CHAPTER VI.A KITCHEN FEUD.
Whenthe postern had finally closed upon mademoiselle, I advanced cautiously through the darkness. It had occurred to me that the outer gate might be closed for the night, in which case I should find myself caught in a trap. The house was dark and quiet now, the boyar’s guest having evidently departed.
To my consternation, the front gate was indeed locked, and I stood perplexed. A noise from the other side of the house suggested a possible exit by the kitchen way, and I crept cautiously along close to the wall, looking for it. The door at the back of the house stood wide open, and the stream of light from it, while it increased my risk, served also to show me the side gate, standing ajar. I had not a moment to lose; to be caught here and compelled to explain my presence to the boyar would be a sorry fate. I heard loud talkingand laughing in the kitchen, which a little reassured me, as the servants were evidently enjoying a merry evening, and therefore less likely to be watchful. A little natural curiosity, and also a desire to learn as much of Zénaïde’s surroundings as I could, impelled me to approach near enough to peep into the interior: a low-ceiled room, stained with smoke from the huge fireplace, and gloomy as such a place could be, when lighted and filled with people. The cook, with naked, brawny arms akimbo, stood before the fire turning some meat upon the spit; and a dozen other serfs were gathered about a table playing at dice, or watching it, and drinkingkvas. It was not an attractive picture, not even homely; but there was a surprise there for me: I saw in the group the cowardly fellow who had been whipped in the contest in the Red Place. I remembered his face well; it had still something of the evil and mean expression that had marked it when Peter Lykof dragged his servant off his fallen adversary. The place he occupied now at the table, and his dress, declared him to be no less a person than the boyar’s major-domo. The fellow had an evil face and a hang-dog look about the eyes, and I was not pleased to find him occupying a post of trust in the house. One could easily buy his soulfor a couple of francs, being sure that he would sell again to the next highest bidder, and so cancel the previous bad bargain. I was amused to see that the miserable coward of a few hours ago was now a considerable braggart, assuming an air of authority among his fellow servants.
There was little danger that my presence would be observed, and I walked slowly across the courtyard, and slipping through the half open gate, stood in the street. It was dark, but yet it seemed to me that as I appeared a figure dashed away from the postern and crept along by the wall. Remembering that I had noticed a similar appearance at the front of the house, I half unsheathed my sword and advanced in the direction in which the figure had gone, my taste for adventure still keen, and moreover determined to know if any spy lurked about the Ramodanofsky house. The darkness and the shadow of the wall were both unfavorable to my purpose; but nothing daunted, I proceeded, my eyes fixed keenly on the darkest portion under the overhanging cornice. Seeing nothing, I was not a little startled by a sudden blow which, just missing my temple, fell roundly on my shoulder. I sprang aside, and drawing my sword, was on the defensive; but my unknownadversary leaped upon me with the agility and ferocity of a wild animal, and I found my sword arm pinioned as we closed in a fierce grapple. I had no desire to rouse the house by any outcry, and, for some reason, my assailant was equally silent. I had as much as I could do to keep his hands from my throat.
“Ma foi!” I exclaimed bitterly, “this is Russian fighting!”
My words had a magical effect; my strange adversary released me and stumbled back. But my blood was up, and it was my turn to attack him; however, he dodged me with wonderful dexterity.
“Leave me alone, your excellency,” he said in poor French; “I struck by mistake. I beg your pardon.”
His voice was familiar, and putting two and two together, in a flash of intuition, I hit upon the truth.
“You are Michael Gregorievitch!” I exclaimed, “Peter Lykof’s attendant; and you took me for your friend the steward.”
“Even so, my lord,” he admitted with evident reluctance in his tone. “My master would be very angry if he knew of my mistake.”
“Unless my memory plays me false, your master forbade you to meddle with this samesteward,” I remarked dryly. “His displeasure does not seem to affect you deeply.”
“He would not submit as tamely as I do in a like case,” returned Michael, sullenly.
