The beginning of the war dragged. There was little fighting, for the Russian generals adopted the policy of retiring constantly before the enemy's advance, apparently afraid to stand their ground, but actually luring him intentionally onward, deeper and deeper, into the immense spaces of the interior. By these tactics a constantly diminishing French force opposed a Russian army whose numbers augmented daily in spite of the leakage resulting from illness and small engagements.
In one of the earlier battles young Sasha Maximof received a bullet in the left arm, and being incapacitated for a while from active service was employed by the general to carry to Moscow the latest manifesto of the Tsar, and to superintend the raising of reinforcements demanded in that document by his Majesty.
The manifesto was as follows:—
"To our ancient City and Metropolis of Moscow:"The Enemy, with unparalleled perfidy and a force equal to his boundless ambition, has entered the frontiers of Russia. His design is the ruin of our country. The Russian armies burn to throw themselves upon his battalions...."Necessity commands that we should assemble a new force in the interior to support that which is now face to face with the enemy. To collect this new army we now address ourself to the Ancient Capital of our Ancestors: to Moscow, the sovereign city of all the Russians...."The security of our Holy Church, the safety of the Throne of the Tsars, the independence of the Ancient Muscovite Empire all demand that the object of this appeal be regarded by our subjects as a Sacred Decree...."The ills which this treacherous invader has prepared for us shall fall upon his own head. Europe, delivered from vassalage, shall celebrate the name of Russia!"Alexander."Given at our Camp at Polotsk,6, 7, 1812."
"To our ancient City and Metropolis of Moscow:
"The Enemy, with unparalleled perfidy and a force equal to his boundless ambition, has entered the frontiers of Russia. His design is the ruin of our country. The Russian armies burn to throw themselves upon his battalions....
"Necessity commands that we should assemble a new force in the interior to support that which is now face to face with the enemy. To collect this new army we now address ourself to the Ancient Capital of our Ancestors: to Moscow, the sovereign city of all the Russians....
"The security of our Holy Church, the safety of the Throne of the Tsars, the independence of the Ancient Muscovite Empire all demand that the object of this appeal be regarded by our subjects as a Sacred Decree....
"The ills which this treacherous invader has prepared for us shall fall upon his own head. Europe, delivered from vassalage, shall celebrate the name of Russia!
"Alexander.
"Given at our Camp at Polotsk,6, 7, 1812."
The Countess Maximof presently received a letter from a relative in Moscow. "Come quickly," her cousin wrote; "you are the favoured of fortune; Sasha has arrived, slightly wounded—do not be afraid, it is a mere bagatelle, a bullet scratch in the left arm; he is busy recruiting—a very important billet, my dear, and the appointment is the highest compliment to so young a man! Sasha is too busy to write, but he begs me to say that he hopes to see you here, and also—if she is with you—Vera Demidof, who has of course returned from Paris." The Countess went straight to Vera with her letter.
"You will come,chérie—do not refuse—give him this pleasure; only think, he is wounded; one of the first to bleed for our dear Russia; he is wounded and will soon go back to the front—you will not refuse his request."
"Oh, I will come," Vera laughed, "if only to prove to you, Madame, that Alexander Petrovitch and myself shall need but one interview to assure ourselves that neither is anxious to be bound by the foolish betrothal of a dozen years ago!"
"Well, we shall see, we shall see; meanwhile you will come, and that is good. We shall travel in my own Dormese; in three days we shall be in Moscow. We shall not journey by night, for I would have you look your sweetest when Sasha sees you; poor lad, he will not be at his best—wounded and perhaps ill with fever; you will remember that when you see him!"
"I will remember that he has already bled for Russia, that will mean more for me than the colour of his cheeks," said Vera.
"That is a wise saying,chérie; good, I like it; yes, remember that he is a good Russian."
Vera was not long in Moscow before Sasha Maximof presented himself. He came with his arm in a sling, pale and looking many years older than when Vera last saw him. His face was certainly a handsome one, and much of its present pallor was lost in the blush which spread over his features as he took Vera's hand and bent over it.
"My mother did not exaggerate," he said, gazing at the girl with undisguised admiration. "I thought—three years ago, is it?—that you would grow into a handsome girl, but by the Saints, Vera, I did not anticipate—this!"
"So you have 'eschewed the follies of cadetdom,'" laughed Vera, quoting Sasha's late letter to her in Paris. "What does that mean, pray?"
"You quote imperfectly," Sasha blushed again. "I wrote, 'my heart is disengaged, and I have eschewed the follies of cadetdom'. You must know what I mean by the follies of my cadet-period, for assuredly there could scarcely have existed upon this earth a more objectionable person than I was in those days."
"You had, if I remember rightly," said Vera, "a very fair opinion of yourself; you refused to know me because I was too young."
"I am prepared to make amends," Sasha laughed. "Please do all your fault-finding at once, in order that my repentance may be complete. I know I was a conceited young cub and treated you abominably. What is your next grievance?"
"A very much more serious one. Your memory is so good that you will not have forgotten a certain conversation when we parted three years ago."
"I think I remember every word of it; I have often thought of it."
"Is that so?" asked Vera in surprise. "Why?"
"Honestly, because you looked so pretty that day and showed so much spirit that I was surprised into liking you better than I thought. I realised this afterwards. I suppose I am a person of strong imagination, because from time to time, recalling that interview, I have felt that sense of 'like' almost deepen into 'love'."
"Oh!" Vera laughed; "but that could only have been after your heart became disengaged; do not forget,mon ami, that when we parted your heart was far from being disengaged."
"I thought so; but one makes mistakes about such things. At any rate I got over that—that foolish business. Am I forgiven all these juvenile sins?"
"But there is nothing in the last confession which concerns me. What have I to forgive in the circumstance that you were once in love with some one unknown, and 'got over it'?"
Sasha winced.
"Of course that was nothing to you," he said.
"Absolutely. But with regard to that same conversation, I have a grievance and a serious one, as I hinted before. We came to an agreement, I remember, with regard to a certain foolish contract entered into by our parents on our behalf. You were to destroy it, by mutual consent. You did not do so, as I learned for the first time but a few months ago."
"Honestly, Vera, the notary said it could not be destroyed but in the presence of, and by sworn consent of, both. The priests, too, declare that the sanction of the metropolitan is necessary."
"You should not have asked them. You had undertaken to tear up the foolish thing. That would have sufficed for us. Why did you ask advice?"
"I see that you will have the whole truth. I stupidly thought that by retaining the contract I retained also a kind of hold upon you. Of course, on reconsideration——"
"Yes, of course that is nonsense. I will tell you, my friend, that contract or no contract, I should never dream of marrying any man against my own will and desire. Your action makes no difference, but it was foolish and not quite honest. It is better that we should understand one another from the beginning."
"Yes, that is true. Will you do me a kindness, Vera? You say that it is better that we should understand one another. It might save me much pain if you were to tell me now, before it is quite too late, whether you have left Paris as heart free as you entered it?"
Vera flushed crimson.
"By what right am I thus catechised?" she asked angrily. "Is it by virtue of the contract you so dishonestly retained? or do you consider that I am bound to give you my confidence because you have been so good as to lay bare your heart for my entertainment? Neither is a sufficient reason, sir."
