XXIV: GALITSYN
WHEN I left our quarters I had made no plans, and was only determined to find the Princess Daria, and to save her from the dangers that encompassed her at every step. A wild enough design for one man—and a foreigner at that—to form at such a time in Moscow, and the aspect of the deserted streets smote me with a sharp sense of the desperate nature of my enterprise. Fear crept here, behind the close-shuttered windows, the grim, double-bolted doors—fear and silence. Once or twice, as I passed, a grille opened and I saw a white face peep out and vanish again at the sound of my footstep, and here and there, notably among the houses of the better sort, doors and windows gaped wide, and a heap of refuse, of broken furniture and torn clothing, lay piled in the court-yard, showing that this house and that had been gutted by the mob, and across more than one threshold lay something that was neither furniture, nor clothing, nor a sack of meal, though it lay as helpless, still for evermore. Where I walked it was silent, so silent that my tread woke the echoes, but the city was not so; it was full of confused noises, of shouting and crying, of drum and musket, and now and then, of the deep voices of the bells of Moscow’s many churches and cathedrals.Riot and murder and robbery were loose there, and as I drew nearer to the Kremlin I saw ever more bodies and more bodies, lying in the sunlight with upturned faces and helpless hands that would fight no more forever. I turned aside thrice to avoid parties of rioters in pursuit of some wretched victim, but through all my devious turns I kept on toward the palace. If the princess lived, if my wife lived, she was there, of that I was convinced. But before I entered the Red Place I heard the trampling of horses, the shouts of men approaching, and stepped back into the shadow of a friendly doorway and waited to see who passed that way with such an escort. And presently, at the end of the street, appeared a band of serfs, running ahead of a carriage, as they always ran before a great nobleman; they came swiftly toward me, two and two, clad in long crimson tunics, with collars and belts of white and high green caps; and as they advanced I counted twenty before the horses and behind the carriage there were twenty more, and with all their splendid dress their feet were bare, as had been the feet of the Prince Voronin’s slaves. The horses, three splendid creatures, were hung with fox-tails that floated as they moved, and in the carriage sat a noble figure, in a magnificent dress of gold and silver brocade; his handsome face was but slightly concealed by his high collar, and jewels flashed on his breast. It was Prince Basil Galitsyn himself, the risingstar of the new order of things, the favourite of Sophia, and the lover of the Princess Daria. And at his feet sat Maître le Bastien. I stepped out of my concealment and called aloud for them to stop. The driver, a fierce Cossack, cracked his whip and would have driven over me, but for Le Bastien, who saw me and cried out to Prince Galitsyn. At a nod from him the whole procession halted, the horses plunging and rearing on their haunches, and the serfs crowding about me, as if they waited orders to seize and carry me away. But I walked up to the carriage itself, and demanded speech with his excellency the Boyar Prince Galitsyn, aware, all the while, of the master goldsmith’s perplexed amazement, but the prince was bent on benevolence. It was an hour, indeed, when he had need of all his diplomacy and suavity to hold his supremacy, and he bade me follow to his palace, where I should have an audience. His air of patronage stuck in my throat, but reflecting that he knew me only as the French goldsmith, I swallowed my pride and followed at a distance to his house.
Galitsyn was noted for his magnificence and his foreign tastes, and his palace was furnished more in the style of Europe than any other in Moscow. I had been there before as Maître le Bastien’s apprentice and knew it well. The carriage of the prince and his attendants arriving in advance, I found the court-yardthronged with his scarlet tunics, and the wide doors of the great house stood open as I approached, and in the lobby, too, were serfs in scarlet, and then I saw the prince very gracefully and graciously offer Maître le Bastien the bread and salt, and when the goldsmith had tasted both, they were extended to me and, happily, I took them also. Then his excellency led the way, and Maître le Bastien and I followed into a grand salon, where the prince seated himself in a chair, carved with his arms and covered with cloth of gold, and signing to the master goldsmith to sit in a lower and humbler seat, he turned to me and asked my business, while a slave brought in the salver laden with vodka and caviare—thezakuska.
I was in no mood to mince matters, and, despite various frowns and grimaces from Maître le Bastien, I came bluntly to the point, speaking in Russ; for the prince knew only his own language and Latin.
“Can your excellency tell where the Czarevna Sophia has hidden the Princess Daria?” I asked, fixing my eyes sternly on him, for I was not without suspicions of the man himself, but my doubts were instantly dispelled by the change that swept over his face.
The prince was a proud man, haughty and reserved, as all these Muscovite aristocrats were, but he could not disguise his discomfiture at the mention of those two names together.
“The Princess Daria!” he repeated blankly. “I was told that she and her cousin, Vassalissa, were safe in Troïtsa yesterday morning.”
I could not doubt that he spoke the truth; his manner was full of a noble sincerity, and, indeed, I think the man’s worst fault was the common one of a not over-scrupulous ambition.
“The Princess Daria was in the palace yesterday,” I said deliberately, “and imprisoned there by the Czarevna Sophia, who would have forced her to marry the Boyar Kurakin.”
Galitsyn sprang from his chair; his face was as white as ashes, but with wrath rather than dismay. He turned fiercely on Maître le Bastien.
“This is your man,” he said thickly, for something seemed to choke him; “does he speak the truth?”
The goldsmith caught my eye and understood my gesture; he rose with a dignified composure that became him well.
“My prince,” he said gravely, “you deserve my confidence and my service; I will disguise nothing from you. This man is not an apprentice, but a patron of mine, a French nobleman, M. le Marquis de Cernay, and his honour and your excellency’s are one.”
