Part 7

The door burst open, and unannounced and without formality, the fat chamberlain, Kourbsky, my prisoner of the turret, rushed in, puffing and panting, his face scarlet, and behind him came two soldiers guarding two formidable prisoners; the apprentice, Michaud, and our fat cook, Advotia.

_XII: ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER_

IN spite of the uproar attending the hasty entrance of the chamberlain and his captives, the czarevna sat unmoved, her fierce eyes fastened on them.

As soon as he could articulate, Kourbsky pointed at me, with a finger that trembled with rage.

“Arrest that villain!” he sputtered; “chain him, scourge him! He--he locked me in a turret room--your highness, he--he left me a prisoner, and here I find him fawning on your feet! He is a deep, a dangerous rogue, O Sophia Alexeievna; he stops at nothing, he--he----”

“He--what, sir?” I said fiercely, suddenly dropping my assumed character and stepping up to him. “What, sir? Speak out--if you dare--a false accusation against the Marquis de Cernay.”

He staggered back, his eyes starting, fairly frightened into silence, and I thought I caught a gleam of keen amusement in Sophia’s eyes. I turned to her with my natural manner.

“Madame,” I said easily, “this gentleman is stout and suffers from shortness of breath. I found it impossible to carry him about with me, and left him to rest at our quarters until I had despatched your highness’ business.”

The chamberlain fell on his knees before Sophia with a thud that shook the very floor.

“Hear, O Princess!” he said, glaring at me furiously; “the man is a villain. He locked me in a turret after--after treating me with great indignity, and, but for that good fellow yonder,” he pointed at the rogue, Michaud, “I would be there now and, perhaps, murdered. But the good youth let me out and that woman made known to me many things, many----”

“For instance, how to cook sterlet!” I interrupted contemptuously.

“Saint Denis!” murmured Maître le Bastien, “be still--your rashness will cut our throats!”

“She told me what the good youth said; she has learned enough of their heathen tongue to interpret,” continued Kourbsky, “and if I may speak privately with your serene highness, I will unfold all--all. I know who brought the miniature and the locket, and who ordered them changed.”

I stood near Michaud, and at this I turned a fierce look on him.

“Villain,” I said, “for this alone you should hang.”

He looked down sheepishly, but sullen still, and I saw his hands shaking as if with palsy. He had not counted the cost. Sophia’s silence during this scene had been singularly ominous, and now she spoke calmly.

“Go on, Vasili Ivanovitch,” she said; “who brought the locket to the goldsmith’s house?”

“Princess,” I said, forestalling Kourbsky, but speaking with courtesy, “permit me to warn you that the knave who has talked with your chamberlain is but a lying servant, and the woman a cook; neither of them knows anything of the matter.”

“That is so,” added Maître le Bastien gravely; “these people were never in my confidence. Your highness may be greatly misled by them.”

But she was too keen to be thrown off the track. She narrowed her small eyes, drooping her lids, and looked at us, but she signed to Kourbsky to proceed, which he did joyfully.

“The man tells me--through the woman,” he said, “that the locket was brought to the shop one afternoon by the Princess Daria Kirilovna.”

I saw the czarevna draw a deep breath, and her eyes sparkled with something akin to fierce joy. I tried to speak, but she ordered me to be silent, beckoning to Advotia.

“Come hither, woman,” she said sternly, and then to Michaud, “come hither also, knave.”

They both obeyed; Advotia dropping on her knees in great agitation, her fat cheeks quivering, while Michaud--comprehending her gesture rather than her words--stood forth, half sullen and half frightened. The princess began to question him in Russ, but as he understood not a word of what she said, he could only shake his head and stare blankly. Then she addressed her questions to Advotia.

“So you cook for the Frenchmen?” she said.

“Yes, your highness,” faltered the cook, evidently afraid that her service would be accounted a crime, “but if your highness is offended at them, I will cook for them no more--forever!”

