Part 16

There were few trees in the landscape, but some twenty or thirty paces ahead of us, in an elbow of the road, was a clump of sycamores, and behind the land dropped into a hollow, where water lay in a reedy pool and some cattle stood there, knee-deep, drinking. Away off, beyond the plain, the river of light was a molten sea of gold, where the sun was rising before us, for we rode northeast from Moscow.

“Madame, do you know of what this scene reminds me?” I asked her quietly.

We had been so long silent that she started at the sound of my voice--flushing as she always did.

“Nay, monsieur, I know not,” she replied.

I pointed at the steppe, and at the far east, where the sun shone in a narrow rim above the world, like the broken half of a lover’s gold piece.

“Of my life, madame, level and barren as this, until the sun rose on it,” I said softly, “the sun of my love for you.”

She met my eyes fully for an instant, a look of wonder in hers, and then she turned her face proudly away, but I saw her hands tremble.

“Believe me,” I continued gently, “I would not have forced myself upon you, save to keep you from a fate you hated.”

She dropped the horse’s bridle on his neck, and covered her face with her hands.

“Do not speak of it!” she cried passionately; “do you think I am less than other women? that I do not feel it? That cruel czarevna! How dared you, sir?”

I bit my lip; to her I was the goldsmith’s apprentice. So be it, I thought; if she despised the man, she may also despise the marquis. I had meant to tell her, but now I would not.

“Are Russian men then cowards, madame?” I asked drily.

She did not reply; she had no time, for we had come to the clump of trees, and as we turned them, a horseman suddenly barred our way with a drawn sword. She recognised him first, with a little cry of horror, and then I, too, looked into the flushed face of the Boyar Kurakin. My first impulse was to draw my pistol and shoot him down, and then I saw that the man had no weapon but his sword, and was alone. He looked at her, more than at me, and I knew then how near akin such love as his is to hatred.

“Well met!” he cried savagely; “well met, Daria Kirilovna; you ride early with your lover, but you ride no further--by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk!”

He meant to say more, and to insult her, but I forced my horse between and he found my sword-point at his throat.

“Back, monsieur,” I said pleasantly, and smiled; “back, or you will drink blood for your breakfast!”

But he was no coward, and rode like a Cossack.

“To the devil with you, you French smith!” he cried contemptuously, and our swords crossed, the sparks flying as the steel ground. His horse, a fiery beast, plunged and I missed giving him a thrust over his guard, as I had given M. d’Argenson, on the Place Royale. Then he wheeled quickly, and tried to stab me in the side, and I parried, my beast answering the bit well, but I saw I had my match, not trained in a Parisian school, but a born swordsmen, as I think some men are. Moreover, the thought of his humiliation in the painted gallery, of his stolen bride, stung him to fury: he would have torn me to pieces with the joy of a savage. We fought desperately, therefore, and the horses, plunging and backing, kept us whirling in a circle, thrusting here and missing there, and then clashing fiercely; once he drew blood on my arm and once I touched his throat.

The Princess Daria’s horse had carried her a few yards away, and there she held him, looking back, rooted, as it seemed, to the spot, though I shouted to her to ride on. The swords whirled and ground together, and in a flash I saw the whole scene and remembered it; the glory of the sky, the wide sweep of land, the shadows of the sycamores, and the sharp outline of her figure and her face, white as a pearl. But, all the while, I had much ado to keep his steel from my heart, and verily, I think the man fought more like a fiend than a human. The sun had risen and sometimes it shone in my eyes, sometimes in his, as our beasts moved to and fro, and sometimes the flash and sparkle of it on our blades was blinding and once--when he almost thrust me in the breast--I heard the princess cry out sharply.

Then I rose in my stirrups and he in his, and for a moment our steels ground out fire. I saw his bloodshot eyes and heard his laboured breathing; the man was tired and so was I, and yet I must wear him out or give her up to him, and he--the barbarian devil--he knew that he must kill me or give her up to me!

I had the longer sword, and once I thought I had him, but he parried and well-nigh caught me under the arm-pit, and then I wheeled my horse quickly and lunged at him, our swords clashed, and at the sound, his beast plunged widely from me, reared up and pawed the air, while I saw Kurakin’s face turn pale as ashes, and then the beast fell over backward and rolled on his rider. My own horse careered wildly, and the other brute turned over and got to his feet and was running with an empty saddle, before I could approach his master. Kurakin lay in a heap on the ground, and I leaped down and turned him over; his neck was broken and he lay there, in the mire, stone-dead.

I turned and saw the princess holding in her horse, for he, too, was restive, and her face was perfectly colourless.

Without a word I mounted and rode forward, and she sat looking back with dilated eyes.

