CHAPTER XXVIIIPAULINE REPENTS
A month passed, during which Runö remained untroubled by visits from police or soldiery, nor did anything occur to create a suspicion that the isle was under espionage.
This month had been a time of the purest happiness both to Marie and to Wilfrid. Their intercourse was not confined to the walls of the castle; they went out daily, keeping, for safety’s sake, to the woods and never venturing within sight of the shore. These walks were necessarily circumscribed, but, as Pauline remarked, they suffered far less hardship in that respect than the voyagers on the deck of an East Indiaman.
The loss of her memory had ceased to trouble the Princess: nay, she was now apprehensive lest the revelation consequent upon its recovery should cause a return to her former life. With very little knowledge of that former life she had, nevertheless, a profound belief that it fell far short of her present happy state. At any rate it had been a life apart from Wilfrid, and Wilfrid was now the chief, if not the sole, object of her thoughts. It was no secret to her that she was loved by him, for though he had not said it, his homage showed his feelings as plainly as if he had spoken.
It was sweet to have such power over him; a source of pride to her that she should be preferred to all others. It was wonderful, for example, that he had not fallen in love with the beautiful Pauline, but it was certain that he had not. In his eyes Pauline was a friend—the dearest, staunchest friend, it might be—but still no more than that. At least, that is what Marie usually thought, but, once or twice, when she was sitting close to Wilfrid, Pauline had drawn near,in her eyes a wistful look, as if yearning for the affection that was being bestowed upon another.
One day when Wilfrid was in the armoury teaching Beauvais some secrets in swordsmanship, Marie ventured to question the Baroness on this matter. And she came to the point without any skirmishing.
“Pauline, do you love Lord Courtenay?”
The Baroness gave a start.
“Have I ever shown that I do?”
“No,” answered Marie, not altogether truthfully.
“Then why should you ask?”
“Because,” said Marie evasively, “Lord Courtenay is so brave, so handsome, so—so winning—that’s the word—that—that——”
“It is difficult for woman to avoid falling in love with him. Is that what you would say?” smiled Pauline. “Well, you see, it would be foolish to love one that does not love me.”
“Ah, but you are not answering my question!”
“Would it please you if my answer were, ‘I do love him?’”
Marie coloured and was silent.
“Ah! you are not answeringmyquestion,” smiled Pauline. And then after a pause she continued:—
“Lord Courtenay is never likely to ask me to be his wife, but if he were to ask, my answer would be, ‘No.’”
She spoke in a tone that carried instant conviction to Marie’s heart.
“Why?” she asked simply.
“Because I have promised myself to another.”
This was indeed a surprise to Marie—a welcome one, as her looks testified. Pauline was not her rival, then.
“I am willing,” said Pauline, “to tell you his name, on one condition.”
“And that is——?”
“That you will keep it a secret, especially from Lord Courtenay.”
Marie thought it hard that Wilfrid must not be permitted to share this new knowledge with her.
“I should not tell the name, even to you,” continued Pauline, “but that it will prove beyond a doubt that I am not aiming at the affections of Lord Courtenay.”
This remark decided Marie; she consented to observe secrecy as to the name.
“Learn, then, that I am pledged to marry the Czar Alexander!”
If Pauline had said that she was pledged to marry the Archangel Gabriel, Marie could not have been more startled. Her bewilderment was at first too great for words. The fact that Pauline was not of royal blood did not make her statement doubtful, for had not the great Peter mated with a peasant girl? But—but——
“How can that be, when the Czar is already married?”
“An emperor can always find an archbishop willing to pronounce sentence of divorce.”
Marie, unconsciously perhaps, drew away from the speaker.
“You are trying to steal a husband from his wife! You would put an innocent woman away in order to gratify your ambition! Oh, Pauline!”
There was on Marie’s face a look that went directly to Pauline’s heart.
“Listen, Marie, and see whether there be not some justification for me. It is some months ago since I first guessed Alexander’s feelings towards me. Knowing the love of a wedded Czar to be dishonour I avoided all places where I was likely to meet him. But one night, quite by accident, we met at a masquerade. No, not the Sumaroff fête; this was one that took place a few days before Paul’s death.—Before I had seen Lord Courtenay,” she murmured to herself.—“He came upon me when I was alone; he held my hands in his, and asked why I had of late avoided him. Then all in a moment he uttered a flow of wild passionate words that—that—well, I will not deny it, they were sweet to me. But, remembering from whom they came, I strove to put them aside. ‘Your love must be given to Elizavetta,’ I murmured, ‘and to her only.’ Ah! if you could have seen his look of sorrow. ‘Elizavetta,’ he answered, ‘has already taken to herself a lover.’ If this be true, if theCzarina be faithless to her husband, is he justified in retaining her as his wife?”