"You are very hard on me, Vera," Maximof sighed. "What you have implied might have been conveyed to me less harshly. Well, thank you for letting me know what I wished to know." He paused. "With regard to our intercourse here in Moscow, I shall be very busy and—well, I may as well speak to you frankly while I am about it, I fancy it would be too dangerous for me to see much of you. Good-bye—oh, as to this thing——"
Sasha produced a pocket-book and took from it an oldish paper. "At any rate you shall be worried no longer by the whim of our parents!" He opened the door of the stove and threw the betrothal contract within; then he lit a match and applied it to an edge of the document which was soon in flames.
"So ends a foolish comedy that might have developed into a pretty romance!" said Maximof, laughing bitterly. "Farewell, Vera Danilovna. I wish to God you had not lived these three years in Paris!" At the door he turned and spoke again.
"Of course I don't blame you, but it's hard on me that you should have grown so—so maddeningly pretty." Maximof repeated his loud laugh and departed.
Vera sighed. "I ought to have known you before, my friend," she thought; "before—before Paul! But after all, the gulf between Paul and me is wide enough!"
The war was in full swing, victory favouring the French troops, for the most part, though occasionally she would hearten the defending Russians with a smile or two of encouragement. Louise, with her fellow recruits, had joined Ney's army corps. Already she had been present in several minor engagements and had even received a slight flesh wound in the left hand. The army surgeon attending her had remarked upon the smallness of her hand. "It might be a woman's!" he said with a laugh. "There's nothing here to keep you out of the fun," he added; "get back to the colours as soon as you please."
The Russian General, Barclay de Tolly, was throughout unwilling to expose his troops to the risk of battle. He was no coward. In the face of much patriotic opposition from his fellow generals and the nation at large, he adhered to his own tactics, which were to lure the enemy constantly forward, striking only when a blow could be dealt with effect. The peasantry, patriots to a man, beseeched their general to bid them set fire to their standing crops, to their very homes and granaries, that the enemy might find but a desolate waste in his advance. Thousands of villages were so destroyed, their inhabitants preferring to wander homeless and hungry into the woods rather than allow the enemy to profit, even for a night, by the use of their property.
Michel Prevost, as Louise was called among her fellows, was soon a favourite in her regiment. No one had the slightest suspicion that she was anything but what she pretended to be, a young conscript like thousands of others who went to swell the Grande Armée. Occasionally remarks would be made—jokes as to her complexion, which was fair for a man's; her slight though well-knit figure, her modesty, her obvious dislike for coarse topics of conversation, but though occasionally a man might declare with a laugh that Michel was as much woman as man, barring his fencing, which was second to none, no one dreamed that in saying such a thing he was nearer the truth than he knew.
Never a day passed but Louise looked anxiously for the Baron d'Estreville. He belonged, she knew, to a fashionable light cavalry regiment, and this regiment she saw more than once, in the distance; but during the first month of her campaigning she never succeeded in catching a glimpse of her friend, an unkind arrangement of destiny which caused Louise to sigh daily.
Then came a day of stress and battle.
Barclay de Tolly had decided to vary, for once, his tactics by staying for a day his retrograde movement. If attacked and beaten, he could immediately recommence his slow retreat upon Moscow. Should he prove victorious—which he scarcely expected—it might be possible to inflict a blow upon Napoleon which, at this crisis, would be fatal to his further advance. Barclay decided upon this stand in deference to the complaints of his army. The result was disastrous, and involved, besides the loss of thousands of men, the burning and destruction of the splendid old city of Smolensk, on the Dnieper, into which stronghold he had thrown himself in his desperate attempt to stay the advance of the French.
Napoleon made the remark that the blazing town "reminded him of Naples during an eruption of Vesuvius".
During this day of fighting Louise suffered a shock, for she not only saw Henri close at hand for the first time during the campaign, but almost at the moment of recognising him, as he rode by at the head of his troop of Hussars, saw him also struck by a shot and knocked senseless from his saddle.
Her own regiment was at the moment rushing forward with cheers to assault a house held by marksmen of the enemy, whose shots from the windows had been a serious annoyance for an hour or more, and acting upon the inspiration of the moment Louise fell forward upon her face, as though struck by a bullet. She saw her comrades go forward shouting, laughing, cursing, leaving a man here and half a dozen there; she saw Henri's Hussars ride on also; then she rose and ran to the spot where she had seen the Baron fall.
Henri was unconscious but alive. She bathed his temples with tepid fluid from her own water-bottle. A bullet, she now saw, had passed through his left shoulder. She ripped the tunic and tore away the shirt and washed the wound. It bled fiercely, but she was able to stop the bleeding by means of a tight bandage.
Henri opened his eyes presently and half sat up, using his right arm and hand to prop himself. He looked around, listened to the cannonading, the shouting and turmoil a mile away, and glanced, eventually, at Louise, who was still busy over her bandage.
Henri stared at her face, saying nothing; Louise employed herself busily, collecting composure for the trying ordeal through which she now expected to have to pass.
"You are very kind to attend to my wound,mon ami," said Henri, at last. "Who are you?"
"Michel Prevost, Monsieur le Capitaine," Louise replied, saluting; "I saw you struck down, and fearing that you might bleed to death if left alone, I stopped to bind your shoulder. You will recover, please God; the bullet has missed the vital parts."
"It is curious. I seem to know your face, yet I think I have not seen you before. Are you a Parisian?"
"Certainly, Monsieur, but only a conscript; it is not likely that you should have seen me before."
"Perhaps not—yet your face seems familiar. Are you wounded?"
"No, mon Capitaine. I have no excuse to stay, now that your wants are for the moment attended to. With your permission, I will follow my companions, or I shall get myself shot for a skulker."
"I will speak for you. Stay a while here, my friend; or, still better, help me, if you will, to the small house yonder, which our cannonballs have half demolished. This wound of mine may be more serious than you suppose—I feel very faint. It is cold here and very damp. Is it dark or do my eyes——"
The Baron suddenly fainted, falling back into his companion's arms with a groan. Within one hundred yards stood the half-demolished house to which Henri had made reference. Louise laid the wounded man carefully upon the grass and hastened to see whether any assistance was to be had. The house was of stone, the only habitation left standing within half a mile, for the wooden cottages which had surrounded it were burned to the ground, every one. This had been a village, she concluded, standing a mile or two from the town of Smolensk, now blazing in the distance. The house was empty. It had been, to judge from its appearance, the village shop or store. The upper portion had been destroyed by a cannon-ball, but the ground floor still stood. Searching hastily among the débris left by the owners on the approach of the French troops, Louise found a bottle of vodka, three parts empty. With this treasure-trove she flew back to her patient.
Henri opened his eyes when she had poured a quantity of the stuff down his throat.
"You again?" he said. "What is it—did I faint?"
"There is a wheel-barrow in the yard of the house yonder," said Louise; "can I leave you for a moment while I fetch it? If you are strong enough to bear moving, it would be better to take you under shelter. It is raining and miserable here. The night will be wet and cold."
"By the Saints, you are a good soul—what did you say your name was—Michel? Yes, fetch the wheel-barrow, my friend. Strong enough or not, I will make the journey, with your assistance."
Louise fetched the wheel-barrow. With many groans Henri contrived to seat himself in the conveyance, and Louise wheeled him very carefully into port. She improvised a bed out of a pile of hay which she found in the stable behind and soon Henri lay in comparative comfort.