“Why not?” asked Sophia maliciously; “could you not the more easily poison them, if I desired it?”

Advotia stared, and then crossed herself in the orthodox fashion.

“I have never poisoned anyone before,” she said piously; “but if you desire it, little mother----”

She broke off, folding her fat hands, the picture of submission. _Ma foi_, I thought, with what security one eats soup in Moscow! But Sophia received the offer with perfect composure.

“Who brought this locket to the goldsmith?” she asked, showing it.

“The Princess Voronin,” said Advotia, so glibly that I could have wrung her fat neck for her.

“She knows nothing, Princess,” protested Maître le Bastien, “she was never in my workshop.”

“You hear what your master says; how do you know, then?” asked the czarevna of our cook.

“There is a keyhole in the door,” said Advotia, with perfect simplicity.

Sophia cast a triumphant look at us. I, meanwhile, remembered the Boyar Kurakin’s adventure with the skillet of soup.

“What I did not see, he told me,” our faithful cook continued, pointing at Michaud, who hung his head now, the picture of dejection; “he told me secrets for choice morsels; he is a great pig,” she added; “he can never eat enough!”

“The locket was brought by the Princess Daria Kirilovna, and the pictures changed by her order,” said Kourbsky triumphantly; “and,” he added, with unusual penetration, “’tis my belief that yonder rogue, after locking me in the turret, went to the princess for your beautiful miniature, little mother, and if your serenity has it now, it is through his cleverness in getting rid of me.”

“I have the picture,” said Sophia.

Kourbsky’s face beamed. “I knew it!” he exclaimed; “I divined the manœuvre; my wisdom could not be deceived.”

“You are a fool, Vasili Ivanovitch,” retorted the czarevna sharply.

The poor chamberlain collapsed; even his fat cheeks seemed to shrink and shrivel. Meanwhile the princess turned to Maître le Bastien and me.

“You deserve the _pravezh_,” she said, in a terrible tone, “but as I have recovered both the locket and the picture, I will only confine you for the present that you may plot no more mischief.”

Maître le Bastien protested. “We are French subjects, madame,” he said; “the King of France----”

“Is in France,” said Sophia arrogantly; “not a word from either of you. Vasili Ivanovitch, take them to the guard-room and keep the two more securely than you kept the one, or else----” She raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

So significant was her expression that poor Kourbsky turned from purple to white.

“They shall be kept, O Princess,” he stammered; “on my head be it!”

“On your head be it!” she replied, and walked slowly out of the room, leaving us surrounded by our guards, and at the tender mercy of the angry chamberlain, who had a double cause to hate us.

_XIII: THE TOCSIN_

IN a little while Maître le Bastien and I found ourselves locked in an unused guard-room of the _terem_, and for company we had the rogue, Michaud. If my scorn had not been equal to my anger, I would have beaten him, but the vermin was not worthy of chastisement from a gentleman. The goldsmith had seated himself in the centre of the room at a table, and was strumming on it with idle fingers, his sober glance bent on the culprit. Michaud, meanwhile, feeling our wrath, and, no doubt, conscience-stricken, stood in the farthest corner, hang-dog in expression, his face drawn and his lips bloodless, while he linked and unlinked his hands before him in a fever of unrest.

“You are an ungrateful dog,” his master said to him at last. “But for me, you would be grovelling for bread in the gutters of the rue de Boucherie. I made you.”

Michaud raised his eyes sullenly.

“I did not mean to harm you, Maître le Bastien,” he said. “I did not know that it would hurt you.”

“You villain!” I exclaimed sharply, “did I not tell you?”

He stared at me. “I did not believe you,” he replied bluntly. “I thought it was some trick of yours--for your own advancement--and I would spoil it. I was tired of your airs; you think yourself better than you are!”

“Silence, you cub,” cried Maître le Bastien; “this gentleman is the Marquis de Cernay.”

