"Your passports, Monsieur--Madame?"
Velasco thrust his hand slowly into the breast pocket of his coat and
drew out the precious papers. His manner was cold and indifferent, and
his eyes had narrowed into sleepy slits again beneath the heaviness of
his brows.
Kaya was leaning back on the cushions with the veil drawn closely over
her face. She was tapping the panels of the door with a dainty,
nervous foot. Neither glanced at the official.
The Chief of the Third Section was in evening dress with a fur cloak
thrown hastily over his shoulders. He would have passed for an
ordinary citizen on his way to a ball if it had not been for the
strangeness of such an attire in a railway station, and the cluster of
anxious, humble officials bowing and gesticulating about him. The
Chief examined the passports closely and at some length; then he tossed
an order over his shoulder in a quick, sharp tone to the group of
officials, and one hurried away.
"This lady, Monsieur, she is your wife?"
The voice of the Chief, as he turned to Velasco, was like the passing
of a brush over wool. The Violinist shuddered.
"Certainly sir, she is my wife," he returned curtly. "It is so stated
on the paper, I believe."
"It is," said the Chief, "The writing is plain, quite clear. Will you
be good enough to raise your veil, Madame?"
Kaya shrank back. "My veil!" she stammered. She half rose from her
seat, supporting herself, with her hands pressed down on the cushions,
gazing up at the waiting official. "No--my veil!--What do you mean?"
"I am sorry to trouble you," said the Chief sharply, "but I said: 'your
veil.' Kindly raise it at once. Ha!--Why shouldn't you show your
face, Madame?"
His burly form filled the doorway and the white of his shirt front,
half screened by the fur, gleamed under the electric light. He seemed
enormous.
Velasco's brows lifted suddenly until his eyes were wide open and
blazing: "Stand back, you impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "Stand away
from my wife! How dare you?"
"Come!" said the Chief. His voice was still sharper. "No nonsense,
Monsieur. The veil must be raised and immediately; you are keeping the
whole train back. What do you suppose I am here for?" There was
menace in his tone as he took a step forward. "Now, Madame, will you
raise it, or shall I?"
Kaya retreated slowly to the farther side of the compartment. "Stop,"
she whispered to Velasco. "Don't get angry; don't do anything, it is
useless. Come back in the shadow."
Then she turned and faced the official defiantly, throwing up the veil.
Her face was very pale, her eyes were blue and dark, like two pools
without a bottom, and her lips pressed together, quivering slightly.
Velasco stared at her for a moment and drew a step nearer, laying his
hand on her shoulder. He was trembling with rage.
"Are you satisfied now, you cur?" he cried, "Look at her then. You
will never see another face as beautiful, not in the whole length and
breadth of your cursed country. Look--while you have the chance! By
heaven, whoever you are, chief of the devil himself, I'll report you
for this--I'll--"
A shrill whistle cut through the torrent of words, and in another
moment the Chief had stepped back, and the under officials came
crowding through the door of the compartment.
"Arrest them both," cried the Chief shortly, "Get them away at once and
don't let them out of your hands. 'Peter and Paul,' quick! The woman
is--" He whispered something hoarsely.
In a second the two were surrounded, their hands were chained; they
were bound like sheep and dragged, first one, then the other, to a
covered sleigh at the rear of the station.
"Put them in--hurry!" cried the Chief, "Gag the fellow; don't let him
speak! Is the woman secure, so she can't scream, or moan? Take them
off!"
The sleigh started, and the two lay side by side on the floor, jostled
by the lurching of the runners, their flesh cut and bruised by the
ropes, their mouths parched and panting behind the gags. They could
not stir, or moan, or make a sign. They were helpless.
When the sleigh stopped in the grim inner court of the fortress, they
were carried out into the darkness, and borne like animals through
long, damp passages, down innumerable steps and dim windings until
finally a door clicked and opened. They were thrust inside, their
bindings were cut, and the door clicked again, slamming in its socket
with the sickening crash of steel against steel; the sound
reverberating hard and metallic like a blow against the eardrum,
finally dying away in the distance, echo upon echo until all was silent.
The girl lay still on the floor where they had left her. She had
swooned, and as she returned to consciousness slowly, gradually, her
breath came in little gasps through her parted lips and she moaned as
she lay. Velasco had dragged himself to his knees and was peering
about him, feeling with his hands in the dim waning light. He was
muttering to himself in little outbursts of anger and rebellion,
rocking his arms to and fro.
"What a hole! What a beastly place! The floor is wet; ugh!--The walls
are dank and shiny--things are crawling! Good heavens, something ran
over my foot!--It must be a rat, scurrying--scampering! Sapristi!
There's another! What a scrape to be in--what a scrape!"