His wound seemed to be serious, though not dangerous, unless complications should set in; but being young and very healthy there was little danger that anything in the nature of mortification would supervene. The wounded man and his companion were not long left in undisturbed possession of their sanctuary, however, for before long a surgeon and his assistants, following in the steps of the fighting contingent, and finding a score of wounded men in the vicinity of Henri's house, brought in as many as could be accommodated in the place, which now became a pandemonium of groaning, swearing, raving and dying men. Two other sufferers were brought into Henri's room, a circumstance which did not please his nurse; but there was no help for it and the men remained.
Henri d'Estreville was seen and treated by the doctor.
"You'll be all right," he said; "though you'd have bled to death but for this young fellow—your servant, doubtless. I shall leave an assistant in charge of the household; I must be off; by the Saints, his Majesty gives us poor fellows work enough. Up at Smolensk, they say, it is like the shambles."
One poor fellow died during the night and was removed by Louise. The other lay groaning and raving in delirium, too far gone to take notice of any one or anything.
All night Henri, too, raved in delirium, suffering from high fever. Louise sat on the ground beside him, her back to the wall, weary to death but sleeping never a wink. Towards morning Henri was quieter, but could not sleep. He was inclined to talk, and treated Louise to a long account of his adventures in love, some of which caused the poor girl—who knew little of such things—to blush from neck to temples, though Henri was unaware of the fact, owing to the darkness.
"Every one of these affairs," said Henri, "has left me without a mark. I had begun to think that Nature, in her wisdom, had omitted to provide me with a heart, well knowing that such a possession is as much a trouble as a comfort to its owner; yet now, in my old age—imagine, Michel, I am twenty-five, no less!—I have begun to fear that after all she has treated me no better than my fellows. Not only have I found, of late, that I possess a heart, but no sooner was it found than I have lost it—so, at least, I fear!"
"It is possible, I suppose, that I shall die of this wound," Henri continued presently.
"God forbid!" muttered his companion.
"Oh, agreed! I am not anxious to die," Henri laughed; "still, it is possible, for, be assured, Michel, I have felt very ill this night; certainly I have been nearer death than has been my lot before to-day. Who can tell how the malady will go—which turn it will take. This girl, I spoke of; if I should die, Michel, you shall take a message to her.Sapristi—it is an odd thing, that I who have exchanged vows with a hundred women should now remember with affection but one, and she the most artless of them all and doubtless the most virtuous. You will carry a message for this one, Michel, promise me—it is only in case of my death—come!"
"I promise," murmured Louise.
"Good—perhaps I shall live, in which case keep my secret, lest by that time I should think differently. But supposing that I should die, go to the Palais d'armes of old Pierre Dupré, there ask for his daughter Louise—remember their names—you shall take a note of them presently, and tell her that in dying Baron Henri d'Estreville remembered her with tenderness; of all his vows of love he remembered those only that he made to her, which vows, say, he would certainly have kept if he should have remained in the same mind when he returned."
Louise suddenly broke in upon Henri's message with a merry laugh.
"I will leave out the last sentence, it will not sound so well as the rest," she said. "If you had lived, I will say, you might have been faithful to her. That you died loving her fairly well."
"Ah, you mock me!" said Henri. "No, I am serious. It is wonderful, but I remember that little simple one with true affection. To her lips I send a loving kiss, the pledge of my love."
"Shall I carry your very kiss to her?" said Louise; "if—if it would be a comfort to you, I will do so."
"Ah, rascal! I think I have roused your interest in my pretty one—well, if I die I care very little what happens; yes, take her my very kiss—bend over and receive it from me. It is a strange thing, Michel, but there is something in your face which reminds me of my Louise; in kissing you thus I can almost fancy it is she—I would to God it were!"
"Ah, you rave again!" murmured Louise.
On the following morning Louise, busy over some service on Henri's behalf, heard herself hailed by a wounded man, lying in the larger room of the house now in use as a temporary hospital. This was a sergeant in her own regiment, a rough-tongued veteran, keen in war, strict for discipline, a terror to the young conscripts of the regiment.
"Hi, you, Prevost, what the devil do you here?" he cried. "You don't seem to be wounded? May the devil claim all shirkers; why are you not with the colours?"
"I was engaged last night in tending an officer who was sorely wounded," said Louise; "I am no shirker."
"To Hell with your tending; I know what that means: the desire to be out of the line of fire combined with the hope of apourboire; away with you and report yourself to Sergeant Villeboeuf by midday."
"But the officer——" Louise hesitated.
"Bah—he is no excuse; Monsieur the under bone-sawer," continued the fellow, addressing the doctor's assistant busy operating at his elbow, "see to this officer this shirker speaks of."
"I have seen him," said the man; "he may come through or he may not, but in any case we desire no loafers in hospital, the space is too confined already."
"I am ordered to leave you, mon Capitaine," said Louise, entering Henri's room; "I pray God you may recover; farewell, Monsieur; I will remember your message."
"Yes—if I die, only!" said Henri; "not if I come through this and the rest of the war. I feel sick enough to-day—I wish they would leave you,mon ami, to look after me."
"They will not, they call me shirker for remaining only one night! Do not——" Louise was about to say "do not forget me," but she thought better of it and altered the sentence to "do not fail to get well".
"Not I—if it depends upon me—au revoir, mon ami, let us say, at Moscow!"
Louise left the little house with a heavy heart. "For God's sake keep an eye upon Monsieur le Capitaine," she said at parting to the littlefeldscher, or under-surgeon, who replied with a laugh:—
"Tiens, my friend, you are wonderfully anxious about the young man; one would think you were a woman!"
There was noarrière penséeabout the remark, but poor Louise went away blushing terribly and very angry with herself for allowing herself to yield to so feminine a weakness.
Would the Baron survive? That was the question which throbbed for an answer with every beat of her heart. If he survived and remembered the love which he professed to have felt for the daughter of the oldmaître d'armes, oh! thought Louise, how heavenly a place the dull earth would become.
If he should not survive—well, let the first Russian bullet find its home in her heart, for all she would care to live on! And yet, Louise felt, even without Henri life was a thousand times more beautiful now that she had certain sweet memories to draw upon. "The most Holy Spirit," she reflected, "must have inspired him with that message—oh! to think that I, of all others, should have been chosen for its recipient: a message to myself, delivered into my keeping for my comfort—an inspiration in truth and indeed!"
Meanwhile the army of Napoleon, constantly dwindling, advanced daily farther and farther into the interior of Russia. Napoleon felt that he was being enticed forward, but there was no thought of retreating. On the contrary, successes were achieved daily, though great events were rare. The policy of the Russian commanders was still that of retreat, laying waste the country as they went. The faithful peasants aided and abetted them. Every man proved himself a patriot. "Only let us know the right moment," they declared, "and every hut in the village shall burn to the ground, every acre of corn shall be destroyed before the detested foreigner arrives to eat the fruit of our labours."
From the beginning of the campaign to the present time—two months and a half—Napoleon had lost by illness and battle 150,000 men; the Grand Army was melting away before his eyes. He now did all that was possible, by ordering up large reinforcements, to fill the voids.
