XVI: THE PAINTED GALLERY
MALUTA’S superstitious fear that I would do violence to the sacred person of the czarevna stayed me a moment, and that moment changed my whole resolve. In a flash I saw that, even if I could depend upon the dwarf, I could not deal with Sophia without the knowledge of the priest, below us in the chapel, and, moreover, I was suddenly confronted by another possibility.
Meanwhile, the czarevna had advanced upon the princess and was gazing fiercely in her eyes.
“You are indeed in my power,” she cried savagely, “and you will wed Kurakin now!”
In her turn, Daria looked upon her sternly, her pale, spirited face strongly agitated.
“Sophia Alexeievna,” she said in a low voice, “you are giving me to a living death, but you shall save my father—see to it that you save him!”
Sophia flushed deeply; contending emotions—triumph, gratified hatred, jealousy—were strongly mingled on her coarse features. Never was there so great a contrast; Sophia’s short, almost shapeless, figure and her powerful, determined face were thrown into sharp relief by the beautiful young woman at her side. The Princess Daria had neverlooked more lovely, more high-born and noble-minded than at that supreme moment of trial.
Sophia took a step nearer to the lattice.
“Mikhail Kurakin should be there now, in the chapel,” she said impatiently. “When I see him enter, then you will go down that stair yonder at the end of the gallery, and I watch here, that there may be no mistake—no slip—oh, you shall be wedded tight and fast, by book and taper, Daria Kirilovna—never fear!”
“He will not come,” said the princess, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Our Lady of Kazan will deliver me, Sophia Alexeievna, from the bad man and from you—even on the staircase, he will be stayed.”
The czarevna looked at her, in surprise at first, and then laughed mockingly.
“Who shall deliver thee, O Daria?” she said. “Hark—your lover’s footstep is even now in the painted gallery!”
I stopped to hear no more; I grasped Maluta by the collar and softly and swiftly we passed through the door—the czarevna’s back was happily toward it—and on through the room where the princess had been confined. In the hall beyond I stopped and shook the dwarf violently.
“Where is the painted gallery?” I cried; “quick, fool!”
Intelligence of the keenest flashed into those ferret eyes.
“’Tis below, excellency, by the chapel; we can reach it by this stairway,” and he darted to the head of the flight of narrow stairs which had escaped my eye.
I followed, and in a moment we were down a short, stone stair and stood in a narrow gallery richly and gaudily painted in the Turkish fashion. It was empty; at the end was a door that I knew opened into the chapel, and I hurried to it and peeped in. All was quiet; the priest stood waiting in the dim light. I turned and found the dwarf at my heels.
“Quick!” I said in a whisper; “can we cut off his entry here?”
Maluta skurried ahead of me, without pausing even to reply, and we had passed through a door at the other end, into a small room that had one window on the Red Place, before either of us paused.
“Must he come this way?” I asked hastily.
The dwarf nodded, and I turned and, locking the door behind me, put the key into my pocket; then I went to the only other entrance and stood waiting. Here too, as luck would have it, the key was on the inside. Maluta stood watching me. I looked around keenly for one object that I desired, but saw it not, and then my eye alighted on the wide scarf at the dwarf’s waist.
“Take off your sash,” I said sharply; “tear it into four strips, so—knot them together—we shall need a rope.”
He obeyed, his eyes twinkling, and had scarcely tied the last knot before I heard someone coming. I listened—would there be more than one? No, it was one footstep—an eager and a hasty one—and it came on swiftly. I waited quietly, holding Maluta’s pistol in my right hand.
The door opened violently, and the Boyar Kurakin entered, so hastily that he did not perceive us until I had closed the door with my left hand, and locking it, thrust the key into my bosom with its fellow. Then he saw me and stopped short and stared. To him I was only the apprentice who had played him the trick with the miniature, and the recollection of that douche of hot soup brought a scowl to his forehead. It was a handsome, evil face, as I saw it now, and I remembered the Princess Daria’s cry, “I can die—I would gladly die!”
“What brings you hither, knave?” he asked with fierce scorn, “to brave your betters?”
“Or to spurn my inferiors, rogue,” I retorted; “’tis for me to ask what brings you here to torment a noble lady?”
His eyes blazed; he lifted his clenched hand to deal me a blow and found the muzzle of my pistol in his face. He recoiled, cursing me furiously.
“What do you mean, assassin?” he cried, feeling desperately for a pistol, and finding none, as I saw, though he had drawn his sword.
“Down with that weapon,” I said coolly, “and up with your hands—or I will send you into eternity!”
But his blood was up; he made a wild pass at me and I fired, knowing that the tumult without would account for any noise. I had aimed at his sword hand, and so neatly that the ball grazed his thumb and forefinger and he recoiled again; as he did so, Maluta sprang, like a cat, on his shoulders, and struck the weapon out of his wounded hand.