“Will you leave him so?” she cried; “is he dead?”

“Quite dead, madame,” I answered.

She made the sign of the cross, and I laid my hand upon her bridle, guiding her frightened horse.

“We must ride,” I said. “We can send others back from Troïtsa for the body--if it is safe to do so.”

For ten minutes we galloped on and then she spoke.

“Why did you not use your pistol?” she asked.

“In France a gentleman takes no advantage of his adversary in weapons,” I replied courteously.

She bit her lip, and then, “But if he had killed you!” she cried.

Then I had my revenge. “Then, madame, instead of the goldsmith you would have had a boyar,” I said coldly.

She looked at me a moment in sheer amazement, and then she turned crimson, and rode on ahead of me without a word.

_XXX: THE PRINCE VORONIN_

IN this fashion, riding hard, we came in sight of Troïtsa. In the clear sunshine the cupolas and turrets of the beautiful building rose clearly outlined against the sky. The great monastery, with its chapels and its shrines and its glebe, was a princely territory, and close under the protection of its walls clung a village, grown there, doubtless, through the constant stream of pilgrims, whose wants could not be altogether satisfied at the refectory. Herds of cattle moved placidly along the slopes to the south, the herds of the brotherhood, for there was wealth there and power. From among these monks were chosen the great dignitaries of the church, for the priests, compelled to marry and to work in the parishes, could never receive high offices, and a bitter jealousy raged between the two orders. The sunshine on the golden crosses, and the white walls, and over the green slopes, the peaceful atmosphere, the sweet chimes of the church bells, greeted us and made the scene on the road seem like a nightmare. We slackened our pace and went more slowly up the road which led to the gates, and as we approached, I observed a cortège leaving them and coming toward us. Such a cortège as I had seen commonly in Moscow, the serfs running ahead of an open carriage drawn by three horses, the marten-tails floating in the breeze, and in the vehicle a noble in his rich and gaudy dress, and behind again, the serfs, bare-foot, but sparkling in broad collars and belts of gold on their white caftans. As they appeared the princess drew rein with a sharp exclamation, and I looked around at her, divining the cause of her discomfiture.

“My father!” she gasped, and looked at me strangely.

“Yes, madame,” I said, smiling grimly, “his excellency, the prince; have I not redeemed my pledge?”

“But,” she began, and stammered, “but my father--I must tell him--and you--what can you do?”

My face burned.

“Madame,” I said coldly, “do you think I am afraid to tell your father that I married you?”

It was her turn to blush, and her eyes shone strangely.

“You do not know him,” she replied simply. “He will not listen. I know the customs of your country are different; here, sir, a girl is given in marriage by her parents, as they will. Sometimes she never sees her bridegroom’s face until the hour of the ceremony. My father----” She stopped, bit her lip, and sat looking down at her horse’s ears, and the animal, with his bridle hanging loose, put his head down and cropped the grass.

“And your father intended you to marry Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly, and then--because the pain in my heart was sharp--I added; “and you, madame; do you love him?”

Then I thought a smile quivered about her lips, her head drooped prettily, she would not look up, and the prince’s carriage came swiftly on.

“Do I love him?” she repeated innocently; “who, sir--my father?”

“No, no!” I cried, in fierce haste, my heart beating wildly, “your lover.”

Then she cast a bewildering glance at me. “Which?” she asked, and this time I saw a dimple come and go in her cheek.

I urged my horse closer, and had my hand on her bridle when the prince’s runners came panting up to us, and the three horses were halted before us. He had recognised his daughter and beckoned to her. Every vestige of colour and of life faded out of her face, a moment before rosy and inscrutable, and she would have obeyed, but I rode forward instead, and halting beside his excellency’s carriage, I uncovered and greeted him with the courtesy I would show my equals in France. I told him that I had brought his daughter to him, and he eyed me coldly from head to foot. He was a handsome, dignified man, with white hair and a ruddy skin and clear blue eyes. Nothing, however, could exceed his hauteur; he could have matched the Grand Monarque himself in manner, and, in his own domain, he was as great an autocrat. His whole glance at me said, more plainly than words, “and who are you?” but he acknowledged my information with a stately gesture, at once dignified and courteous. Then he spoke a word in Russ to the slave at his feet, who rose and, opening a long bag, or pouch, began to gather up a handful of roubles, I looking on in some amazement while the slave counted them. Then Voronin spoke again, and this time audibly.

“Nay, twenty roubles more, Vasali,” he said; “would you stint the pay of a man who rescued my daughter?”

Saint Denis! did he take me for a lackey? My wrath well-nigh choked me.

