XXXVII: THE WOMAN
I WALKED out slowly through the crowd of serfs, beyond the flaming torches, beyond the swords and spears, and no man offered to stay me, though many stared—in no kindly fashion—at the foreigner and the stranger within their gates. But to me it was nothing; I felt myself a fool for my pains.
Leaving the throng at the entrance of the palace yard, I found the village lying below, dark and deserted, not even the voice of a child sounded there; the inhabitants had all been drawn to the master’s house. My footsteps alone sounded in the narrow lanes, and there was an aspect of desolation in this desertion. I went on, past the last house, and came upon Maluta, squatted cross-legged on the ground before the horses. He had made a little fire of brush-wood, and the light played fantastically on his face and his great ears. I stood looking at him a moment in silence and he looked back at me—wrinkling his face up and peering.
“I am going back to France, Maluta,” I said.
He made an inarticulate sound, clasping his knees with his long arms.
“I am a fool—adurak,” I added drily. “Come—we will ride.”
But he shook his head. “No, excellency,” he said, “not with these horses.”
Then I remembered. The dwarf was wiser than I; they needed rest. We were in a dangerous neighbourhood, but—at the moment—I cared little.
“Very well,” I rejoined; “we will ride at daybreak.”
He nodded approvingly, and began to spread out the food that he had brought with him. But I had no stomach for meat, and told him to devour it himself, which he did readily enough, for though his body was small his capacity was mighty, and I have never known him to fail to dispose of two shares. And while he ate I paced back and forth, at a short distance, busy enough with my own thoughts, which were of the gloomiest. Yet I had no great reason to cry out at my evil fortune; I had thrust myself into her life, why should I hope to win her heart? And without her heart, my claim upon her was nothing in my own eyes. Yet I was legally her husband, and how Prince Voronin meant to break that bond, unless by violence, I knew not. My experiences certainly justified the supposition that he would not leave any means untried, and I fell to musing on it, as I walked in the pitchy night—I wondered what would befall me next. Indeed, I kept my thoughts upon such matters to still those other and deeper reflections that bordered on pain. I loved her—and she?The thought of her would haunt me; the beauty of her face seemed to me—as it had that morning of the duel—to be purely pale and lustrous like a perfect pearl. The tall, young figure in its splendid robe, the long, thick braids of hair hanging on her shoulders and wound with pearls. I saw her constantly, her figure seemed to rise out of the blackness, and the pain of the vision stung me and would not be cast out. I turned and looked at the dwarf eating, much as swine eat.
“Maluta,” I said bitterly, “what think you of women?”
He stopped eating long enough to squint at me sideways, his hands full of bread and meat, the miniature of a glutton.
“‘A woman’s hair is long, her understanding is short,’ saith the proverb,” he replied sagely, and filled his mouth.
I walked away; it was not the first Russian proverb I had heard, and I found them little to my taste. A woman was as little regarded as a slave, and sometimes less, and yet a woman could prefer such a master as she might find there—and the woman I loved! Then came the thought of Galitsyn, and my blood tingled—if I could but measure swords with him! But did she love him? I knew not, but I smiled grimly at the thought of Sophia.
I looked out into the darkness, the vast steppestretched before me and I heard the wind sigh. Bitterness and desolation lingered in my heart. What evil star had sent me to Russia? I remembered clearly that night of the ball on the Rue de Bethisi and the duel in the Place Royale. Ill fortune had haunted me since; but so be it, I had done it to defend a woman.
I lay that night on the bare ground and counted the stars, while the little glutton of a dwarf, my faithful friend, slept noisily at my feet. That night, and the bitterness of it, stand out in my life unforgotten. It was a quiet night, too, although, far off, I heard wild music and the sound of voices, but these voices died away at last, and the hours until dawn were long ones. I remember seeing the day break, keenly at the far-off rim of the plain, a June day, cloudless and serene.
Maluta slept still and I rose and walked away. It was barely light; a belt of fir-trees lay between us and the village, but I could see the turrets of the palace in the distance; dim and grey it lay, at least a third of a league from us. The ground rose a little to the left and was bare of trees, and I walked up to the crest of the small elevation and looked away, over the vast sweep of the steppes, at the pale beauty of the sky. The whole scene was tremulous with awakening light. As I looked I turned, and my glance fell on the dark shadows of the firs, the semblance of a road skirtingthe edge of the wooded land. Suddenly, I saw two figures on horseback at the edge of the trees, and involuntarily my hand went to my sword and remained there while I watched them. They halted, still in the shadow, and dismounted and one held the horses, the other came on alone, taking the beaten path that led straight toward me. I waited, curious but indifferent; I looked for an enemy and not a friend, but as the cloaked figure drew nearer, I perceived that it was a woman. A woman, hooded and muffled and alone. She came, at first swiftly as if by a determined impulse, and then more slowly, until—as she got within a few yards of me, she halted and stood still. I could not distinguish a single feature, but I could not mistake that outline; it was the Princess Daria.
Nor did I doubt her errand; she had come to warn me to flee for my life. I remembered the bread and salt, but I resented her charitable anxiety for my safety. Was I a slave or a coward? I stood quite still, therefore and left her to make the advances, and I saw that I was inflicting no light punishment upon her pride, for she stood hesitating, and once I thought that she was going to flee. Then she took her courage in both hands and came nearer, but she kept her hood close over her face.
“Monsieur,” she said very low and faltering, “monsieur, I came to—to thank you for—saving my life—for delivering me from Kurakin.”