“Curse you!” cried Kurakin, “what devil is this that you have for an accomplice?”
“No devil,” I replied, “nor do I wish to kill you; but one instant more of opposition and I put a bullet through your heart.”
He was trying to throw Maluta off, but he might as well have sought to cast off a monkey; the little creature wound his long arms around him and clung to him fiercely. Kurakin stared at me savagely.
“I will kill you for this!” he said, between his teeth.
“On the contrary, I will kill you,” I retorted, my foot on his sword, and my pistol at his breast.
He turned white to the lips, his eyes started, the perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead; he liked death as little as most men.
“Will you die or live, monsieur?” I asked pleasantly.
He cursed me and he cursed Maluta, but his lips shook.
“You prefer to die?” I asked, still politely.
“Nay,” he replied, between his teeth, “I will not die.”
And, with a sudden leap, he threw Maluta off and flung himself upon me, seizing my right wrist, and wrenching it backward in his effort to get my pistol. His onslaught, quick as a tiger’s spring, bore me toward the wall and my foot slipped; for a moment I thought that I had lost and he had won, and then we clenched and rolled over on the floor, he struggling to turn my pistol away and I, to use it—to his death. In brute strength he was a match for me, but he had not my training as a wrestler, a sport that I had loved as a boy, and twice I had him under, and twice he struggled half-way to his knees. His eyes were wild, his breath burned hot on my cheek, and his bare hands tore at me with the strength of fury. Back and forth I twisted that wrist and he held it like a vise, and I could not use my pistol. Then, I got him down and my knee on his breast, though he still gripped my right arm and cursed me, but I tore my left hand free, at last, and changing the pistol from right to left, I dealt him a blow on the head that stretched him senseless. And, as I did it, Malutacame creeping up, holding his own temple, for the boyar had flung him against the wall and the monkey-like face was drawn and shrivelled, but he was ripe for vengeance, watching me for his instructions, and I knew by his look that he would gladly kill his erstwhile master, but I had no such design.
“Strip off his long robe, Maluta,” I said briefly.
A look of blank amazement crossed the dwarf’s face, but he obeyed me with his usual alacrity, and I helped him unfasten Kurakin’s belt and remove his long brocaded gown—a marvellously fine affair too—for his wedding, doubtless! His high cap had fallen in the struggle and lay in the corner.
“His shoes also,” I said to Maluta.
The dwarf jerked them off with vicious haste, watching me with his sidelong glance, his head down.
“Now tie his hands with your scarf,” I told him, and he obeyed.
In a few moments we had him bound securely, hand and foot, and dragging him—a dead weight—to a heavy settle, we fastened him to that with my belt and Maluta’s. We had not finished our task, however, before the boyar began to revive, and opening his eyes, stared at us, in a dazed fashion, but I did not heed him. On the contrary, I picked up his cumbersome robes.
“Quick,” I said to my follower, “I must become the boyar.”
The dwarf had, by this time, divined my design and helped me strip off my own coat and shoes and put on the Russian dress. Kurakin and I were nearly of a height, and the long robe completely disguised my figure, while the collar, which was high and standing, partially concealed my face, the cap completing the disguise. I wore my hair about the length of the boyar’s and, wearing his clothes, I could easily pass for him in a dim light—the light of the chapel. Maluta danced about me, clapping his hands, while the Russian stared, gradually recovering his senses, and the white of his face turning to purple with impotent rage; he began to dimly suspect my purpose, and I never saw before such passion and despair pictured on a man’s face. He writhed, but his bonds held, and he felt himself a fool, and began to curse me feebly, while I put my pistol back into my bosom and, taking his sword also, bowed graciously to him.
“Au revoir, monsieur!” I said, and kissed the tips of my fingers, and then, in Russ; “the bride waits, sir.”
He sputtered—too far spent to give voice to his wrath, and fury blazed in his untamed eyes.
I unlocked the door of the painted gallery, and then spoke to Maluta.
“Go to the czarevna and tell her that the Boyar Kurakin waits in the chapel,” I said; “after that, returnand watch him here—as a cat watches a mouse—and if he cries out, gag him and wait until I whistle for you.”
Then I crossed the gallery swiftly. I could still hear the outcry of the mob; in fact, at that very moment there were rioters in the banqueting-hall, insulting the Czarina Natalia.
I laid my hand on the chapel door. It had been scarcely twenty minutes, and I was sure that the czarevna had waited. But did the priest know Kurakin—or did he not?
It was a momentous question, and on it hung the fate of my daring enterprise, on that—and on the Princess Daria. But there was no time to pause; I must win or lose. I had staked all upon the venture—life itself—and, without another thought, I opened the door and entered the chapel.