But meanwhile the Russian troops, unaware that the continuous retreating movement was a part of the deliberate policy of their leaders, grew more and more discontented both with Bagration and Barclay de Tolly, generals who had, nevertheless, done passing well with the troops entrusted to them.
And seeing that the feeling of discontent was daily spreading, and the more quickly since the fall and destruction of Smolensk, the Tsar Alexander now united both his armies under the supreme command of Kootoozof.
This new appointment aroused enthusiasm. Kootoozof had no intention of altering the policy of his lieutenants. He knew, none better, that every step gained with much pain and difficulty, by the French armies, must presently be retraced with tenfold and hundredfold more difficulty, and pains unimaginable. The Don Cossacks were already being recruited in preparation for the French retreat; the militia, raised in response to the manifesto of the Tsar, would be ready for work in a month or two; great things were preparing for the discomfiture of the little Corporal and his men—the rod was in pickle—let them advance by all means toward Moscow!
But when old Kootoozof passed his troops in review, he repeated a hundred times for their edification words of encouragement and patriotic appreciation.
"Holy Mother!" he would ejaculate; "what soldiers! With troops such as these success is sure! We shall beat the French, my children—only wait and see!" And again, "With such soldiers we shall not retreat for long!"
Kootoozof halted his army at Borodino: 120,000 men, all told; and here, early in the morning of the 7th of September, the great Russian army confessed and communicated and were blessed by the priests with Holy Water. During the morning an eagle hovered for a few moments over the head of old Kootoozof, until frightened away by the shouts of enthusiasm by which the soldiers saluted the happy omen. The battle raged all day with varying success, the French capturing the redoubts, losing them again, and again recapturing these and other outworks. The Russians slowly retreated and were not pursued. Both sides claimed the victory, and both lost enormously; but whereas the losses of the French were at this stage irreparable, those of the Russian army were comparatively of small consequence.
Then Kootoozof held a great council of his generals, whereat some voted for a final battle in defence of Moscow, some argued that there were greater issues at stake than the safety of the ancient capital which, after all, was "only a city like another". Kootoozof, however, reserved the final decision for himself, having, probably, long since made up his mind as to what should be done. He marched his army through the suburbs of Moscow, and presently spent the month during which Napoleon's soldiers occupied the Holy City in so disposing his forces that not only was the road to St. Petersburg blocked by a constantly growing army, but access to the richer provinces of the Empire was also barred; while hordes of Cossacks lay in wait along the line of retreat which, so soon as Moscow should be found no longer tenable, would, Kootoozof calculated, inevitably present itself as the last resource for the invading forces. In a word, Napoleon should be practically blockaded in Moscow.
But meanwhile, on the 14th September, the advance guard of the French army entered the city. Through the streets of the White Town and of China Town (known, respectively, as Biélui Gorod and Kitai Gorod) they marched, singing joyful songs. Then pillage began and continued until Napoleon himself arrived within the city walls.
But the personal entry of Napoleon into Moscow had been delayed. The Emperor had remained at the barrier leading to the Smolensky Road, awaiting the usual ceremonies which, he was determined, should precede his triumphal entry into the city. His Majesty expected humble deputations, servile invitations, sham rejoicings. He was accustomed to see the authorities of the place arrive to lay at his feet the keys of the conquered city, but here no one came, nothing of the sort happened. All seemed commotion in Moscow, but the afternoon arrived and still no deputation was to be seen leaving the city. Napoleon grew angry and sent a Polish General of his staff to hurry the movements of the authorities. This gentleman returned at night with the astonishing information that no authorities were to be found. Moscow was practically deserted; there were a few private residents scattered here and there, but palaces, public offices, the house of the Governor-General were all empty; not a functionary remained in Moscow.
The Emperor was furious and perhaps a little dismayed. He slept that night without the walls, and on the following day entered the city in sullen silence—no beating of drums, no music, no church bells greeted his arrival. As a writer of the times expresses it: "His feelings when viewing the accomplishment of this long anticipated enterprise must have resembled those of Satan at the destruction of Paradise. The fiend was received with hisses by his damned crew."
It is said that as he rode up to the Borovitsky Gate one Russian, an old soldier, decrepit and tottering, barred the Emperor's passage, and was struck down by the Guards surrounding his Majesty. Then Napoleon proceeded to the Kremlin and took up his abode in the ancient habitation of the Tsars, a home which he was not destined to occupy for many days.
Meanwhile Count Rostopchin, ex-Governor of Moscow, had had a difficult task to perform. General Kootoozof, making no secret of his intention of abandoning Moscow, unless the stand at Borodino should meet with unexpected success, had promised the Count three days notice before the French should be free to enter the city; but Rostopchin received warning only twenty-four hours before the arrival of the first batch of foreign soldiers. During those four and twenty hours much was done. The archives, with many treasures from churches and palaces were removed to a neighbouring city. The arsenals were thrown open in order that whosoever desired might arm himself. The prisons were also opened, the fire-engines were removed or destroyed; the greater part of the population crowded out of the city, taking with them—as far as possible—their possessions. Only a few enthusiasts remained, patriotic souls or religious fanatics who would not leave the Holy City of Russia to the licence of the invaders.
Thus Napoleon found a deserted Moscow, deserted by all but a grim remnant of resolute, desperate, Russia-loving, foreigner-hating patriots.
Among them was Vera Demidof, whose motives for remaining were, however, decidedly mixed.
During the months of anxiety preceding the arrival, first of the Russian army and afterwards of the French, Vera had shown herself one of the most patriotic of Russian women. She had been surprised by her own fierce patriotic passion. She had gone daily among the people, inflaming their minds against the foreigners, helping—like many of the ladies in Moscow—to enrol every man of fighting age and capacity among thedrujinaor militia, which had started into being in response to the manifesto of the Tsar. She remained behind when the great majority of the population left in the hope that she might even yet find work to do for Russia's sake. She was a member of a patriotic guild, formed at this time to watch and to protect the beloved city, given over into the hands of her enemies.
If any one had told Vera that she had remained in Moscow partly at least in the hope of seeing a Frenchman, one Paul de Tourelle; of assuring herself that he was alive and well and that he still loved her, perhaps she would have admitted the first portion of the indictment, but certainly not the last. Vera was, as a matter of fact, anxious to see Paul, if possible, but for a different reason. Whether he loved her or not was, at this moment of patriotic fervour, a matter of supreme indifference to her, for, indeed, she more than suspected that she had altogether lost that partiality for the young Frenchman which she had believed to be a preliminary to love; perhaps her patriotic hatred of the invaders of her country had scotched all private feelings for individual French persons; perhaps there were other reasons. At any rate Vera was anxious to see the man in order to make sure of herself; it was just as well, she thought, to know one's own heart. In any case she would be a patriot first. If she found that she still preserved some affection for this man, it might be a comfort to her wounded patriotic spirit to offer her private feelings a living sacrifice. At least she could do that much for Russia, if there was little else a woman could do.
On the day of the evacuation of Moscow Vera, sitting at her window and watching the turmoil and movement of the people in the streets below, heard the footsteps of someone running rapidly down the road. She recognised Sasha Maximof, who entered the house panting and excited.
