Part 19

Even in the gloom of early nightfall I could distinguish the outlines of a large and imposing building, looming grandly amidst the level country, and surrounded by the huts of the village, which were little more than a growth of mushrooms by comparison. But, from what I heard about me, and from what I saw, I gathered that the party of travellers, that Maluta and I had avoided, had arrived and were proceeding in state to the castle, where--from the brightly illumined court-yard--I knew they were expected. Pushing my way carefully, but steadily, to the front, that I might be sure of drifting into the court with the crowd, I came, at last, close to the torches and saw the glint of scarlet tunics, and then intuition warned me and I was not surprised to recognise the man who rode--in state--through the great gateway, with the flare of torches flashing on his jewels and the gold brocade of his mantle. Mounted on a splendid horse and riding like a soldier and a prince, with his footmen before him and behind, was my rival, Basil Galitsyn.

And, as he dismounted in the centre of the court-yard, I entered the gateway unchallenged and passed along to the right, so that I almost faced him. Yet he did not see me--he was looking at the door and beyond it.

_XXXVI: THE PRINCESS_

THE light of a hundred torches filled the court-yard with a crimson glow, and shed broad and wavering flashes on the great solid building, with its grim look of strength and pride. On either side of the main entrance the serfs stood in double tiers, clad in white caftans banded with purple, and their wild, dark faces illumined by the streaming fire of the torches that they held aloft, fifty strong men on one side and fifty on the other; while farther off, in the corners of the great yard, and at the gateway, crowded men and women and even children, in every colour, from deep scarlet to pale pink, a living mass of creatures that served one lord, the thralls of the vast domain of this Russian prince, his slaves and his warriors. Above, the black smoke from the burning pine-knots hung heavily, and in the broad blaze of the fiery illumination below Prince Galitsyn had dismounted and advanced, slow and stately; magnificently robed, splendidly armed, the descendant of the Lithuanian monarchs looked every inch a prince and a king. Onward between the long lines of solemn, white-robed fire-bearers, and up the broad steps, he moved and I followed. In the confusion of the great throng I was unrecognised, and thought to be in his train. At the top of the steps he paused, and I looked beyond him into the lobby, lighted too by torches, and here, at the threshold, lay two great bears--skins, heads, and claws fairly intact--and stretched across the entrance from side to side, while in the centre of the lobby stood a table, which held a great silver salver, and on it was a silver image or _oberis_; before that the bread, and beside it a huge silver salt-cellar. A little behind this table stood Prince Voronin, and a young woman, whom I took to be his new wife, but I had eyes for neither, but only for the tall, slender, white-robed figure who stood at the table, looking directly toward us, her head lifted proudly, her dark eyes shining--the Princess Daria!

Galitsyn, too, saw no one but the princess. Obeying the custom of his people, he trod upon the heads of the bears and entered the lobby, and the princess, coming two steps forward, held out the bread and salt. Her hands were firm, and her round arms, but her face was pale--pale and luminous. He took the bread from her hands and broke it, and he tasted the salt, and the Prince Voronin, advancing, clasped him in a warm embrace. It was at this moment that Daria saw me. If she had been pale before, she now turned white to the lips, but swift as a thought she came to me, as I walked across the bears, and held out the bread and salt with hands that shook.

“Take it quickly!” she cried in a low tone; “eat it in the Virgin’s name!” and her voice quivered.

Not ignorant of the sacredness of the bond, I obeyed her, and as I did so, I heard Voronin’s deep tones.

“Who is there, Daria? I command you not to break bread with him!”

But she turned and looked at him, while I still held the hand that had given me the bread.

“He saved my life, O my father!” she said in a sweet, clear voice, “and he has tasted your bread and salt; surely then, he is your guest also, O excellency.”

And I felt her hand like ice.

Galitsyn had turned also and was gazing at me with a strange face. No doubt his breast was filled with contending emotions. Had I not escaped his ruffians and defied him? But the face of Prince Voronin froze into an image of stone, and only the eyes blazed fire, while the stranger at his side, his wife--as I had divined--bustled forward and caught hold of Daria, remonstrating loudly.

“He saved your life, yes, my daughter,” replied the prince, sternly scornful, “and his own; but since he is my guest, I will not hang him at the gateway. But leave his side--I command you!”

The princess had already dragged her hand from mine and she drew back now, and stood silent, her eyes on the floor, while I addressed her father.