“You are dealing in ‘ifs,’” replied Marie. “Have you any proof that the Czarina is false?”
“The Empress has been under espionage for some time; her conduct is very equivocal. When she has given clear proof of guilt her divorce will come.”
“In other words you and Alexander are waiting for her to take the irrevocable step?”
“Something of the sort.”
“And will she?”
“I think so.”
“And you will be pleased when it is taken?”
Pauline was silent.
“She is gliding on towards wrong, and you are letting her! You can stop her by a word of warning, and yet will not! Pauline!”
Marie could not have spoken with more touching earnestness had she been pleading her own cause. Involuntarily Pauline turned from the look of disapproval in those grave, innocent eyes.
“If the Czarina,” said Pauline—and none knew better than she the sophistical character of the self-justification she was now attempting, “if the Czarina knew that a hundred eyes were secretly on the watch for her fall, she would of necessity be virtuous. But why should she, more than other women exposed to similar temptation, be put on her guard? Respect for her fair name, the memory of her altar-vows, the imperial diadem itself, should each be a sermon to her. To warn her would be to put her into a state of enforced virtue. Why should Alexander retain a wife willing to go wrong but kept in the right only by the fear of discovery? No! let her be tried by the fire of temptation. She must fulfil her destiny, as I must fulfil mine.”
The Princess was silent, not knowing very well how to refute what she felt to be sophistry. No wonder Pauline was anxious to keep the matter a secret from Wilfrid! The knowledge of it might lead him, with his sense of honour, to decline any longer the hospitality of a hostess so questionable in her ways.
“You may gain a crown, but you will not gain a hero,” said Marie with a touch of scorn. “A man who sets spies to watch his wife, and, before his suspicions are verified, promises to wed another woman, cannot be a very honourable character.”
In her haste Marie forgot that the same charge was equally applicable to her hostess. Pauline felt the point of the rebuke.
“I cannot imagine Lord Courtenay acting so,” continued Marie proudly.
Nor could Pauline. Wilfrid was a man of very different stamp from Alexander.
“How can you trust one that acts so dishonourably?” continued Marie. “What guarantee have you that Alexander will fulfil his promise?”
“I have here his written pledge,” said Pauline, taking from her bosom that same scroll of parchment whose contents had evoked such emotion on the part of her father.
This secret document would certainly have sent a thrill of amazement throughout the various European chancelleries, for it was nothing less than a statement to the effect that, in certain circumstances, the Empress Elizavetta should be divorced in favour of Pauline de Vaucluse! The document was signed, “Alexander Paulovitch, Czar and Autocrat.”
That her friend Pauline might one day wear the diadem did not appear to afford much gratification to Marie.
“You aspire to a crown,” she said. “Remember the fate of the Hungarian King Bela; his throne one day broke beneath him and its pieces crushed him in their fall—an apt illustration of the dangers attending a throne. It will bring you more sorrow than joy, especially if gained by the means you contemplate. Pauline, will you let me destroy this?” she continued, seeming as if about to tear the document in two.
The Baroness hastily recovered the scroll.
“Why,” asked Marie, “did you not destroy it on first receiving it?”
“Why should I have done so?”
“To show your trust in Alexander. What sort of loveis it that needs a written guarantee? Pauline, you dare not burn it, and that very fact shows you have no real faith in him.”
It was true, poignantly true. Though it had not appeared to her in this light before, Pauline began now to realise that the satisfaction arising from the possession of this document and the care with which she guarded it, were but so many proofs of distrust in Alexander. Nor could she help reflecting, at the moment, that she could have implicitly trusted Wilfrid’s spoken word.
As Pauline contrasted the English peer and the Muscovite Czar, a pang of jealousy seized her that Marie should be the chosen of Wilfrid, while she herself, though the chosen of an emperor, could find little joy in the fact. The diadem that had looked so splendid, when viewed from afar, seemed a bauble now that it was well-nigh within her grasp.
“What have you been saying to Marie?” said Wilfrid later in the day, on finding himself alone with Pauline. “She is quite grave and pensive.”
“She is wondering, perhaps, whether Lord Courtenay’s attentions to her are to be interpreted merely in the light of friendship. Are all Englishmen so cold and tardy in their wooing? You love, and yet you hesitate to say so to her, who would be but too willing to listen.”
“It is precisely because Idolove her that I hesitate to say it. Her present state of mind is not normal. Supposing that with the recovery of her memory there should come a reversal of her sentiments towards me?”
“You are over-scrupulous,” answered Pauline. “A return to her former state should not be so very unfavourable, if she voluntarily kissed you in the Sumaroff Gardens. The fairest woman in Russia is waiting for your love, and by your hesitancy you are adding to her suspense. See, yonder is your Princess taking her way to the woods. Go with her, and on your return let me hear that you have said the words that will gladden her heart.”