"Vera, what is the meaning of this?" he said; Sasha was greatly agitated—"I hear you are determined to remain in Moscow—have you thought of the dangers from lawless French soldiers, the uselessness, the——"
Vera laughed. "Dear Sasha," she said, "give me time to say 'thank God you are alive and safe'; remember that I have not seen you since July and now it is September, and we have heard nothing of you!" Vera was, as a matter of fact, more relieved and grateful on this account than she quite realised; she had worried much on Sasha's behalf, chiefly—as she had assured herself—because of the anxiety of his mother, who had received no news of her son, but largely also on her own account, for at his last visit to Moscow she had learned, and made no secret of the fact, that young Maximof was an immensely improved person, and that she really quite liked and admired him.
"As for remaining in Moscow, I think I can take care of myself; I speak French so easily, you see, that I shall pass as a Frenchwoman in case of need; for the rest, I am not at all afraid, and I belong, moreover, to the patriotic guild and am bound to watch for opportunities to serve our beloved Russia."
"There can be none, Vera, believe me, that a woman can safely employ. For God's sake be persuaded to leave the city."
Vera shook her head.
"No, Sasha, I am not to be persuaded. I shall be safe. I am well armed, and these two faithful old servants who have chosen to stay with me are armed also; we shall have soft answers for any who may come to pillage, but—as you know—this street is too far from the centre of the city to be in much danger of pillaging parties. However this is foolish talk. Even if there were danger, ten times more than you suppose, I should still remain in Moscow."
"I do not like to think, and yet it has been suggested to me," said Sasha, flushing, "that though you are known to be both patriotic and fearless, there may be other reasons for your desire to remain in town. You have many friends among the French; possibly you are anxious to see or hear of them, to know that all is well with them."
"Yes, that may be true," said Vera, looking Sasha full in the eyes. "One may feel an interest in personal friends even though they fight in the ranks of the enemy."
"Of course," Sasha hesitated, "you will understand, Vera, that in saying this I had noarrière pensée; I mean, I was not hinting that you should tell me anything that is—is not my business."
"Yes, I understand," said Vera. "There is nothing to tell. I am interested to know whether—certain people—are alive; but that is not my only reason for remaining in Moscow. Where are you quartered?"
"With Barclay de Tolly's command. I shall not be far away—send for me, Vera, if you should need advice or assistance; I wish to God I could stay, but of course I cannot leave the colours."
"We have horses in the stables and arms in the house and—and God will protect His people, Sasha; the taking of Moscow is not the end of the campaign; we shall see what we shall see. Yes, I wish also that you were with us; but you are doing your duty as I believe I am doing mine. No one can do more than that!"
"No; well, I must go, Vera. I wonder whether we shall ever meet again; there are many dangers still in store for both of us; our fate lies in God's keeping. Before I go I will say that whether we live or whether we die, I know now that you are the only woman in the world for me. I shall pray daily for your welfare, and that your love, wherever it may be given, may in the end make for your lasting happiness. May I kiss your hand?"
Vera gave her hand and Sasha bowed over it; she kissed his forehead, Russian fashion, and he her hand.
"We will—we will think only of Russia now, Sasha," she said; "there will be time to talk of other things when her trouble is over."
Afterwards Vera went into the city to watch, from a safe corner, the entrance of the French soldiers. She saw Paul de Tourelle march in with his regiment, and she recognised also Henri d'Estreville, her own cousin, who rode in with his troop of lancers, looking very pale and ill. Paul seemed well and sound and rode with all that air of aristocratichauteurwhich was natural to this undoubtedly splendid-looking youth. Vera made a close examination of her feelings as she watched him and found that the dominating sentiment seemed to be one of anger that he, too, should be among these detested ranks of the successful enemies of her country and of indignation that he should assume so swaggering an air. Still, she was glad that he was alive and well, and admitted to herself that he looked handsome enough.
When she safely reached her house, late in the afternoon, a great surprise was in store for her.
Sasha Maximof met her in the entrance hall, having opened the door for her. He was in plain clothes; the first time since her childhood that she had ever seen him out of uniform. Sasha smiled radiantly.
"Thank God you are safe!" he exclaimed. "Vera, what a risk you have run in going out into the streets!"
Vera flushed with joy to see him and even laughed aloud in pure relief and contentment, though she made a show of attributing her mirth to his appearance.
"Sasha!" she cried—"you in plain clothes—oh, how funny!—explain, what is the meaning of this metamorphosis?"
"I have got leave of absence," he replied, "on the plea of protecting ladies of my family; I can stay a while; I shall be in the house if you will permit me, Vera, and I will join your patriotic league. Look—is that some of your work?" He led Vera to a window and pointed towards the commercial portion of the city; a thick smoke rose from the quarter indicated. "Our friends have begun early!" Sasha laughed exultingly. "Is it Rostopchin's agents, think you, or the patriots?"
"The patriots," Vera replied. "We shall burn all Moscow, Sasha, it is the principal part of our programme. I told you the campaign is not yet over. How long will the troops occupy a burning city? A week? Two weeks? And then comes Kootoozof's opportunity; Platof and his Cossacks; the Drujina of Moscow, and all you good regulars; you shall fall upon them like terriers upon the rats. Now do you understand why we of the league must remain in Moscow?"
"I see—I see!" said Sasha, trembling with excitement. "Yes! there is work to be done in the city, you are right, Vera; but it is not woman's work; it is work for desperate men, Vera, not for fair girls."
"My friend, the men are occupied in sharpening their swords, in drilling, in preparing for the running of the rats when the haystack is burned. We have no men in Moscow, excepting the old and the infirm."
"Oh, I am glad I came, I am glad I came!" said Sasha, his teeth chattering with the agitation of the moment.
Late that same evening Vera had cause to reiterate Sasha's exclamation that it was well he had come to Moscow.
At ten o'clock there came a loud knocking at the door, and Sasha, peeping out of an upper window, descried a group of three or four persons, French officers as he judged from their talk.
Maximof armed himself with pistol and dagger and placed the two old servants in the entrance hall with orders to keep the visitors covered with their muskets, but not to fire unless specially told to do so. Vera awaited developments in a room adjoining the hall, armed and perfectly composed.
Then Maximof opened the barred door. Three young French officers entered and closed the door behind them. They laughed to see the two old men standing with musket to shoulder.
"Tell them to lower their weapons," said the spokesman in French, addressing Sasha; "I do not speak your infernal language; we mean no harm but only seek information."
"Let me first understand your errand," said Sasha in his best French. "The men will not hurt you except at a word from me."
"Well, then, is this the quarter of Moscow known as the Sloboda?" said the officer. "We are in search of the ladies of the French Theatrical Company, old friends of ours in Paris, who, we are told, dwell in this quarter of the city. Maybe you can direct us. You are, I conclude, a foreigner, or you would be with the army—what we have left of it."
"This is the Sloboda, but I know nothing about your actresses," began Sasha, but to his horror Vera suddenly made her appearance in the hall, coming to the door of the room in which she had stationed herself. The hall was lighted with but a single oil lamp hung over the front door, so that faces were seen but indistinctly.
"It may be that I can enlighten Monsieur," said Vera; "I overheard his request for information. The Governor-General caused the removal of the entire French company three days ago, considering this advisable with a view to their safety. They are not in Moscow."
