XXXI: VASSALISSA
WHEN the Princess Daria rode out of my sight that day she vanished so completely that I could neither see her nor communicate with her again. Prince Voronin understood the art of concealing his women-folk even more thoroughly than the other Muscovites, and he was determined to disregard the marriage of his daughter with a foreigner. He told me so himself, standing on the great steps of the monastery, with old Piotr bearing his sword behind him, and two slaves preceding him with torches. For it was that same night that I met him face to face on the steps, and demanded an interview in which the matter of my marriage should be fully discussed. The man was naturally above the average in height and bore himself with a dignity that was at once fine and disdainful. I thought him then—with the torchlight upon him, in his magnificent dress of dark green and crimson, with his snow-white hair and his falcon eye—one of the handsomest and the proudest men that I had ever seen, and I saw too, that—finding that he could neither buy me nor intimidate me—he hated me cordially, yet he was a smooth man and rarely violent in speech.
I had told him very briefly, but circumstantially, the story of the marriage, and he knew as well as I that itwas legal, but not the quiver of an eyelash betrayed the least emotion.
“It rests with the Princess Daria,” I said; “she is my wife—and she must choose. If she is still unwilling—I will not force my claim upon her; but if she respects the bond between us, there is no power on earth that can take her from me.”
The prince was so far unmoved that he smiled.
“In Russia it is the father, and not the daughter, who chooses, sir,” he said coolly, “and so little does her will rule it that I tell you plainly that, if I chose, I would give her to a moujik to-morrow—and she should not disobey me.”
“She is your daughter,” I replied steadily, “but she is also my wife, and you will not separate us, Prince Voronin. I demand to see her—there is no law, in any land, that can keep a husband from seeing his own wife.”
He eyed me coolly, but I saw the throbbing at the temples that comes in anger, and the torchlight falling full on his face stained it with crimson.
“There is no law, sir,” he replied suavely, “but there is my will.”
“Do you intend to prevent an interview?” I demanded sternly; “to take a wife from her husband by force?”
“My dear sir,” he said pleasantly, “I would as lief fling you in the Moskva, as not. Think you that Iintend to permit Sophia Alexeievna to marry my daughter at her will—to whom she will? Pshaw, sir, you are a meddlesome foreigner! If Kurakin had married her, I would have flung him from the top of Ivan Veliki; there was no need of your interference to save the daughter of Prince Voronin.”
Looking in his eye, no one could doubt that he would be as good as his word, but my blood was up, and but for the absolute folly of such a course, on the steps of the monastery, I would have engaged him then and there, and forgotten that he was my father-in-law, but as it was I kept my hand off my sword, lest I should yield to temptation, for my fingers itched to draw it.
“You are pleased to threaten me, monsieur,” I said coolly, “but you mistake your opponent. I care naught for your threats or your power. I have married the Princess Daria, and, by Saint Denis, she alone can choose! I will give her up to none, and I will see her, monsieur, if you and fifty of your slaves bar the way with drawn swords.Au revoir, M. le Prince, I will delay you no longer; we understand each other, as I think.”
He smiled fiercely, fingering his dagger.
“We do, sir, and we will,” he said, and bowed formally in reply to my grave salute.
Then he went down, the torches streaming fire before him, and the great figure of Piotr walking solemnlybehind, and I stood on the steps, gnawing my lips with suppressed fury, and watching them proceed to a small chapel where they were singing mass.
After that I set about finding the princess. Somewhere, under the wing of these cloisters, the high-born women were sheltered, but where? I knew not, and again and again regretted my stupidity in not bringing Maluta. Either the prince had corrupted the people of the monastery with bribes, or they were reticent to foreigners, for, though I spent the greater part of the night in making inquiries and offering money, I heard nothing, and morning found me as ignorant as ever of Daria’s fate. That she was still there, I could not doubt; the place was full of fugitives from Moscow as well as the usual army of pilgrims, and the country was not in a state for travellers unless in large parties, and the prince’s serfs were still in force at Troïtsa, for I saw his liveries everywhere. Morning found me watching the processions of the devout, going from shrine to shrine with many genuflexions and prostrations, the sinner and the unabsolved penitent kneeling in the porticos. Among these numerous worshippers were many women, and I searched each group eagerly for one figure and searched in vain, and once or twice I thought I was followed, which would not have surprised me, knowing Voronin’s bitter enmity. Yet I could not be certain, though once I came upontwo men who were watching me, by the corner of the chapel. Two burly fellows, wearing the dress of well-to-do merchants, but looking the part of ruffians to the life, and one had a deep purple mark upon his forehead that seemed to me familiar. But it was just after this chance encounter that something occurred that put the pair entirely out of my mind. I had left their neighbourhood and was walking in a quiet angle of the great cloister, listening to the sweet chime of the bells, when I heard my name called softly, and wheeling about, saw a veiled female figure standing in the shadow of the wall. For one wild moment I thought it the princess, and then I saw that the figure was shorter and rounder, and even before she partly lifted herfataI recognised Vassalissa, and blessed my good fortune. I was so overjoyed to see her that I could have embraced her, but she was poised lightly as a bird, ready to fly and in breathless haste.