Michaud fell back open-mouthed; his face turning from white to red. His crazy jealousy of me had made him betray us, and now he was dumbfounded.

“If I had my cane here, I would lay it over the rascal’s shoulders,” said the Master Goldsmith grimly; “these varlets that insult their betters deserve hanging.”

“Tut!” I said, laughing; “if it had only been the disrespect to me, it would not matter; the fellow is not worth the caning, but he has imperilled a noble lady and lost us our liberty. However, as we cannot hang him, let his conscience do it, Maître le Bastien.”

“He shall be dismissed from my service without a sou,” said the goldsmith sternly.

At this the knave began to whimper, overcome with shame and consternation.

“I vow I meant no harm, but the spoiling of monsieur’s trick,” he protested. “I did not know what the great brute said, until Advotia told me, and then he had whistled up his men and had me fast enough. I do swear to you, Maître le Bastien, that I never dreamed of any peril for either of you; I thought that M. le Marquis only meant to frighten me. I am not ungrateful to you, my master, or unfaithful,” and the fellow drew his sleeve across his eyes.

“Much cause you have to talk of gratitude and faith,” retorted the master harshly; “you are a rascal from head to heels!”

“Was I a rascal when I stood between you and the dagger on the rue Saint Denis?” cried Michaud hotly. “Was I a rascal when I nursed you through the fever at Blois, in ’79?”

Maître le Bastien was silent, his face changing. As for me, I saw now the whole matter; the fellow had been jealous of his master’s favour. I was a new apprentice, or claimed to be one, and had been admitted at once to a greater intimacy and confidence than he had ever attained; I had eaten at his employer’s table and done no work.

“Let the matter pass, Maître le Bastien,” I said lightly. “He has erred, and he is like enough to atone for it here. I forgive him--I pray you, follow my example.”

I did not add that I would never trust the varlet more; it would have seemed a poor revenge on an inferior.

A cloud passed from Maître le Bastien’s face; he was a man of an exceeding kind heart, and loved to give or take offence less than any man I ever saw.

“He must win my confidence again,” he said, relenting; “which will be no easy matter.”

A deep flush passed over the apprentice’s face.

“I will win it, monsieur,” he said.

Willing to let the matter pass, I walked to the window and looked out, trying to locate our position in the palace. The room, which was square and marble-floored, had three narrow windows in it, which were not barred, but, as I found, too high from the ground for the most daring to leap from them. I saw that we were in the front of the palace and our windows all overlooked the Red Place and the Red Staircase. There were wide sills, wide enough for a man to stand upon, both inside and out, and beside the third window on the right, a fretwork of iron ran upward to the roof. I looked at it sharply, to see if it would afford a possibility of escape, but it seemed too slender to uphold a man, and besides it ran up, not down, and the chances of escape by the roof were too remote to tempt anyone to take the risk.

Evening was approaching, and below the court of the Kremlin lay in the shadow; a purple dimness wrapped the distant places, and swathed itself, cloud-like, about the foundations of cathedrals and palaces, creeping upward, as a vapour creeps, while above the white domes and minarets caught the afterglow, and the golden crosses gleamed against the deep, clear sky.

I stood leaning on the window-sill, looking down and reflecting on the strangeness of our position, and deeply troubled, too, over the peril that I knew threatened the Princess Daria, and that I was powerless to avert. I could not even warn her. If I could only find Maluta and speed him on an errand to her, I thought, but the dwarf had disappeared when I entered the presence of Sophia; and I had no means of communicating with him. Knowing that accidents of a sudden and mysterious nature often happened in Moscow, that even the young women chosen as brides by the various czars had been summarily disposed of by jealous factions at court, I had no reason to feel comforted in regard to the princess. That Sophia was jealous of her I could not doubt, and it was not difficult to conjecture the result, and I was helpless! It was this that drove me well-nigh to distraction and made me give tart answers to Maître le Bastien when he began to talk of our situation. Naturally enough the worthy man thought more of his own peril and inconvenience than of anything else, and I had no mind to betray the cause of my uneasiness, so we talked often at cross-purposes, and with little sympathy.