"Sapristi!" exclaimed the young French officer, who had acted as spokesman; "that is a voice that I know, though it is too dark to distinguish faces. Is it possible that I address Mademoiselle Vera Demidof?" He took a step forward. Sasha instantly barred the way.
"Back, Monsieur," he said. "There is no admittance excepting at Mademoiselle's orders."
Vera had started at the sound of the officer's voice. "Sasha, it is Paul de Tourelle," she said; "there is nothing to fear, let him enter."
"What, and these others also?" asked Sasha.
"I will answer for their good behaviour, Monsieur," said Paul. "Perhaps Mademoiselle will accord me the honour of a few moments conversation while these gentlemen rest themselves in the hall."
"Yes, I will speak with you—come in here!" Vera indicated the room which she had quitted a moment before. Maximof took his stand at the door. He waved his hand to the two old servants. "Rebyáta," he said, "you can lower your muskets but remain here." The two young Frenchmen stood at the stove to warm themselves. Sasha heard their conversation, which they took no pains to conceal from his ears.
"Our little Paul has found a friend it seems," said one, laughing; "he is indeed a wonderful man for the ladies. This will console him for Clotilde's absence."
"Curses upon the Governor-General, he might at least have left us the ladies of the Comédie Française!" said the other. "I had looked forward to seeing my little Jeanne. Maybe the Russian wench was lying, for reasons of her own."
"Beware what you say here, Monsieur," said Sasha angrily, "or your friend may find you no longer waiting when he comes forth."
"Pardon, a thousand pardons, Monsieur; I forgot that you spoke our language," said the officer politely; "do me the favour to regard my foolish words as unsaid."
The conversation was conducted in whispers from this point and Sasha heard no more of it.
Meanwhile Paul de Tourelle, so soon as the door was closed behind him, had made as though he would take Vera's hand and draw her to him, but she waved him away.
"Do not touch me, Monsieur," she said. "I have admitted you only for the purpose of making it clear to you that there can at present be no communication between us. I must regard you as an enemy."
"But, Mademoiselle!" exclaimed Paul, "what is this you say? In Paris we spoke of love; I hasten to Moscow, whither you have gone before me; I find you unexpectedly, and you tell me that I have come in vain. Did I not say that I would meet you in Moscow?"
"And did not I reply that I would rather never see you again than meet you in Moscow? No, Monsieur. I have no heart for love, no thought to spare for such matters, for my whole being is at present absorbed in the sorrows of my dear country. I am glad that I have seen you, since I am now assured of your safety but——
"Come, let me be thankful for the smallest of mercies!" Paul laughed bitterly. "At any rate Mademoiselle is relieved to hear that I am not yet buried beneath the soil of her dear country. We are very far from the point, however, which we discussed, Mademoiselle, in Paris. At that time we spoke of love; now it is sufficient for you that I am alive—parbleu!you are liberal with your favours."
"Monsieur, I will wish you good-night. This conversation can serve no good end. It is true that in Paris you spoke of love; as for me, I spoke of a liking which one day might ripen into love; that day has not yet arrived, Monsieur; at this moment I am inclined to think that it can never dawn; I unsay all that I said in Paris, which you will remember was not much."
Paul burst into loud laughter which had, however, no merriment in it. "I think I understand, Mademoiselle," he said; "the young gentleman who prefers to act as your doorkeeper rather than take his share in withstanding the enemies of your country: he is perhaps the fiancé of whom we once spoke, or maybe a nearer friend——"
"Monsieur, I have wished you good-night."
"Oh, but pardon, Mademoiselle, I have not yet finished that which I have to say; perhaps Mademoiselle would prefer if I continued and finished with Monsieur her friend. The matter may be settled without many words."
Vera's face paled a little, but she spoke resolutely. "If Monsieur is wise," she said, "he will not quarrel with Monsieur le Comte Maximof, who is at present acting as my protector in this city of many perils; the servants would not wait to fire their muskets if voices were raised or threats used. Be wise, Monsieur de Tourelle, and take your departure in peace. You have no quarrel with my friend, and none, I trust, with myself."
"Oh, as to yourself, Mademoiselle, I am not deceived; I shall hope to find compensation elsewhere for Mademoiselle's unkindness. But for the other matter, that, with your kind permission, shall be as I choose to decide." Paul bowed and made his exit.
Apparently the decision was for peace. He called to his companions to come away.
"Au revoir, Monsieur," he said to Maximof, at whom he now gazed very fixedly, as though he would make a note of his features; "I have no doubt we shall meet again shortly."
"With all my heart," said Sasha, bowing; "for I shall then request Monsieur to repeat certain words he thought proper to address to me, but now——"
"Monsieur shall have the words repeated," replied Paul, laughing; "come, my friends."
"You did not tell us, Paul, that Moscow contained other objects of familiar interest to you besides Clotilde," his companions observed as the door closed behind the trio and was fastened by Maximof. "She seemedgentile; may we be introduced perhaps?"
"Bah—you would not thank me. They are sour, these Russian women. This one has been in Paris, and is, at least, civilised; but she would visit upon each of you the sin of his Majesty who has declared war upon her country."
"Patriotism is a virtue, I do not dislike that in her; when the war is over you shall make us known to this lady of spirit, Paul," said the other.
"When the war is over," replied Paul, shrugging his shoulders and laughing, "I may want her myself. Remember, both of you, the face of that Russian in plain clothes, and if you should see him about the streets, inform me of it; I have a little bill to settle with my gentleman."
"What, a case of poaching upon preserved ground?" One of Paul's friends laughed, and the other remarked: "Poor little Russian if it comes to accounts with our little Paul de Tourelle! He had better have remained with the army!"
Early in the morning two days after Paul's visit to the Demidof mansion in the Sloboda quarter, a man came and knocked the house up. He asked to see Vera and explained his mission thus:—
"The French Emperor," he said, "is established in the Kremlin, in the dwelling of our Tsars; there is a meeting at ten in the house in the Tverskoy to decide what is best to be done".
Both Vera and Sasha Maximof attended that meeting, when it was decided that terrible as such a thing must appear to every good and patriotic Russian, the Kremlin Palace itself must be ignited or blown up. Better destroy than allow it to be defiled by the presence of these foreigners, with the antichrist himself at their head!
Volunteers were called for to attempt the dangerous enterprise. To Vera's joy and pride Sasha was one of the first to give in his name, and was chosen with a dozen others to evolve a scheme and put it into practice without delay.
"I am proud of you," she whispered; "it is a dangerous venture; if I were a man I should be with you."
"Yes, I am sure of that," Sasha laughed.
He was grave enough, however, when the time came to go forth upon his mission. The Kremlin was full of French guards and the attempt to be made by himself and his companions was perilous in the extreme.
"Promise me you will leave Moscow if anything should happen to me," he said at parting from Vera. "You must see that it is not safe for you here; the town already burns on all sides, I do not see that you can do any further good by remaining; the French rats will soon be obliged to bolt."
"Yes, I think that is so; I promise to be very discreet; the work has certainly gone well forward these two days. But do not speak as though you would not return, dear Sasha, for you, too, will be discreet and careful. Run no needless risks; your enterprise may be performed in safety, promise me you will be careful."
"If I thought," Sasha faltered, "that it was of consequence to you whether I lived or died, I would be careful indeed."