“M. le Prince,” I said, “in spite of many difficulties, I have escaped from those who would have carried me to Archangel, and I have journeyed southward for the sole purpose of seeing the Princess Daria. I understand, monsieur, your reluctance to give your consent to a marriage brought about by the Czarevna Sophia, and in circumstances so peculiar. Nor do I blame you for refusing to intrust your daughter to a stranger, but, M. le Prince, I have upon me papers that will establish my birth and my rank, not entirely unsuitable for your consideration, and although a foreigner, monsieur, and a stranger, I love the princess deeply, so deeply that I will force no claim upon her. She is free to choose; if she will recognise the marriage, I am her devoted husband and lover, but she--and she alone--must choose.”

Prince Galitsyn could forbear no longer, his proud face flushed deeply.

“It would be well, sir,” he said haughtily, “to prove that your birth is equal to that of the princess; as for the marriage----” He snapped his fingers.

I eyed him coldly. “M. le Prince,” I said courteously, “permit me to suggest that you ask her imperial highness, Sophia Alexeievna, to support your suit to the Princess Daria,” and as I said it, I heard a rebellious titter, and saw Vassalissa, little rogue that she was, in the background.

Galitsyn turned from red to white, and his hand clenched on his sword, but he had no time to answer, for Voronin spoke.

“I have heard you, sir,” he said to me, “with amazement; yonder is the door; two minutes longer and my stewards will see that you find it or----”

“Remember the bread and salt, my uncle,” said Vassalissa softly, plucking at his sleeve.

He shook her off, but he bit his lip. As for me, I folded my arms on my breast and stood firmly, in the centre of the hall.

“M. le Prince,” I said quietly, “I am your daughter’s husband; I must speak to her, and learn her will from her own lips.”

“From the hands of my slaves, rather!” he cried fiercely, his eagle eye kindling. “Do you beard me in my own house, fool?”

“Nay, monsieur,” I replied, unmoved; “but I must have my answer. As she wills it--so will it be.”

His face worked furiously, Galitsyn muttered below his breath, fingering his weapon. All about us, in a constantly narrowing circle, gathered the fierce-eyed serfs. The red light of many torches rose and fell. Daria stood like a statue.

“Answer him,” commanded Voronin fiercely, “answer him, you little fool, and have it done; the fellow raves!”

“Madame,” I said to her, low and tenderly, “I love you--I am your husband, if you will. Answer me without fear or favour, for I will surely defend you.”

She looked up and her dark eyes met mine, and slowly, very slowly, the colour of an early rose came softly to her cheeks, but her expression was inscrutable. She looked indeed the picture of pride.

“Do you love me, madame?” I whispered. “Will you remain my wife?”

The stillness of the place was like the stillness of those vast steppes, out in the night. I heard her draw her breath--as in a dream, I saw the ring of fierce faces, the streaming fire, the proud figures of the two princes with their hands on their swords, and behind them the child, her cousin, watching with eager eyes. Outside, in the court, a thin, high voice began to chant the welcome song for the princely guest, but with it there was the clash of swords. She did not speak.

“Are you dumb, my daughter?” demanded Voronin scornfully. “Answer him--I bid you!”

“Nay, M. le Prince,” I said proudly. “Of her own free will or not at all.”

He bowed his head, smiling bitterly. “Do I force her?” he asked.

“Mme. la Princesse,” I said, “ask you, for the last time, will you answer me of your free will, or do you fear to do so?”

“Of my free will,” she answered, in a low voice, but very proudly.

“Will you be my wife still?” I asked gently. “Will you accept my love and henceforth bear my name?”

She took a step backward and stood quite alone and erect.

“I thank you, monsieur, for my life,” she said firmly, “and for standing between me and Kurakin--I thank you. But--it is well for you to go away--it is well to leave me. I cannot be--be your wife.” She hesitated, drew her breath quickly, and then added, in a clear low tone, “I do not love you.”

I bowed profoundly, and without a word I turned and walked across the bear skins, down the broad stone steps, into the crowded court, where I saw only hostile faces and the flash of naked steel.

_XXXVII: THE WOMAN_

I WALKED out slowly through the crowd of serfs, beyond the flaming torches, beyond the swords and spears, and no man offered to stay me, though many stared--in no kindly fashion--at the foreigner and the stranger within their gates. But to me it was nothing; I felt myself a fool for my pains.

Leaving the throng at the entrance of the palace yard, I found the village lying below, dark and deserted, not even the voice of a child sounded there; the inhabitants had all been drawn to the master’s house. My footsteps alone sounded in the narrow lanes, and there was an aspect of desolation in this desertion. I went on, past the last house, and came upon Maluta, squatted cross-legged on the ground before the horses. He had made a little fire of brush-wood, and the light played fantastically on his face and his great ears. I stood looking at him a moment in silence and he looked back at me--wrinkling his face up and peering.

“I am going back to France, Maluta,” I said.