The prince bowed gracefully; but the strenuous expression of his face did not relax. He asked myChristian name of Maître le Bastien, and addressed me after the manner of the Russians.
“Ivan Feodorvitch,” he said, which was my name, being translated; “did you see the princess in the—the power of Sophia Alexeievna?” he stammered, in spite of himself; one woman he loved, the other he courted for ambition’s sake, and I have seen this a hundred times in Paris.
I looked down the long room, and across the end of it stood a double row of scarlet tunics, thirty-seven, I thought, and before the only other entrance stood the major-domo, leaning on a wand of ivory and gold. I counted the cost and smiled.
“M. le Prince,” I said quietly, “I saw and heard the Czarevna Sophia threaten and compel the Princess Daria Voronin to wed Kurakin, in the private chapel by the painted gallery.”
He drew a deep breath, his eyes blazed, his whole figure seemed to dilate with passion. Maître le Bastien leaned forward, listening eagerly; I even caught a flicker on the face of the old steward, who was otherwise as motionless as stone.
“Did she marry Kurakin?” the prince demanded, in a low voice, but in a tone that might well strike terror to a weak heart; “did Sophia force her to that?”
“No,” I replied, “no, your excellency, for I prevented it——”
He broke in upon me with a kind of fierce joy.
“You prevented it—and how, sir?”
“I married the Princess Daria myself,” I said.
A pause followed, a pause so deadly that I heard Maître le Bastien breathing like a man spent with running. I believe that Galitsyn thought me mad; he looked at me as if he doubted his own senses, and that doubt alone stayed his hand. I think, on the first impulse, he would have struck me dead—if he could. He wore the look men wear when they strike to kill; I saw just such a look on the face of M. d’Argenson that morning in Easter week, on the Place Royale. And Galitsyn meant to kill me, but after a moment, a moment of sharp suspense, he laughed harshly.
“I think you jest, sir,” he said, with bitter pleasantry, “but ’tis a dangerous jest—here.”
Saint Denis! who could doubt it, with that fierce eye of his upon me and that row of scowling savage faces below me in the hall? It was like to be a sorry jest indeed. But I cared neither for him nor for his menials, now that I was sure that the princess was not in his power, yet I meant to let him know that she was mine—and mine she should be—in spite of him.
“I jest so little, M. le Prince,” I said, “that he who dares to contradict my statement will do it at his peril. The Princess Daria is my wife.”
“Your wife,” he replied bitterly, measuring me with a fierce eye, “by Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk, she shall be your widow, then!” and he raised his right hand sharply, but Maître le Bastien flung himself upon that arm and held it.
“Hold your hand, Prince Galitsyn!” he cried hoarsely, “and remember the sacred bond of hospitality—the marquis has eaten of your bread and salt.”
The prince paused; his breast heaving with passion, his eyes kindling with a savage triumph, his face deeply flushed, Maître le Bastien holding his right arm by main force. Below, at the end of the hall, I heard the serfs stirring restlessly and the clash of swords. I folded my arms on my breast and waited. I had never been more indifferent; let the barbarian do his worst!
“The bond of bread and salt, M. le Prince, remember it,” said the goldsmith gravely. “The last of our Valois kings permitted his guest to be murdered, and he also fell by the murderer’s hand. As you sow, so will you reap!”
Galitsyn looked at me with eyes that devoured every detail of my face and figure; scorn and rage were mingled on his countenance.
“‘Her husband,’ he calls himself,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “This foreigner, this soldier of fortune—the mate for one of Russia’s noblest born—for the Princess Daria. Why, master goldsmith, the man is mad!”
“You forget to whom you speak, M. le Prince,” I retorted hotly. “A gentleman of France, and the head of one of its noble houses, is your equal—ay, and something more,” I added, as truculent as he, though I saw Le Bastien’s warning gesture.
“‘And something more’—I thank you, sir,” he said, with bitter disdain, “and the czarevna—did she plan this marriage also?”
“No,” I answered promptly, “a thousand times no—she did not know of the exchange of bridegrooms——”
He interrupted me at this; he shook off the goldsmith and came nearer to me.
“Did the Princess Daria choose you—instead of Kurakin?” he asked in a deep voice, and I saw that the man was shaken to the soul.
“What it that to you?” I retorted scornfully; “the princess is my wife, and hark ye, M. le Prince, mine she shall be—against the world, and no man shall put asunder.”
Again he half raised his hand to deliver me to his slaves, and again he desisted, but his face was distorted with contending passions, and he pointed to the door with a quivering finger.
“Go, sir!” he said hoarsely; “go, before I violate the bond of host and guest—but, beyond my gates, look to yourself!”
“Nay, M. le Prince,” I said courteously. “Beyondyour gates I am at your service. In France we settle these matters on the field of honour. I should be happy, monsieur, I——”
But the goldsmith had me by the arm.
“Saint Denis, man!” he cried in French, “tempt him no more, unless you would imperil the princess as well as your own head and mine!”
And I yielded to this reasoning the more easily because I saw that Galitsyn did not heed my challenge; his ideas of settling the matter differed from mine, as vastly as the customs of his country and mine. He stood there, pointing steadily at the door, and his face was so distorted with passion that I marvelled to see so great a change wrought in a handsome countenance.
I bowed profoundly.
“M. le Prince will find me ready when and where he pleases,” I said pleasantly, “and he will remember that the Princess Daria is my wife.”
I could say no more, for Maître le Bastien was dragging me away by main force, and the serfs, parting to let us go through, closed up behind us like a wall and eyed us so viciously that I saw the goldsmith wipe his brow twice before we reached the gate of the court-yard. The good man was nothing of a fighter, and yet too stout to run.