“Nay, madame,” I replied coldly, “thank the saints for that. As for the marriage, surely the one bridegroom must have been as distasteful as the other.”
I could not see her face, but I saw her hands trembling as she clasped them together.
“You mistake, monsieur,” she said, very low, “I——”
“On the whole, you preferred me to Kurakin,” I interrupted bitterly. “I thank you, Mme. la Princesse. I have heard that he killed his first wife. Possibly a French gentleman is better than a murderer.”
She did not reply, but her head drooped.
“I congratulate madame,” I added, “on the swift transition. Prince Galitsyn will doubtless find a way to free you from any shackles that remain—of the marriage ceremony. For my part, I absolve you!”
Still she did not speak, but she raised her head proudly, I thought. My heart was as bitter as the wormwood that grows on the great steppes to the southwest of her home.
“I thank you, madame,” I went on, “for coming to bid me farewell, but it is a thankless task. You cast me off last night—and, if you love me not, I care not for your gratitude.”
She found her voice, but it was very low.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she faltered. “I——”
She could say no more; for a moment we were silent; I, with folded arms, looking at her, she with her face hidden in her hood. Then she spoke again.
“Monsieur, I pray you go away,” she said. “Your life is in peril here; every hour, every moment increases the danger of your stay—it will be to—to die!” she ended with a little cry, suddenly laying her trembling hand on my arm.
But I remained unmoved. “Are you so eager to be rid of me?” I demanded coldly.
She did not reply; her hand fell from my arm, and I thought I heard her sob. My mood changed; I was both hurt and angry now.
“So,” I said, “you cannot wait for me to go—you must drive me away! I am your husband, madame, what if—after all—I pursue my claim upon you? What,” I went on steadily, “if I will not give you up?”
She still kept silence, but I saw her hands trembling, as she drew her hood closer.
“You are eager to cast me off, my princess,” I cried angrily, “but I am your lawful husband. You married me—not Kurakin—in the palace chapel. To whom, then, do you owe the first allegiance—your father or your husband?”
“Ah, monsieur,” she replied softly, “’tis a question that has cost me many a vigil, many a prayer!My father has little love for me, I fear, but I am still his daughter, and I would fain obey him, but——”
Her faltering voice quivered, and choked with a sob. I took a quick step nearer, and swiftly, but gently, I pushed back that hood, and looked into a pale, downcast face—not the face of the princess, but the woman.
“Daria,” I said, speaking as softly as she, and my voice broke too, with emotion, “is it possible—do you care for me?”
For a moment there was a pause, and there was the madness of suspense, and then she raised her head with her old dignity of mien and looked at me with radiant eyes.
“From the first, I think, a little—monsieur,” she murmured, “but—had I said so, they would have killed you!”
“A little!” I repeated passionately. “A little—after all—when I risked my life for your love, and it is, after all—only a little!”
Then she smiled, and the first sunbeams made her face luminous as the morning star.
“A little, I said, monsieur,” she whispered, “a little—at first!”
Then I drew her to me. “And now?” I cried; “and now, my princess?”
“Nay,” she said, “not the princess, but your wife,because”—she raised her head a little again and met my eyes—“because I love you, monsieur!” she faltered, blushing like a rose as I kissed her.
It was half an hour later; we had forgotten that the sun had risen, and were walking hand in hand, under the fir-trees, when Vassalissa came running toward us.
“You stay too long,” she cried; “too long! They will be calling for you, Daria Kirilovna. You must either return with me or flee.”
“And if she stays with me, mademoiselle?” I said, amused at the young girl’s eagerness; caring little for any risk that did not involve the princess.
“Then fly—for your lives!” cried Lissa, and she pointed to the tall figure of old Piotr, holding the horses, “there is not an hour to lose!”
“Ah, Lissa, Lissa!” cried my wife fondly; “how can I leave you here?”
The young girl mimicked her roguishly. “Will you stay with me, and leave him?” she asked, and then, running to her cousin, she covered her face and hands with caresses. “Go,” she cried, “go, my sweetheart, to happiness—here they would not let you have it. I am safe enough.”
But, while they clung to each other, with tears and kisses, I went and spoke a few words to the old steward, the one man whom Daria seemed to trust in that great retinue, and it was he who told me whatcourse to follow, and assured me that he could hold back pursuit for twenty-four hours—just so long as the feigned illness that the princess had announced to the household could be sustained, just so long and no longer.
“After that, sir,” he said grimly, “if they take you, they will make short work, but with twenty-four hours——”
“They will not take me,” I said quietly, and I looked to my horse, hoof and girth and bridle, then I went back to where the two girls wept in each other’s arms.
I would have waited, unwilling to tear them apart, but Lissa thrust her cousin away.
“There!” she cried, between tears and laughter, “go and send me a husband who will not beat me. As for me—I must go back to the Princess Daria, who is ill,” and she held out her hand to me.
I kissed it, with sincere gratitude for her good offices, and I thanked her, but she came closer to me and looked straight into my eyes with her fearless blue ones.
“Be kind to her,” she said, very low, that Daria might not hear, “be loving and be true—for she is a woman as well as a princess, and she loves you!”
With that, the charming creature fled into the shadow of the firs, followed by old Piotr, who hadparted from his mistress solemnly, and with tears. And the dwarf, mounting first, rode on, and the Princess Daria and I followed slowly—riding side by side—out into the sunrise of the world and of our lives.
THE END.