He made an inarticulate sound, clasping his knees with his long arms.

“I am a fool--a _durak_,” I added drily. “Come--we will ride.”

But he shook his head. “No, excellency,” he said, “not with these horses.”

Then I remembered. The dwarf was wiser than I; they needed rest. We were in a dangerous neighbourhood, but--at the moment--I cared little.

“Very well,” I rejoined; “we will ride at daybreak.”

He nodded approvingly, and began to spread out the food that he had brought with him. But I had no stomach for meat, and told him to devour it himself, which he did readily enough, for though his body was small his capacity was mighty, and I have never known him to fail to dispose of two shares. And while he ate I paced back and forth, at a short distance, busy enough with my own thoughts, which were of the gloomiest. Yet I had no great reason to cry out at my evil fortune; I had thrust myself into her life, why should I hope to win her heart? And without her heart, my claim upon her was nothing in my own eyes. Yet I was legally her husband, and how Prince Voronin meant to break that bond, unless by violence, I knew not. My experiences certainly justified the supposition that he would not leave any means untried, and I fell to musing on it, as I walked in the pitchy night--I wondered what would befall me next. Indeed, I kept my thoughts upon such matters to still those other and deeper reflections that bordered on pain. I loved her--and she? The thought of her would haunt me; the beauty of her face seemed to me--as it had that morning of the duel--to be purely pale and lustrous like a perfect pearl. The tall, young figure in its splendid robe, the long, thick braids of hair hanging on her shoulders and wound with pearls. I saw her constantly, her figure seemed to rise out of the blackness, and the pain of the vision stung me and would not be cast out. I turned and looked at the dwarf eating, much as swine eat.

“Maluta,” I said bitterly, “what think you of women?”

He stopped eating long enough to squint at me sideways, his hands full of bread and meat, the miniature of a glutton.

“‘A woman’s hair is long, her understanding is short,’ saith the proverb,” he replied sagely, and filled his mouth.

I walked away; it was not the first Russian proverb I had heard, and I found them little to my taste. A woman was as little regarded as a slave, and sometimes less, and yet a woman could prefer such a master as she might find there--and the woman I loved! Then came the thought of Galitsyn, and my blood tingled--if I could but measure swords with him! But did she love him? I knew not, but I smiled grimly at the thought of Sophia.

I looked out into the darkness, the vast steppe stretched before me and I heard the wind sigh. Bitterness and desolation lingered in my heart. What evil star had sent me to Russia? I remembered clearly that night of the ball on the Rue de Bethisi and the duel in the Place Royale. Ill fortune had haunted me since; but so be it, I had done it to defend a woman.

I lay that night on the bare ground and counted the stars, while the little glutton of a dwarf, my faithful friend, slept noisily at my feet. That night, and the bitterness of it, stand out in my life unforgotten. It was a quiet night, too, although, far off, I heard wild music and the sound of voices, but these voices died away at last, and the hours until dawn were long ones. I remember seeing the day break, keenly at the far-off rim of the plain, a June day, cloudless and serene.

Maluta slept still and I rose and walked away. It was barely light; a belt of fir-trees lay between us and the village, but I could see the turrets of the palace in the distance; dim and grey it lay, at least a third of a league from us. The ground rose a little to the left and was bare of trees, and I walked up to the crest of the small elevation and looked away, over the vast sweep of the steppes, at the pale beauty of the sky. The whole scene was tremulous with awakening light. As I looked I turned, and my glance fell on the dark shadows of the firs, the semblance of a road skirting the edge of the wooded land. Suddenly, I saw two figures on horseback at the edge of the trees, and involuntarily my hand went to my sword and remained there while I watched them. They halted, still in the shadow, and dismounted and one held the horses, the other came on alone, taking the beaten path that led straight toward me. I waited, curious but indifferent; I looked for an enemy and not a friend, but as the cloaked figure drew nearer, I perceived that it was a woman. A woman, hooded and muffled and alone. She came, at first swiftly as if by a determined impulse, and then more slowly, until--as she got within a few yards of me, she halted and stood still. I could not distinguish a single feature, but I could not mistake that outline; it was the Princess Daria.

Nor did I doubt her errand; she had come to warn me to flee for my life. I remembered the bread and salt, but I resented her charitable anxiety for my safety. Was I a slave or a coward? I stood quite still, therefore and left her to make the advances, and I saw that I was inflicting no light punishment upon her pride, for she stood hesitating, and once I thought that she was going to flee. Then she took her courage in both hands and came nearer, but she kept her hood close over her face.

“Monsieur,” she said very low and faltering, “monsieur, I came to--to thank you for--saving my life--for delivering me from Kurakin.”