“This is a most unhappy matter,” he said gravely, “and may end in a worse way still.”

“It is,” I retorted, “for a woman’s jealousy is like a fire kindled in a stubble field, and consumes all before it.”

He stared. “I hope the Prince Galitsyn may discover the true situation and deliver us,” he remarked.

“I hope he may,” I said, “and withdraw his ridiculous pretensions.”

“I do not understand you, monsieur,” replied Maître le Bastien.

“I beg your pardon,” I rejoined, “but we both hope for similar results, though from different causes, so we are both of the same mind in the end.”

He looked perplexed. “I do not believe that the czarevna will dare to carry matters to extremes against two Frenchmen,” he said.

“Bah!” I retorted; “she has no conception of the greatness of France, of its splendour, its resources, its power! These Russians think that Moscow is the centre of the earth; their arrogance is absurd!”

“It is,” said the goldsmith; “but it is ever the smallest cock in the barnyard that crows the loudest.”

I replied in kind, and we continued, for some time, to give vent to our feelings by similar expressions, and then, finding that no one came to our relief and that we could not escape, Maître le Bastien produced a pack of cards from his pocket and we fell to playing picquet as long as our one taper lasted. As for supper, we had none, and were forced to go hungry, and to sleep on the wooden settles in the corners; for they gave us no beds, and we would have suffered from thirst as well as hunger, if we had not found a pitcher of clear water on one of the window ledges. In these dismal quarters, therefore, we passed the night, and, awakening with the sunrise, found the prospect still unchanged.

Hunger does not mend the temper, and we began the day grumbling at our treatment, and we were not destined to immediate relief; it was on in the morning, toward seven o’clock, when the door opened, at last, to admit Kourbsky and a serf who brought a meagre meal and set it on the table, so meagre indeed that I began to wonder how three men were to partake of it, when the chamberlain solved the mystery.

“The master goldsmith comes with me to Prince Galitsyn,” he said pompously; “his excellency has interceded for him to her serene high mightiness Sophia Alexeievna.”

Maître le Bastien rose joyfully from his seat at the table and Michaud and I followed his example, but here Kourbsky interfered.

“The master goldsmith,” he said, “and this man,” pointing at his favourite Michaud; “but not you,” and he regarded me maliciously.

Le Bastien halted. “We cannot be separated,” he declared generously.

“That is a short-sighted policy, Maître le Bastien,” I said, in French; “for when you have your liberty, you can obtain mine.”

“You can choose,” said the chamberlain amiably, “between parting with your apprentice or your head.”

The good goldsmith, though by no means a coward, was not a soldier by profession, or even a reckless man. He yielded, saying to me in French.

“My first care shall be for you, monsieur.”

“It is well,” I replied, smiling; “but I hope you will first get a breakfast.”

“Come, come,” said Kourbsky, casting a suspicious glance at me, “we have no time to lose--forward, march, sir goldsmith!” and he hustled master and man out of the room.

