CHAPTER XX.A FRIENDLY CUP.
I hadrepeated my summons twice before it was answered by a solemn-looking servant, who hesitated before admitting me. But I assumed an air of authority, and that, with my foreign title, seemed to have weight, for he finally conducted me into the large room, through the window of which I had witnessed Ramodanofsky’s consultation with Viatscheslav; and I could scarcely forbear a smile when I thought of the irregular manner in which I had first gained my knowledge of the interior of this house. The apartment in which I stood was singularly gloomy, although furnished with considerable luxury and refinement. There were indications of the time when Zénaïde’s mother had been brought home a bride. Here was a cabinet that I recognized at once as French, and a clock, and especially a long, narrow mirror opposite, which reflected the gloomy interior, the rich hangings, and thepolished table in the center of the room. Beside this table stood a large carved chair, which was, I fancied, the boyar’s favorite seat. It seemed as if not even a rare ray of Russian sunlight penetrated here; somber, rich, forbidding, it was a spot that neither suggested nor encouraged hospitality.
I had waited only a few moments, when a low door at the further end of the room was opened, and Vladimir Sergheievitch advanced towards me. He had a dignity and grace of bearing that suggested a painful contrast to the more heroic brother; this man had profited by his life at court and his stolen wealth. He had, too, a repose of manner that showed a far greater amount of self-control than Feodor possessed. I saw also a resemblance in the two faces, although Vladimir’s eyes were more restless and uncertain, his lips thinner and more bloodless, and the peculiarity of his black, pointed eyebrows did not mar the nobility of the elder boyar’s wide forehead. Now, as he came towards me with a scowl over his eyes, his black brows struck down sharply to the bridge of his nose in two oblique lines. An evil face and a sinister eye! He responded to my salutation easily, and asked me to be seated as calmly as if he had never played a part in my imprisonment,and was not an accessory to Viatscheslav’s insolence at the palace. I debated in my mind whether it was best to begin the interview in a hostile manner or not, and after a moment’s reflection, accepted the chair that he had indicated. He opened the conversation with perfect composure.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, M. le Vicomte?” he asked quietly, a gleam of sinister amusement showing in his eyes.
“I have a mission to perform, monsieur,” I replied, “otherwise—”
“You would not have come,” he interrupted with a sardonic smile. “I assumed as much. However, we will waive all that, and proceed to business.”
I bowed formally. “I should be glad,” I said, “to conclude it as speedily as possible. I am commissioned by the Boyar Feodor Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky to inquire of you the present residence of his daughter.”
I paused to note the effect of my words, but there was absolutely none, although I had no doubt that he was surprised that his brother had thrown aside his disguise. He sat looking at me with an expression of sinister amusement still on his face, and twirling his moustachewith his long, tapering fingers. I saw that I should be compelled to take the aggressive.
“You are doubtless prepared, monsieur,” I said, “to furnish an account of your guardianship of Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky to her father, and to surrender the young lady to his protection.”
Vladimir smiled, measuring me with a glance which was peculiarly exasperating.
“I am entirely unprepared for your visit, M. de Brousson,” he said calmly; “singularly so, in fact, since the person from whom you say you come has been dead fifteen years. It is the first time that I have ever received an envoy from a ghost, and I find it, M. le Vicomte, rather amusing.”
“This is idle, M. Ramodanofsky,” I exclaimed impatiently; “you have more reason than any one to know that the boyar is not dead. It would be more rational to meet me on the ground of common sense than to fence with such an absurd declaration.”
“My view and yours are naturally different, M. le Vicomte,” he replied with admirable composure. “As you remark, I have more reason than any one to know that my half-brother is dead. You have been deceived by an impostor; you will find it difficult, however,to convince any one else that the official dead in Russia rise so quickly.”
I looked at his calmly sneering face with a sensation of baffled rage. It was a simple matter for him to assume this position, and I did not know how easily he might sustain it.
“Nevertheless, I believe that there is occasionally a chance of reviving the official dead, and a train of unpleasant circumstances also, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said deliberately, meeting his eyes.
“There is generally some personal risk about such resurrections, M. le Vicomte,” he replied composedly; “and I might remark further, that this is a specially unfavorable season for such operations.”
His manner was exasperating me to a point where I knew that I was likely to allow my anger to get the better of my discretion. I rose from my chair, and stood confronting him.
“All this is foreign to my mission, monsieur,” I said with what temper I could command. “Feodor Sergheievitch is as much alive as you are, and demands his daughter at your hands. It is a simple matter for you to give me the desired information, and time presses.”
Vladimir laughed softly to himself, a laughthat did not show in his eyes or relax the expression of his face.