“You mistake, M. le Prince,” I said, in a low voice, that the serfs in attendance might not hear; “I have brought back your daughter--as my wife!”

The slave at his feet, who heard me, dropped the bag of gold and fell on his knees gaping, while the prince merely stared at me, as if he thought me mad. Very briefly, therefore, I told him the story of Sophia and the painted gallery and the marriage, and as I did so, the Princess Daria rode up and drew rein beside me. Many emotions had played across the prince’s strong face as I spoke, but at the end it was inscrutable. He turned his stern eyes on his daughter.

“Is this true?” he asked, in a deep voice.

“It is true,” she replied, very low, “and he saved my life!”

I held up my hand. “Nay,” I said, “there is no virtue in that plea; I do not make it. I am your husband, madame!”

She gave me a strange look.

The prince turned to her again. “You have ever spoken the truth,” he said, in a hard voice. “I acquit you of fault in this; but has he guarded you, and treated you as becomes a princess, and my daughter?” His tone was terrible.

“I have been safe as with you, my father,” she replied, and her voice broke a little.

The prince called a serf. “Take the horse of the princess and lead her ahead of me back to Troïtsa,” he said, and then to me: “Sir, if she had testified against you, I would have had you hanged!”

“M. le Prince,” I replied coldly, “I am a Frenchman and a man of honour. Try me not too far, monsieur; even though you are her father, there are some things you may not say to me. Neither can you compel her to leave her husband--unless she wills it.”

He looked at me with disdain and laughed.

“Her husband!” he repeated. “As little her husband, Sir Frenchman, as that moujik in the field yonder,” and he signalled to his serfs to turn back to Troïtsa.

But I rode beside the carriage and looked into his face, and proud as he was, I saw him colour darkly.

“M. le Prince,” I said, “I am not the man to be thus lightly dealt with. If she wishes to be free--I will free her. No woman is my wife against her will; but if she chooses me of her free will, mine she is, and shall be, against the world.”

“And think you that the Princess Daria will choose you?” he asked contemptuously.

I returned his glance with equal pride. “And why not, monsieur?” I said quietly. “I am her husband.”

He laughed at that, as I have seen men laugh before they engage a deadly enemy.

“There are such things as divorces,” he said suavely, “and other--ways of removal.”

“Assassination, M. le Prince,” I suggested. “It has been tried. In France I am accounted wise enough to save my head.”

“It is well, sir,” he said; “I would advise you to use that wisdom now.” He pointed southward. “The road to Moscow lies there,” he added courteously, “and fifty roubles for your expenses--as a profit for the rescue of the princess.”

“You insult me, sir,” I said scornfully; “yonder is my wife, and yonder will I go,” and I rode forward, in defiance, to her side.

All this while we had been progressing slowly on the road to Troïtsa, and as I went forward the whole procession quickened its pace. As my horse came alongside of hers, the princess turned a pale face toward me.

“Monsieur, I pray you be advised,” she said, very low, “and anger him not. He seems a smooth man and courteous, but he has a violent spirit, and look you--you are one against all these, his slaves. ’Tis useless--’tis worse than useless!”

“And you?” I said, “and you--obey him through fear?”

Her lips quivered, she averted her eyes.

“Half an hour ago, you were not thus,” I murmured, “tell me if----”

She looked up and her eyes were full of pain.

“Hush!” she cried, “hush! I will not listen. Yonder is the gate--and I go to my cousin--I will obey my father, I----”

“Do you--will you repudiate your husband?” I asked firmly.

Her hands shook; she gave me an imploring look. “If you love me, monsieur,” she faltered, “I beseech you--retire now and leave us. To-morrow you can speak to him--the mad mood will pass if you----”

I leaned over and touched her hand.

“For your sake,” I said, and drew aside and let the cortège pass me and enter the domain of Troïtsa.

And yet, twelve hours later, I counted this act of gallantry as one of arrant folly, but who can lift the veil of destiny unless it be the astrologer?

_XXXI: VASSALISSA_

WHEN the Princess Daria rode out of my sight that day she vanished so completely that I could neither see her nor communicate with her again. Prince Voronin understood the art of concealing his women-folk even more thoroughly than the other Muscovites, and he was determined to disregard the marriage of his daughter with a foreigner. He told me so himself, standing on the great steps of the monastery, with old Piotr bearing his sword behind him, and two slaves preceding him with torches. For it was that same night that I met him face to face on the steps, and demanded an interview in which the matter of my marriage should be fully discussed. The man was naturally above the average in height and bore himself with a dignity that was at once fine and disdainful. I thought him then--with the torchlight upon him, in his magnificent dress of dark green and crimson, with his snow-white hair and his falcon eye--one of the handsomest and the proudest men that I had ever seen, and I saw too, that--finding that he could neither buy me nor intimidate me--he hated me cordially, yet he was a smooth man and rarely violent in speech.