Then I heard the door clang behind them, the bolts fall into place, and I was alone in my prison and before me was a _chelpan_--a kind of dough cake--and a cup of water! Both might be poisoned, but a hungry man is not over-cautious. I despatched the dough and drank the water, reflecting that I might need both before I escaped the clutches of my portly friend, the chamberlain, who had evidently determined to avenge himself for his own capture, whether by order of the czarevna or not. Having disposed of my breakfast, which served to whet my appetite rather than to satisfy it, I walked to and fro in the room, lost in thought--and not very pleasant thought. My reflections running so much on the line of those of the previous night, it is useless to record them, but I was in no pleasant frame of mind when I went, at the end of an hour, to look out of the window. The Red Place was nearly as quiet as on the previous evening, but now the sunshine illuminated it, and occasionally a boyar crossed it, or a servant ran out of the palace. The ravens of the Kremlin were circling around the windows and some alighted even on the balustrade of the bedchamber porch. The stillness struck me as unusual; not even a church-bell sounded; it must have been then between eight and nine in the morning. As I stood looking down, I saw the carriage of some great noble roll slowly across the court, attended, according to custom, by twenty or thirty serfs on foot, who went before and behind the vehicle. They were clad in crimson tunics edged with gold embroidery, and yet ran bare-foot, while the harness on the horses was covered with the dangling tails of martens, a decoration much in vogue with the aristocracy, and the _duga_ above each animal’s neck shone with jewels. An old man, stately in bearing and magnificent in dress, sat in this carriage, and at his feet was a slave, also liveried in crimson, while beside him was a slender girlish figure, attired with equal splendour and wearing a long white scarf about her throat, besides the _fata_ over her face. This strange procession halting at the Red Staircase, the serfs assisted their master and mistress to alight, and as they did so, a breeze lifted the nun’s veil and I saw the features beneath it.

It was the Princess Daria.

I stood a moment rooted to the ground, and then the full significance of her arrival at that hour came upon me. That must be her father, and they had been decoyed there, doubtless by the Czarevna Sophia.

I flew to the door and shook it, like a madman. I ran again to the window and measured with my eye the leap to the flint pavement below and knew it to be impossible, and then I stood and cursed my evil fortune. She, meanwhile, had gone on blindly to her fate, whatever it might be, in the same palace where I was a prisoner. There followed an interval of absolute despair and rage; I felt like a caged beast ready to tear my jailers in pieces, if they came, but happily for them they did not, and--though I knew it not--they were little likely to remember me again that day.

The whirl of my passions had made me deaf, but now at last there came a sound that roused me and made me listen. Far off at first, and then nearer and nearer, the bells began to toll, the deep notes of their metal tongues clanging in the clear spring atmosphere, and with this burst of music came the sullen roll of many drums, and deeper, louder, fiercer, the mighty boom of the tocsin--sounded in four hundred churches--rolled like the roar of thunder over Moscow.

I looked out and saw a man running like a wild creature across the square, and then--between the deep notes of the tocsin--came an awful sound, a fierce, many-voiced roar, the cry of the multitude, the savage yell of the mob. A shout below me, thin and shrill, cut the tumult like a knife.

“Close the gates!” it screamed, “the Streltsi--the Streltsi have risen!”

The bells of the tower of Ivan Veliki and the cathedrals began to ring, and near at hand I heard a woman scream. Nearer and nearer drew the awful waves of sound, lapping up the space between, as a wolf laps blood, and ever leaping up louder and fiercer--the yelp of the _canaille_.

_XIV: A DESPERATE CLIMB_

AGAIN I tried the door and beat upon it, and then returned to the window and was held there by the sight that unfolded before my eyes. The boyars, knowing well that the fury of the rising tempest would break upon their heads, were trying to escape; in the brief time that had elapsed since the first bells began to toll their coaches had been hurried out and the Red Place was a scene of confusion. From all parts of the palace and the adjoining buildings officials of the court and nobles were rushing out, and running hither and yon; the horses plunged and fretted and the men shouted to each other; not a man among them had a cool head, and never was there greater need--for the mob was coming on. It had evidently been impossible to close the gates, and now I heard the tramp of a multitude, besides its voice. And, at last, in the spaces between the buildings, I began to see the hundred-headed thing itself, a surging mass of men, so closely packed that it moved darkly, even in the sunshine, and above waved the broad folds of the banner of the Streltsi, which I knew well enough. It bore an image of the Virgin on it and was esteemed a sacred emblem, though it was to look that day on dark and bloody work. Now the roar of the mob rose, even in the court of the Kremlin, and echoed about the palace of the czars. On, on they came, driving back the fleeing boyars, like a herd of sheep, closing in on the carriages and horses, surging closer and ever closer upon the Red Staircase.