“I must admit,” I said lightly, “that I can understand your repugnance to the sleek steward; his countenance is sufficiently unlovely to tempt an honest man to beat him; but the ardor of your resentment seems a little ill-timed and treacherous.”
“Treacherous!” The man was choking with his intense anger. “No treachery could be great enough for Boris Polotsky!”
My interest was roused, and moreover I saw the possibility of obtaining a warm adherent in this fellow.
“You have a grievance, Michael,” I said pleasantly, “and I sympathize warmly with your detestation of this man; what is your especial wrong?”
The fellow hesitated for a moment, and I seemed to feel his keen eyes trying to see my face in the darkness.
“I have suffered many wrongs from him,” he said bitterly, falling into the Russian tongue, and therefore speaking more volubly; “he is a very devil, and the devil’s emissary. In every way in which one man can hurt another, he has injured me.”
“For instance, wedding your sweetheart?” I suggested lightly.
The man swore under his breath.
“He stole my wife away from me, for one thing, and afterwards beat her to death!” he exclaimed passionately.
I started; what a fit servant for Vladimir Sergheievitch!
“At least, she was punished for her infidelity,” I remarked dryly.
“She was more foolish than wicked at the first,” the fellow protested with a break in his harsh voice; “but that smooth-tongued fellow made her his tool and dupe. He is well placed,” he added vindictively, “a fiend, and the servant of one!” and he shook his fist vehemently at the dark house.
My mind was full of speculations; it was evident that there was something here that did not appear upon the surface.
“You have a cause of complaint, then, against the Boyar Ramodanofsky also?” I asked with an assumption of carelessness.
I could feel rather than see that the man received a shock at my words, suddenly awakening to the fact that he was making admissions that might be dangerous.
“I have said too much,” he stammered.“There is too great a gulf between the boyar and a humble man like me for any quarrel.”
“Ay,” I said, with a purpose, “unless you take to heart your master’s grievances.”
There was a pause. I knew that I had startled the fellow, and he was not sufficiently adroit to escape from the trap into which he had fallen; I could hear his labored breath, and divined that he was in a cold sweat of anxiety and alarm.
“My master has no grievances,” he blurted out, evidently sore pressed for an evasion. “I am but a fool to speak of my own.”
“Your master strikes me as one who might have many,” I replied coolly; then, taking pity on a confusion that I understood without seeing it: “You have nothing to fear,” I said reassuringly; “I am not a friend of the boyar’s, though I did come out of his gate,” and I laughed a little, silently, at the thought of my strange exit.
“Your excellency is wise,” the fellow exclaimed earnestly; “no man is safe in such friendship.”
“Like master like man, you think, then, my good Michael,” I said lightly. “It is certain that I shall remember your fists for a while, and I venture to predict that Polotsky will presently have enough of them.”
“I beg your pardon a thousand times, my lord,” stammered the man, evidently divided between a desire to establish himself in my good graces, and to escape my inquiries.
“You have it freely,” I said laughing, “since I escaped with a whole crown; next time be sure of your adversary, and then be thorough in your castigation; but take my advice and fight by day, in the open, like a man.”
“It is rare for me to get the chance,” Michael protested; “he is a sneak, and hides himself away in secure places.”
“Such vermin usually do,” I replied calmly; “however, I wish you good-night and good luck, only be sure and be thorough next time.”
As I walked away down the street I laughed a little to myself at the absurdity of my adventure, ending, as it had, in a narrow escape from a thrashing at the hands of a lackey. I felt confident that Zénaïde would soon be rid of one of her uncle’s vilest tools, for Michael would probably murder Polotsky before many days; and I reflected that a kitchen feud was not without its advantages.