“Hush—yes, monsieur, it is I,” she whispered, laughing, and retreating a little at my eagerness; “I am away from the dragon—but, in an instant, I must go back—she is at the chapel—no, no, not Daria!” She laughed at my excitement. “Only old Yekaterina.”
“But where is the Princess Daria?” I demanded; “has she hidden herself from me—or is it the prince’s doing?”
“A little of both, monsieur,” replied the girl roguishly; “she is afraid of you, I believe; you know husbands so often beat their wives and——”
“Sapristi!” I exclaimed; “do you imagine—does she dream that I would strike a woman?”
Lissa’s blue eyes opened wide. “Would you not?” she asked blankly. “Do not your men beat their wives?”
“The saints forbid!” I said piously. “A French gentleman beat his wife? Nay, mademoiselle, never!”
She looked at me with curiosity, and then clapped her hands gleefully.
“Look you, monsieur, I will marry a Frenchman!” she cried. “Why, my uncle beat his wife six times a week—and thought it too little.”
I bit my lip. “Perhaps, he also beats his daughter,” I said furiously.
“He used to,” Vassalissa replied, and turned pale. “He is a dreadful man, monsieur, when he is angry, but you know we women must obey.”
I choked down my anger. “Tell me no more,” I said harshly, “or I may kill him—even if he is her father. But where is she? I must see my wife!”
A roguish look came back into the child’s face.
“She is safe, monsieur,” she said, “and she may see you, if we can manage it without his knowledge,but if he catches us,” she nodded her head at me like a little bird, “he will kill us all—everyone!”
“I will risk it,” I said joyfully; “but where and when?”
She looked at me with her head on one side, as mischievous a little vixen as ever lived.
“I will tell you next week,” she said wickedly.
I caught her round young arm and held her, in spite of her struggles.
“When, child, when?” I demanded savagely; “do not trifle!”
“To-morrow,” she drawled mischievously, “I will tell you.”
I gave her a little shake. “When?” I said, “and where? ’Tis no jest, mademoiselle, but life and death!”
She looked up at me with wondering blue eyes.
“Do you really love her so?” she whispered.
“Better than life,” I answered solemnly.
She sighed deeply and smiled. “I think she——” The minx broke off, looking at me sideways.
“Does she?” I cried in a fever, “does she love me?”
She slipped out of my hands and danced off, laughing gleefully.
“I do not know,” she cried, “she is a princess, sir, and no one knows her mind.”
I could have shaken the provoking little witch.
“Ah, perhaps she loves Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly; “he had her miniature.”
The girl’s face sobered. “I gave it to him,” she said, “to plague Daria; she did not mean to do it. We changed the pictures to tease Sophia, and I gave it to Galitsyn; I was wrong, for all this ill came of it, but”—she stopped and rubbed her shoulder comically—“I got a beating for it!” she said, pouting.
“But when can I see her?” I cried passionately. “I will follow you and find her.”
“No, no,” she retorted, like a flash, “you would not find her, but old Yekaterina,” and she laughed like a chime of bells.
Then she listened and held up her finger.
“She calls and I must go,” she said, “and Daria will see you here, monsieur, to-night—at sundown—if all goes well—adieu,” and she fled from me, perhaps three yards, and then:
“Surely, I shall marry a Frenchman,” she cried to me, her blue eyes shining; “they do not beat their wives,” and away she ran.
Strangely elated—not only by the thought that the princess had made an appointment with me, but by her cousin’s manner, which seemed to imply Daria’s friendliness also—I walked toward the straggling village, where I could see knots of pilgrims gathered in conversation, and here and there, on the road, oneapproached slowly, on his knees at every five paces, to utter a penitential prayer.
It was broad noonday; the beautiful domes and minarets of the monastery loomed against a sky as blue as turquoise; in the fields the moujiks had left their ploughing and knelt, facing the cloister, for the bells were ringing the call to prayers. A long line of bowed brown figures trailed slowly up the road to the gate, and the chant of a psalm came softly to me.
My heart was full of mingled emotions; the thought of her, of the cry of joy in her cell in the palace, of her manner just before we met her father, of a look I had surprised once when her eyes dwelt on me. All these things, that lovers dwell upon and hug to their bosoms, filled my mind and deafened my ears. I was far away from the pilgrims now and the houses; I had turned into a path that led across the fields and was walking slowly—the sunshine golden about me—when suddenly a stunning blow fell on the back of my head and there was thick blackness before my eyes, as I reeled and fell, face downwards, and knew no more.