Wilfrid went off, bent on following this advice, andPauline, knowing this, watched him, at her heart a pain such as she had never before known.
Turning, she saw Dr. Beauvais by her side.
“There was a time,” she said to him, “when I hated her, or thought I did; you know for what reason. And now——”
“And now?” repeated Beauvais as she paused in her utterance.
“And now, during the past month, she has won her way to my heart and this makes my task difficult. I have been telling her of my ambition, and she has been pleading prettily with me to save the Empress Elizavetta from dishonour, little thinking that she was pleading for herself! What a shock when she learns how I have deceived her! when she realises the guilt from which a word of mine could have saved her!”
“Her own fault. If blame is to be apportioned, she must take the initial share; for, to her encouragement of Lord Courtenay is due our present imbroglio. We are but helping her onward in the path she entered of her own accord.”
“True,” assented Pauline, glad to snatch at any argument in justification of her wrong-doing. “And to-day the goal is in sight, for to-day she entrusts herself and her future to his keeping.”
“That’s good,” murmured the doctor. “I have all but completed the arrangements for their departure, and her flight will prevent the Empress Elizavetta from ever returning to her husband.”
“The sooner they go the better,” observed Pauline, “or I shall be repenting my share in the plot.”
She turned from him and, entering the castle, proceeded to a little oratory which, originally Byzantine in character, had been altered by Pauline to a style more in harmony with Latin art.
The sunlight, coloured as it passed through stained glass, slanted upon an altar surmounted by an ivory crucifix, a symbol forbidden by the Greek Church.
To this place came Pauline in a devotional spirit. For, as Italian bandits put up prayers to the saints for a successful haul, and as Cornish wreckers of old wentstraight from church to kindle beacons on the cliffs, so did Pauline attend daily to pray to the Virgin for the furtherance of a scheme that required for its success a continuous course of deception.
She was about to light a candle in honour of the Madonna, when a voice seemed to whisper, “Hypocrite!”
The taper dropped from her hand and she sank trembling upon a seat, her gaze wandering slowly around as if expecting to encounter some speaker.
For the first time she became conscious of the incongruity of her devotions. There broke in upon her mind a light that revealed her past doings in their true character. She was at the parting of the ways. If she must pray let her cease deceiving; if she must deceive, let her cease praying.
Her eyes, moving slowly round as if in the hope of receiving guidance from some object in the oratory, rested finally upon the western oriel, whose stained glass showed a divine face, lit up by the setting sun. She had seen this face many a time, but never before had it exercised so potent an attraction. The eyes seemed to be looking at her with infinite pity. Pauline thrilled.
Her intrigue for the diadem of empire was receiving a silent rebuke from a crown of thorns!
Vera, her face white and her eyes full of fear, came flying along the corridor that led to the oratory.
She tapped at the door once—twice—thrice.
Receiving no answer she entered and found her mistress in a swoon on the marble floor. Vera stopped short, her hands partly raised.
“She must have seen! But no! She could not from these windows.”
She flew to Pauline, dropped at her side, and, happening by good fortune to have hervinaigrettewith her, employed it with such effect that before long Pauline opened her eyes and smiled faintly.
“Dear Baroness, what has happened? You are looking like the dead.”
“It is nothing,” replied Pauline as she rose with the help of her maid. “Only a swoon.”
Vera could see that for herself; she wanted to know its cause.
“Your coming has been so timely,” observed Pauline, “that I must not scold you for disobedience. Tell me why you are here when I have said that I am not to be disturbed at my devotions?”
This question reminded Vera of her mission.
“My lady, if I tell my news you will swoon again.”
Pauline’s face became transfigured with a smile, such as Vera had never before seen, a smile that perplexed and awed her.
“Speak on, Vera,” she said gently. “Nothing that you may say can alarm me now.”
Vera hesitated, and then, taking courage from her mistress’s manner, said:—
“My lady, the Czar is in the castle!”
To Vera’s surprise the Baroness did not faint. True, she gave a great start, but grew calm again in a moment.
“Is this an answer to my prayer?” she murmured to herself. “An invitation from heaven to speak the truth and fear not?” Aloud she said, “What brings him here? Does he suspect that——?”
“I think not, my lady. He is taking a quiet sail on the Neva in his gondola with his equerries, Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski, and has pulled up off Runö for the purpose of paying hisdevoirto the Baroness. He is in the entrance hall awaiting my lady.”
“Where is Lord Courtenay—and—and—?”
It was with a ghastly smile that Vera replied—
“Lord Courtenay is by the lake making love to the Czarina!”