"But,mon ami, it is of the greatest consequence to me; are you not my protector here in Moscow? Are you not, too, one of our patriots and engaged even now upon a scheme which all Russia shall one day speak of and applaud?"
"Yes—but apart from that—personally, I mean, Vera; if only I might take with me the knowledge that you cared even a little for me, I would go to the gates of hell and return safely."
"Dear Sasha, I like you very much—far better than I used to like you. I suppose one would always be interested in a person who had once been her fiancé."
"Yes, yes, but——"
"But you have been so specially kind and attentive to me that—that you must really return, Sasha; I—I insist."
"Say that it matters to you personally, Vera, and by all the blessed Saints not all the soldiers of Napoleon shall prevent my returning."
"Oh, boaster," said Vera, attempting to withdraw her hand, which he had captured and was now covering with kisses; "I will say no more than this, 'please return safely'!"
Sasha Maximof went out, presently, upon his dangerous errand, and Vera was surprised to find how anxiously she awaited his return. She waited two hours, three, four, and then could bear the strain no longer. She had watched the sky in the direction of the Kremlin, but had not been able to discern that smoke rose from that particular quarter, though in almost every other direction the heavens were obscured by lurid clouds of black vapour, increasing evidence of the activity of the patriotic league.
When four hours had passed and there was still no news of Sasha, Vera could bear her anxiety no longer, and sallied forth to see whether she could hear from others any news of the Kremlin enterprise. She visited one or two of her friends in the Sloboda, but no one had yet received any news.
Then she ventured into the portion of the city which was actually occupied by French troops, and even penetrated close to the outer wall of the Kremlin enclosure itself.
A dozen times she was accosted by soldiers, none too politely, but in each case Vera successfully eluded her impudent admirers and proceeded upon her way, pursued by remarks which, if she had attended to or even heard them, would have caused her cheeks to flush; but her mind was fully occupied and she heard nothing.
Close to the Great Arch of the Kremlin she was startled to hear the sound of shots many times repeated. She hesitated before entering the Kremlin enclosure; dared she penetrate thus into the very heart of the occupied quarters?
A group of Russians, old men mostly, hawkers of lemon drinks and ofprianniki, or biscuits, presently came hurrying out into the street, chattering and crossing themselves, a few French soldiers chasing them through the archway out of the Kremlin.
"Bóje moy, it is horrible!" she heard an old man exclaim; "I shall dream of it!"
Vera accosted him. "What is it, father? What has happened?" she asked.
"What has happened?" said the old fellow crossing himself and looking round to see whether the French soldiers listened, "Why, murder has happened; the shedding of good Russian blood; butchery I call it! Did you not hear the shots? A dozen of them, all shot down one after another by these most damnable foreigners! As if they have not shed blood enough already, Russian blood too, which is the holiest of all and the best!"
"Yes, but whose blood is this you speak of? who has been shot?" asked Vera, her heart feeling like lead.
"Why, Russians; good patriotic fellows who had done nothing worse than attempt to burn down the great palace with the French Tsar inside it—would to God they had succeeded! Well, they were caught and shot, a dozen or more of them."
"All shot—every one of them?" Vera asked faintly. "Are you sure that all were shot?"
"Every single one—I saw it done; that's what I say, that I shall dream of it; I called the French soldiers shameful names, but they do not understand Russian, though they turned us all out for booing at them; it is a mercy we too were not shot; yet who could stand and see the murder done without protesting? Why, what ails you,dooshá tui moyá? One would think your sweetheart had been among these butchered men."
Vera said nothing but turned away with dry eyes and a steady lip. Within her breast, however, her heart lay dead-cold and heavy as lead.
"I wish I had been among them," the thought came a hundred times into her brain. "Why was I not among them, at his side?"
"Yes, that would have been far better—to have died at his side!"
Vera heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind her, but took no notice. Some one shouted, and she stepped automatically out of the roadway upon the raised wooden pavement at the side.
"That is a French dress," she heard a man say, and seemed to recognise the voice, but her thoughts were far away. "How came she here?—ask her, General." Vera half awoke from her dream of misery and looked up; Napoleon was at her elbow on horseback, with his suite in attendance. She was about to make the reverence which her familiarity with the Court in Paris prompted her to offer automatically at sight of the sovereign; but she bethought herself and left the curtsy half made.
"Who is it—I know the face," said Napoleon; "who are you,mon enfant, and what do you here? Have I not seen you in Paris?"
"Sire, it is the daughter of the Secretary of the Russian Embassy," explained an aide-de-camp; "Mademoiselle Demidof."
"Of course," said Napoleon, smiling benignly; "pardon me, Mademoiselle, I took you for a French lady and wondered at your presence here; may I add that so fair a face courts danger in Moscow at the present moment?"
Vera had stood still, gazing with set face from one man to the other as each spoke. Her heart swelled with indignation and hatred. This was the very arch-enemy himself; the fiend in man's likeness who had brought ruin upon her country and upon this holy city.
"Shall I then be shot down in cold blood as your Majesty has just slaughtered a body of my poor countrymen?" she said suddenly.
"Morbleu!" exclaimed Napoleon, glancing angrily at the girl. He paused a moment, then laughed, shrugged his shoulders and rode on.
"She is mad, Sire, patriot-mad!" Vera heard some one say, and the Emperor's reply reached her ears: "She has nevertheless a fine spirit".
Vera hastened homewards. She forgot the incident of her encounter with Napoleon; she took no notice of the hundreds of compliments, impudent observations and rude jests thrown at her by scores of French soldiers as she passed; Sasha Maximof was dead: this was her only thought; it absorbed her entire being; was it—she asked herself—really so all-important to her that this man was dead? She had not yet learned to love him; it must surely be a mere sentimental regret, this black heavy weight upon her heart; a sentimental regret that one who had once been nominally her fiancé had suddenly met his death; her heart had not received its death-wound—oh no! this was but a passing feeling of sympathy and sorrow; it would disappear; the shock of the sudden catastrophe had unnerved her.
Nevertheless when Vera had lain for an hour upon her bed, assuring herself that after all this calamity was not really a disaster, for her, of the first magnitude, she suddenly realised that nothing in the world could have mattered more to her than the death of this man; and turning her face to the wall she wept as though her heart were indeed broken.
Vera heard a banging at the front door—a sound which might have startled and even frightened her at another moment, but she was so full of her new grief that she scarcely noticed it; she felt as though nothing mattered; that she did not care what happened.
Then old Michael, one of the two servants who had remained in the house when the rest left Moscow, knocked at her door and put his head into the room.
"Golôobushka moyá," he said, "do not be frightened, a disaster has happened; the young Graf Maximof——" he paused; Vera laughed hysterically.
"Yes, yes, go on; he has been shot—he is dead—they have brought his body; you may tell me all, Michael."
"Oh,liubeemaya, not so bad as that; but he is hurt."
"What do you say—he is not dead?" cried Vera; she sprang from the bed upon which she lay. "Is he dying, is he mortally wounded, tell me quickly, has Stepan gone for a doctor?"
"But I did not say matters were so bad as that!" exclaimed old Michael, startled by her agitation. "The Count has, I think, been fighting—there is a rag bound round his wrist which is covered with blood and he is pale and faint, but——"
"But is he not shot—I thought—stop, Michael—go down and say that I will come immediately—I am not quite ready—I think I have been dreaming—do not tell the Count what I have said."