“Nay, madame,” I replied coldly, “thank the saints for that. As for the marriage, surely the one bridegroom must have been as distasteful as the other.”

I could not see her face, but I saw her hands trembling as she clasped them together.

“You mistake, monsieur,” she said, very low, “I----”

“On the whole, you preferred me to Kurakin,” I interrupted bitterly. “I thank you, Mme. la Princesse. I have heard that he killed his first wife. Possibly a French gentleman is better than a murderer.”

She did not reply, but her head drooped.

“I congratulate madame,” I added, “on the swift transition. Prince Galitsyn will doubtless find a way to free you from any shackles that remain--of the marriage ceremony. For my part, I absolve you!”

Still she did not speak, but she raised her head proudly, I thought. My heart was as bitter as the wormwood that grows on the great steppes to the southwest of her home.

“I thank you, madame,” I went on, “for coming to bid me farewell, but it is a thankless task. You cast me off last night--and, if you love me not, I care not for your gratitude.”

She found her voice, but it was very low.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she faltered. “I----”

She could say no more; for a moment we were silent; I, with folded arms, looking at her, she with her face hidden in her hood. Then she spoke again.

“Monsieur, I pray you go away,” she said. “Your life is in peril here; every hour, every moment increases the danger of your stay--it will be to--to die!” she ended with a little cry, suddenly laying her trembling hand on my arm.

But I remained unmoved. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” I demanded coldly.

She did not reply; her hand fell from my arm, and I thought I heard her sob. My mood changed; I was both hurt and angry now.

“So,” I said, “you cannot wait for me to go--you must drive me away! I am your husband, madame, what if--after all--I pursue my claim upon you? What,” I went on steadily, “if I will not give you up?”

She still kept silence, but I saw her hands trembling, as she drew her hood closer.

“You are eager to cast me off, my princess,” I cried angrily, “but I am your lawful husband. You married me--not Kurakin--in the palace chapel. To whom, then, do you owe the first allegiance--your father or your husband?”

“Ah, monsieur,” she replied softly, “’tis a question that has cost me many a vigil, many a prayer! My father has little love for me, I fear, but I am still his daughter, and I would fain obey him, but----”

Her faltering voice quivered, and choked with a sob. I took a quick step nearer, and swiftly, but gently, I pushed back that hood, and looked into a pale, downcast face--not the face of the princess, but the woman.

“Daria,” I said, speaking as softly as she, and my voice broke too, with emotion, “is it possible--do you care for me?”

For a moment there was a pause, and there was the madness of suspense, and then she raised her head with her old dignity of mien and looked at me with radiant eyes.

“From the first, I think, a little--monsieur,” she murmured, “but--had I said so, they would have killed you!”

“A little!” I repeated passionately. “A little--after all--when I risked my life for your love, and it is, after all--only a little!”

Then she smiled, and the first sunbeams made her face luminous as the morning star.

“A little, I said, monsieur,” she whispered, “a little--at first!”

Then I drew her to me. “And now?” I cried; “and now, my princess?”

“Nay,” she said, “not the princess, but your wife, because”--she raised her head a little again and met my eyes--“because I love you, monsieur!” she faltered, blushing like a rose as I kissed her.

It was half an hour later; we had forgotten that the sun had risen, and were walking hand in hand, under the fir-trees, when Vassalissa came running toward us.

“You stay too long,” she cried; “too long! They will be calling for you, Daria Kirilovna. You must either return with me or flee.”

“And if she stays with me, mademoiselle?” I said, amused at the young girl’s eagerness; caring little for any risk that did not involve the princess.

“Then fly--for your lives!” cried Lissa, and she pointed to the tall figure of old Piotr, holding the horses, “there is not an hour to lose!”

“Ah, Lissa, Lissa!” cried my wife fondly; “how can I leave you here?”

The young girl mimicked her roguishly. “Will you stay with me, and leave him?” she asked, and then, running to her cousin, she covered her face and hands with caresses. “Go,” she cried, “go, my sweetheart, to happiness--here they would not let you have it. I am safe enough.”

But, while they clung to each other, with tears and kisses, I went and spoke a few words to the old steward, the one man whom Daria seemed to trust in that great retinue, and it was he who told me what course to follow, and assured me that he could hold back pursuit for twenty-four hours--just so long as the feigned illness that the princess had announced to the household could be sustained, just so long and no longer.

“After that, sir,” he said grimly, “if they take you, they will make short work, but with twenty-four hours----”

“They will not take me,” I said quietly, and I looked to my horse, hoof and girth and bridle, then I went back to where the two girls wept in each other’s arms.

I would have waited, unwilling to tear them apart, but Lissa thrust her cousin away.