“A very simple matter, M. le Vicomte,” he replied quietly; “but you forget that Mademoiselle Zénaïde is betrothed to the cousin of the czar, and it is possible that there may be a good deal to say about surrendering her to an impostor. It is not probable that you really believe that my brother, the saints rest his soul! is alive and in Moscow?”
Fortunately, the answer that was on my lips was checked by the entrance of a serf bringing the inevitablevodkaand caviare that were always served to every guest in a Russian house, and the fact that I was an unwelcome one did not prevent the usual courtesy being tendered to me. The serf, placing the refreshments on the table and filling the cups, withdrew. The boyar invited me to partake, but at the moment I had no thought of accepting his hospitality.
“Of course I know that you are aware of your brother’s presence in Moscow, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said haughtily, “and it seems to me wiser for you to acknowledge his authority over his own daughter. You know him well enough to understand that he will tolerate no interference with his rights, and he demandsthat you surrender Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky into his hands. Your steward Polotsky is in his custody, and has confessed enough to make the rest easy.”
For the first time, I saw a change, sharp and sudden, in that inscrutable face; whatever the steward knew, it was too much for the master’s peace of mind. I could see the contending emotions in those cruel, narrow eyes, the contraction of the bloodless lips. I waited, seeing that he was hesitating over some new move. In a moment he rose, and going to the French cabinet, fumbled at the drawers. I walked away across the room and waited, willing to give him a little grace. There was something about the man which held my interest, and stayed my anger; was it the courage of despair? Without a word, he came back from the cabinet with some papers in his hands and stood turning them over by the table; what revelation did he contemplate? My curiosity being roused, I watched him, feigning all the while to look out of the window into the court; but from where I was, I could cast a sidelong glance into the French mirror, and see him as he stood there in his dark, rich dress with the lace ruffles at his throat and hands, the gold of the Oriental embroidery on his robe making fantasticarabesques upon the purple velvet, and his white face standing out against the somber background; a forbidding picture, yet not without a certain majestic dignity and power. While I watched, I saw him bend over the cups ofvodka, a swift movement followed by instant repose. Then he turned his face towards me.
“Be seated, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “and we will talk this matter over.”
I approached the table and inclined my head as he pushed the cup ofvodkatowards me.
“You have neglected to fasten your cabinet door, monsieur,” I said carelessly, “and the papers are falling out.”
He turned his head quickly, and seeing the door pushed open by the protruding papers, he stepped back and closed it. In that moment I changed the cups. He heard the click and glanced around sharply, but I was merely tapping the table with my finger.
“I am waiting your pleasure, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said, as he returned to his place; “a word of explanation, and this interview is closed with equal relief to both.”
“We will drink first, M. le Vicomte,” he replied with cold courtesy of manner, raising his cup and watching me narrowly.
Without hesitation I raised mine and drank. He drained his, and setting the cup aside, turned to me, his hand resting easily on the papers at his side.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, with a sudden grace of manner, “I am not ignorant of the cause of your interest in my ward. I was also of your age once, and I understand it,” he added with a smile which struck me as diabolical; “but you are making a mistake to waste time with my brother; he is as good as dead, and the party in power will never recognize him. Zénaïde is my ward; you should conciliate me.”
I watched him keenly; what new game was this? And what was the change which was coming over his face? Always pale, it was livid now, and the lips were purple. I saw his hands shaking like an old man’s, and he began himself to stare at them, a kind of horror growing in his eyes until his whole expression changed; the smiling mask dropped, and I saw, instead, the face of a demon, every devilish passion contending with the abject fear that I had seen in Polotsky’s, and the cords in his throat stood out.
“I am ill!” he cried thickly; “call for help—or I shall choke—water!”
It was his last word; he fell down on his chair, his whole figure writhing in the convulsion that choked his utterance. There was a small pitcher of water at hand, and I dashed some on his face, and loosened the collar that he was tearing with his fingers. I had seen death too often not to recognize it; even while I knelt beside him, I saw his eyes grow fixed and his jaw fall. He was dead in three minutes after the first paroxysm, and I laid him on the floor and straightened his limbs.
My impulse to call for help was checked by prudence, and by a sudden inspiration too. Looking in the cup, I saw some dregs, and was not slow to draw my own conclusions. For a few moments I stood looking at the body; his face was still distorted, and there was no beauty of repose about the features, and the dignity that had clothed his figure in a false nobility was destroyed forever by that great leveller of humanity. I shuddered, seeing the fate he had so quickly planned for me. The horror of such a corpse made the place a nightmare to me. I threw his handkerchief over his face, and locking the door into the main hall to delay the discovery of the body, I went out by the low door by which he had entered, and securing that, put the key in my pocket, so constitutingmyself his jailer, as he had once been mine, and shutting the secret from the world. Once out of the place, I stopped an instant to reflect upon my next step. I found myself in a small anteroom, silent and deserted, and through the open door opposite, I saw another room beyond.