Old Michael went downstairs muttering and crossing himself. His beloved mistress could not be well if she dreamed in this fashion by daylight; what did it mean?
Vera dashed water upon her eyes and smoothed her ruffled hair; she stood a moment before her ikon and prayed; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed; the expression of utter misery had left her face.
She found Sasha sitting dejected and pale, his arm bound up with a cloth which, as Michael said, was soaked in blood.
"What has happened—what is the matter? Are you hurt, Sasha?" she asked, assuming her usual air of composure, though her heart beat wildly with a variety of emotions.
"Vera, I am disgraced—doubly disgraced. We failed in our attempt—all my poor companions are dead—shot—I almost wish I had died with them—I feel dishonoured—shamed; see, I cannot look you in the face."
Vera leaned over and kissed his forehead; he looked up gratefully but said nothing.
"I am sure you are not dishonoured," she murmured softly; "let me first attend to your arm, and then you shall tell me all."
"I will tell you as you bind me," he said, and began at once.
"We carried out the first part of our scheme successfully; we got into the stables and set fire to straw and rubbish, but the smoke frightened the horses and there was a great commotion. We were found and dragged out by soldiers. Several young officers, quartered in the Kremlin, ran up and we were all pulled about and insulted. Among the officers were two of those who came to this house. 'Look here,' said one, on recognising me, 'look, Paul, here is your acquaintance of the other evening;' whereupon the impertinent one whom you interviewed alone that day saw me also. He called up half a dozen fellows and bade them take me to his quarters. Of course I struggled, but I soon saw it was useless and went with them. Afterwards I heard that the Emperor suddenly appeared upon the scene and asked what had happened and who were these men, meaning my late companions. When he was told he frowned and twisted his nose and called them canaille and bade the soldiers shoot them down, then and there, for which butchery I trust he may be tortured in eternal fires.
"As for me, I was taken to a house in the Kremlin in which your friend is quartered, and thither he came, presently, and found me awaiting his pleasure, which, it seemed, was to answer to him at the sword's point for my presumption in posing as your protector in Moscow; at any rate, I could learn no other reason for his particular animosity against me. You may believe that I was charmed to meet his wishes even though he had not assured me, which he did many times, that I might thank my stars I had not been left by him with my fellow conspirators; for it seems Napoleon had himself condemned them to instant death, giving the order, so your French friend said, carelessly over his left shoulder as though the talk were of drowning so many rats. Well, we fought, and there is my disgrace, for though I thought I could fence, the fellow had me at his mercy with many French tricks which I had never seen. Doubtless he could have ended me several times over, but he forbore. I am ashamed and disgraced, Vera, I have come home beaten like a dog that slinks into his kennel after a thrashing. There is excuse for me, but I do not claim it—strange, foreign swords to fight with, the shock of my companions' deaths, the uncertainty whether, if I fell savagely upon the man and bore him down by sheer stress, I should not injure a dear heart at home which perhaps held his life as a precious thing."
Vera laughed hysterically.
"Who knows," she cried, "perhaps the same generous consideration held his hand also!"
"Ah, you mock me; well, beaten and disgraced I am, and it is useless to conceal the truth. Yes, he withheld his hand, he could have given me the point a dozen times while I never touched him, not once. There is worse behind. He made me promise, under threat to send me back to his master to share the fate of my fellows, that I would give you a detestable message. Please do not blame me, Vera, I cannot help it, for the promise was given. Before giving it I fell upon him furiously, and it was thus I received this wound in my sword-arm, which incapacitated me. I was to say that he returned to you a spoilt lover, but perhaps good enough for one who could not tell a man from a moujik."
Vera's eyes flashed and her bosom heaved. "Is that all?" she asked.
"Not quite. I must say all he bade me tell you. Tell her, he said, that next time man meets moujik matters will end less happily for the moujik; she had better send him out of Moscow, there is less danger for him without than within the walls."
"If you had killed him for that speech, I could not have blamed you, my friend," answered Vera. "When I see him I will tell him something."
"I could then no longer even attempt to kill him," said Sasha, blushing hotly, "for I was helpless; we had finished fighting, and I was worsted. I thought it better to bear the disgrace of telling you this than to go back to the Red Plain in order to be shot in cold blood by Napoleon's men. I have not done with him. With God's help I will one day give himquidfor hisquo. Until I shall have done this I can enjoy no self-respect. With my own sword I may do better, though he has the devil's own skill." Vera considered a while, then she spoke.
"I think we will go out of Moscow; there is no longer any reason to stay here. The smoke hangs over the city in every direction; already there is more fire than all Napoleon's men can extinguish; within a fortnight the rats must make their bolt."
"We have done something, certainly, but it is not yet time to go—not for me; for you it is different; go, in God's name, Vera; I will do your work and mine. In the face of this man's insult I cannot leave Moscow."
"Yes—that is true; you cannot; we will stay, then, Sasha; I do not doubt that we shall find work to our hands. Do not search out this man, however; leave your quarrel in God's hands. Promise me you will not be rash, Sasha."
"Ah, I see you think that I have no chance against him; yet I am not a fool with the rapier, Vera, my own weapon, mind you, not his. I shall have a chance, though I admit he is very clever. If he were as clever as the prince of all the devils I must meet him."
"He is the best fencer in Paris,mon ami. What matters is your safety; oh, do not mistake me—do you think I shall esteem you less and him more because he is a little cleverer than you with tricks of the sword?" Vera laughed quite merrily. "Oh, what children men are to think so much of so small a matter," she continued; "you are not disgraced in my eyes, Sasha; I thank God for two things, the first that it occurred to Paul to vent his spite upon both of us by pricking you with his sword instead of allowing you to be shot down by the guard, and the second that his conceit was so great that he preferred sending you back with a bombastic message to giving you a fatal wound."
"Tell me truly, Vera, is this Paul he to whom you gave your heart in Paris; for God's sake, tell me truly?"
"I do not think I gave my heart in Paris. Perhaps I fancied that my heart was in danger where no danger existed. He is the man who caused me thus to search my feelings—well, I have searched them."
"And the result?" Sasha murmured.
"The result is that I can thank God I do not love a Frenchman, one of Russia's enemies."
"Then I thank God also humbly and sincerely. You know well what I would have of you, if I could. You treat me now as a brother, you are kindness itself, but I hunger for more; I will wait more patiently now that I am assured that at any rate your heart is free."
"When I love I promise that I will love a Russian," Vera smiled. "Promise me in return that you will not run foolish risks in order to prove to me how cleverly your hand and eye work together in sword play. There are greater issues at stake for us Russians than the nursing of private petty vanities. The noblest of men may yet be the clumsiest. Russia requires all the manhood of all her sons, my friend. Come, promise me!"
"Well, I promise then," muttered Sasha, "though your words are not flattering to my vanity. I wish you could have added," he sighed, "that you wanted me alive for your own sake, as well as for Russia's."
"Oh, I will say that," she laughed. "I certainly want you alive. Sasha," she added suddenly, her eyes softening wonderfully, though her voice was full of laughter, "I see that you are still far from having eschewed the follies of cadetdom; you are as vain as ever,mon ami, and as blind to—to the true proportion of things."