civilisation. They are now married, and live happily in one of those charming villas in the pine forest at Arcachon.