I had told him very briefly, but circumstantially, the story of the marriage, and he knew as well as I that it was legal, but not the quiver of an eyelash betrayed the least emotion.

“It rests with the Princess Daria,” I said; “she is my wife--and she must choose. If she is still unwilling--I will not force my claim upon her; but if she respects the bond between us, there is no power on earth that can take her from me.”

The prince was so far unmoved that he smiled.

“In Russia it is the father, and not the daughter, who chooses, sir,” he said coolly, “and so little does her will rule it that I tell you plainly that, if I chose, I would give her to a moujik to-morrow--and she should not disobey me.”

“She is your daughter,” I replied steadily, “but she is also my wife, and you will not separate us, Prince Voronin. I demand to see her--there is no law, in any land, that can keep a husband from seeing his own wife.”

He eyed me coolly, but I saw the throbbing at the temples that comes in anger, and the torchlight falling full on his face stained it with crimson.

“There is no law, sir,” he replied suavely, “but there is my will.”

“Do you intend to prevent an interview?” I demanded sternly; “to take a wife from her husband by force?”

“My dear sir,” he said pleasantly, “I would as lief fling you in the Moskva, as not. Think you that I intend to permit Sophia Alexeievna to marry my daughter at her will--to whom she will? Pshaw, sir, you are a meddlesome foreigner! If Kurakin had married her, I would have flung him from the top of Ivan Veliki; there was no need of your interference to save the daughter of Prince Voronin.”

Looking in his eye, no one could doubt that he would be as good as his word, but my blood was up, and but for the absolute folly of such a course, on the steps of the monastery, I would have engaged him then and there, and forgotten that he was my father-in-law, but as it was I kept my hand off my sword, lest I should yield to temptation, for my fingers itched to draw it.

“You are pleased to threaten me, monsieur,” I said coolly, “but you mistake your opponent. I care naught for your threats or your power. I have married the Princess Daria, and, by Saint Denis, she alone can choose! I will give her up to none, and I will see her, monsieur, if you and fifty of your slaves bar the way with drawn swords. _Au revoir_, M. le Prince, I will delay you no longer; we understand each other, as I think.”

He smiled fiercely, fingering his dagger.

“We do, sir, and we will,” he said, and bowed formally in reply to my grave salute.

Then he went down, the torches streaming fire before him, and the great figure of Piotr walking solemnly behind, and I stood on the steps, gnawing my lips with suppressed fury, and watching them proceed to a small chapel where they were singing mass.

After that I set about finding the princess. Somewhere, under the wing of these cloisters, the high-born women were sheltered, but where? I knew not, and again and again regretted my stupidity in not bringing Maluta. Either the prince had corrupted the people of the monastery with bribes, or they were reticent to foreigners, for, though I spent the greater part of the night in making inquiries and offering money, I heard nothing, and morning found me as ignorant as ever of Daria’s fate. That she was still there, I could not doubt; the place was full of fugitives from Moscow as well as the usual army of pilgrims, and the country was not in a state for travellers unless in large parties, and the prince’s serfs were still in force at Troïtsa, for I saw his liveries everywhere. Morning found me watching the processions of the devout, going from shrine to shrine with many genuflexions and prostrations, the sinner and the unabsolved penitent kneeling in the porticos. Among these numerous worshippers were many women, and I searched each group eagerly for one figure and searched in vain, and once or twice I thought I was followed, which would not have surprised me, knowing Voronin’s bitter enmity. Yet I could not be certain, though once I came upon two men who were watching me, by the corner of the chapel. Two burly fellows, wearing the dress of well-to-do merchants, but looking the part of ruffians to the life, and one had a deep purple mark upon his forehead that seemed to me familiar. But it was just after this chance encounter that something occurred that put the pair entirely out of my mind. I had left their neighbourhood and was walking in a quiet angle of the great cloister, listening to the sweet chime of the bells, when I heard my name called softly, and wheeling about, saw a veiled female figure standing in the shadow of the wall. For one wild moment I thought it the princess, and then I saw that the figure was shorter and rounder, and even before she partly lifted her _fata_ I recognised Vassalissa, and blessed my good fortune. I was so overjoyed to see her that I could have embraced her, but she was poised lightly as a bird, ready to fly and in breathless haste.

“Hush--yes, monsieur, it is I,” she whispered, laughing, and retreating a little at my eagerness; “I am away from the dragon--but, in an instant, I must go back--she is at the chapel--no, no, not Daria!” She laughed at my excitement. “Only old Yekaterina.”