It was now late, and I proceeded directly to my own quarters, and found that my man had my supper waiting for me. Pierrot was aninvaluable servant: devoted, accomplished, and discreet. I had obtained much useful information from this quarter, and I could always depend upon his fidelity; in fact, it was only that which kept him in Russia, for he hated it with a cordiality only equalled by his smooth appearance of complacence. It had cost me not a little trouble to have him instructed in the Russian tongue; but he amply repaid me by the usefulness that resulted from his acquirement: without it he could have been of little service, for it was almost impossible to find a humble Russian who understood French, or any language but his own. In that day accomplishments were not frequent, and few Russians spoke French: Prince Basil Galitsyn, who was in advance of his class, resorting to Latin in his intercourse with foreigners.
I was tired, and my appetite had been sharpened by a continued fast, so I sat down to my supper in a very good humor. Pierrot waited upon me with silent dexterity, and then, retiring to a little distance, stood watching me with folded arms, and an air which I was not slow to interpret: he had news, and longed to impart it.
“Well, Pierrot,” I said at last, “were you in the Grand Square to-day?”
“Yes, M. le Vicomte,” he replied eagerly; “and was it not a stirring sight?”
“Very,” I answered dryly; “and what is the feeling among the people, Pierrot? Are they pleased with the election?”
Pierrot shook his head with the air of a sage.
“The people have not much to do with it after all,” he said gravely. “The rabble have not the intelligence of our peasantry.”
This was a heavy judgment, for Pierrot, as an old retainer, looked down upon the peasantry as the scum of the earth.
“It is the soldiers here,” he went on, evidently glad to speak his mind; “they have the upper hand. I can’t understand this Streltsi.”
I laughed. “Few of us can, I suspect, Pierrot,” I said; “the Streltsi, or archers, were established by Ivan the Terrible, as a kind of national guard. Their duties descend from father to son, and they have ever been a privileged class.”
“They are ill to guide, monsieur,” Pierrot remarked sagely, as he handed me the wine.
“And what do they think?” I inquired, not a little amused but also curious.
“They are angry,” Pierrot replied, lowering his voice as if he fancied that one of them was under the table; “they do not love the CzarinaNatalia’s relations and—” Pierrot glanced cautiously over his shoulder; “the Czarevna Sophia has been trying to influence them for the Czarevitch Ivan. There are twenty-two regiments, and only one of them is favorable to the young czar.”
“All that seems to be apparent enough, Pierrot,” I remarked quietly.
“That is not all, M. le Vicomte,” he said eagerly; “they are plotting against the Department of the Streltsi; they hate both the Princes Dolgoruky and their own officers. It is rumored to-day that there will be a riot if something is not done, and if there is!” Pierrot lifted his eyes and hands, a picture of horror.
“What will be the consequence?” I asked, though I knew well enough, and it took the relish away from my supper.
“If the officers are not sacrificed,” Pierrot said in a dreadful undertone, “they will have blood, and it will be the boyars, perhaps the Czarevitch Peter.”
“The czar, you mean,” I corrected testily, for I knew that he was touching the truth very nearly. “They will not dare to harm him.”
Pierrot shook his head gloomily.
“You have not heard them, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a tone of melancholy pity for mycredulity; “they are after blood, like wolves; and if it comes to that, there will not be a house safe for a boyar to hide in Moscow!”
I pushed back my chair and rose from the table with an angry gesture.
“You forget, Pierrot,” I said tartly, “that these men were born to obey; they cannot resist the imperial authority.”
I said it more for my own comfort than for his conviction, for I was sick at heart, and could think of nothing but the young girl in the house of a boyar who was both feared and despised. Meanwhile, Pierrot had the air of not desiring to contradict his superior, even in his folly,—an air peculiar to Pierrot, and especially irritating.
“The Russians are very bloodthirsty, M. le Vicomte,” he said, by way of a mild remonstrance, “and there is no one now at the head of the government but a boy and a woman.”
“There is a great deal of awe felt of a czar, my good Pierrot,” I replied lightly, “and presently they will have the chancellor back again; and you know the Streltsi once took stones from the graves of their fathers to build him a house.”
But Pierrot still continued to shake his head with aggravating solemnity.