The girl lifted her head and looked at him, straining her eyes for the
outline of his shoulders, the mass of his dark curls. He had turned
half away and was wringing his hands, feeling them and exclaiming to
himself. She crept towards him and stretched out her hand, touching
his shoulder.
"Monsieur--Ah, Monsieur Velasco!"
He shuddered away from her: "You, is it you! Are you alive? I thought
you were dead! Mon Dieu, I thought I was shut in with a corpse! It is
frightful, horrible! I have suffered! God, how I have suffered--the
torture of the damned!"
"Monsieur!"
"My hands are cut; I know they are cut! Look, can you see,--are they
covered with blood? I am sure I feel it trickling!--Look!"
"No--no, Monsieur, there is no blood."
"I tell you I feel it--and my shoulder, my arm--I shall never be able
to play again! I am ruined--ruined--and for what? Why did you come to
me? Why didn't you go to someone else--anybody?"
"Ah forgive me, forgive me." The girl crept closer and laid her hand
on his shoulder, pathetically as if half afraid. "I shouldn't have
gone to you, but--listen, Monsieur--let me tell you--let me explain! I
thought there was no danger, not for you, otherwise--Oh, do believe me,
not for the world would I have done it! I knew you were an artist;
Bobo told us you were going to Germany--I thought--Can you ever forgive
me?"
Her voice broke a little and she was silent.
Velasco went on rocking himself, feeling his arms, his hands, his
fingers at intervals. "Don't talk," he said, "You make me nervous.
You did very wrong; you ought never to have come to me. I hate
anarchists; I never could bear them; and now they take me for one! I
shall live here all my days--and my Stradivarius, my treasure--Heaven
knows where they have put it--lying on the platform of the station, or
perhaps broken, or stolen! I shall never see it again, never! Ah, it
is cruel--it is not to be borne! Don't speak, I tell you, I can't bear
it! You shouldn't have coaxed me!--Ugh! these rats--brr--did you feel
it?"
The girl gave a muffled cry. She had shrunk away in the corner, but
now she crouched forward, her eyes dilated, staring into the darkness.
"A rat, Monsieur? Ah, it is so dark--I feel things,
crawling--crawling; and the damp oozes down from the walls. I am
frightened--frightened!"
The last words were a whisper; her throat swelled and she was choked,
trembling with terror. She put out her hand and touched something
soft--it slid from her and ran. She cried out faintly.
"Come here," said Velasco, "Come nearer! The rats won't hurt you.
Rest on my cloak, poor child, are you cold? Where are you?--Let me
touch you!"
"Here," said the girl, "I can feel the edge of your cloak; don't put it
around me--no! I deserve to suffer, but you--no wonder you hate me!
Don't put it around me."
"Come nearer," said Velasco, "I can't see you in this devilish
darkness. Are you crying?"
"No, Monsieur, no, let me tell you--it was your playing, your playing
that night. I saw you, and then the thought came to me--I will go to
him, he will help me; and then--I came."
"Your teeth click together like a castanet rattling," said Velasco,
"You tremble like a string under the bow. Come closer. There--one ran
over my sleeve, curse the creature! Did you feel him, the vermin? Put
my cloak close around you."
"No--no--not your cloak! You are shivering yourself, you need it.
Don't--I pray you!"
There was a moment of silent struggle between them.
"Keep still," said Velasco, "My hands are cut, but they are strong
still, and yours are like wax, soft as rose leaves. Hold it around
you; don't push it away. Now, lean against me; they won't touch you."
The struggle continued for a moment; then the form of the girl relaxed,
her head drooped and he felt the light rings of her hair brushing his
cheek. She started and then sank back again.
"Can you hear me?" said Velasco, "Perhaps there are spies, people
listening; no one can tell. Put your lips to my ear. Why were we
arrested, do you know? What have you done?--Ah, these rats! Make a
noise with your feet; scuffle as I do, that will drive them away.--"
"I--I can't tell you," whispered the girl, "No--it was nothing, don't
ask me. You will know in the morning."
"Tell me now," said Velasco, "When we talk, the darkness seems less,
not so terrible. I like to feel you breathing against me; your form is
so little and light. Don't move! Put your fingers in mine now and
tell me.--Why won't you tell me?--Speak louder."
The girl trembled and he put his arm closer about her.
"Are you afraid of me?" he said, "My tempers are nothing; they are like
a gust and it is over. I didn't mean what I said. When I think of my
violin, that it is lost, gone forever perhaps, that my hands are so
numb and so stiff, it makes me frantic. I feel as if I should go mad
for a moment, locked in here; and I never could bear the dark, never;
not when I was a child. I see things; sounds ring in my ears. I want
to cry out, and storm, and fling myself against the walls; do you? It
is my nature, my temperament, I was always like that. My nerves are on
fire. Stay by me. When I feel your hand--Kaya, your hair is like
silk. Don't move. What was it you did?"
"Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right. I could not help
myself, I could not. I had taken the oath. I was only the instrument."
"The what--?" said Velasco. "If you were an instrument I should take
you in my arms and play on you. The strings would be the strands of
your hair and my bow would caress them. The tones would be thrilling
and soft like your voice; your cheek would be the arch on which my
cheek rests. I would shut my eyes and play on you, and you would
answer me, and we would sway together, your heart on my breast.--Ah!
Where am I? Forgive me, I thought for a moment--Don't be frightened, I
thought you were my Stradivarius. I was dreaming.--What were you
saying? An instrument--I don't understand."
"Let me go," cried the girl, "don't hold me! Take your cloak from my
shoulders. You wouldn't understand if I did tell you. You are an
artist and understand nothing but your art. What do you know of the
conditions we are struggling against, the suffering, the horrible
suffering of our country?"
"Don't be angry," said Velasco, "I talk to my violin sometimes like
that. There was nothing to flare up about; I was dreaming, I tell you!
What do you know of such things yourself? Ugh! Leave them alone,
child; leave all ugly things alone! Come back, or the rats will run
over you."
"It is terrible the things that happen," whispered the girl. She was
on her knees and she was pushing him away with her hands. "I never
knew until lately, but now--now I have met the Revolutionists; they
have talked to me, they have told me. They are splendid men. Some of
them are extreme, so am I. I hate the Tsar. I loathe him; I loathe
them all! I would kill them all if I could."
She was trembling violently: "It is true that I have--" And then she
began sobbing, struggling with Velasco as he drew her to him.
"Be still," he said, "Hush! Your voice was like a trumpet then. You
are not like a girl at all; you are like a soldier fighting for his
flag. What are you talking about? Hush! Let me wrap you again. The
rats are getting worse! Creep closer and rest on my arm. The Tsar is
the little Father; we must respect him and speak low about him always."
The girl caught her breath, sinking back on his shoulder, wrapped in
his fur. She tried to resist him, but his arm was strong and encircled
her, his hand clasped her own; it was supple and the wrist was like a
hinge. There was a power, an electric force in his touch, a
magnetism--she shut her eyes, yielding to it. She was like a violin
after all; if he chose to play on her with his bow! Ah--she quivered.
"Monsieur," she said low, "You don't understand. You are a Pole and
you care nothing for Poland; how could you understand? And yet you
play--my God, how you play, as if you had cared and suffered more than
any one in the whole wide world. Have you ever suffered?"
"No," said Velasco, "What should there be to make me suffer? Not until
to-night!--Ugh, this is torture, horrible!"
"Have you ever twisted and writhed in an agony of mind that was like
madness because--"
"Of course," said Velasco, "After my concerts I am always like that.
It is--" He shuddered. "A black depression creeps over one. Bózhe
moi! It is awful! Is that what you mean?"
"No," she said, "that is not what I meant. Tell me, Monsieur, have you
ever cared for any one?"
Velasco stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. "Never, any one
particularly," he said, "that I can think of. I used to like my old
master in Warsaw; and I have friends; good gracious! All over Russia
and Germany I have friends. You don't mean that?"
The girl stirred uneasily against his arm.
"Was that another rat?" she said, "I felt something run over my dress."
"Draw the cloak to your chin," whispered Velasco, "Huddle yourself in
it. There, are you warm? Put your head down again. One moment you
are like a boy ready to fight the universe, the next you shake at the
sound of a rat.--Kaya!"
"Yes, Monsieur?"
She shivered, clinging to him.
"What did you say? Say it again; don't tremble like that."
"I would die," she whispered, "A thousand times I would die rather than
have brought this on you. If I had known--if I had guessed!"
"Your hair is like down," said Velasco, "a soft, golden fluff. I can't
see it, or you; are you there? I shouldn't know if I didn't feel you
breathing, and the touch of your head and your hand. Go to sleep; I
will watch."
She murmured and stirred in his arms.
"Yes, yes, I forgive you. I never was angry. If only they haven't
hurt my violin, my Stradivarius! If they do, I shall drown
myself!--But don't think of it; don't speak of it. Be still and sleep."
She murmured again. He laid his cheek to her hair and they sat silent,
the girl half unconscious, Velasco staring out into the darkness, his
face white and set.
There was a stirring of something within him impossible to fathom;
something apart from himself, strange and different, like the birth of
a soul; a second personality, unknown, unrevealed. His heavy eyes
gleamed through the slits. The round of his chin stiffened; his mouth
took new lines. The luxurious artist personality of the musician was
dormant for the first time in his life; his virile and masculine side
had begun to awaken. The muscles of his arm swelled suddenly and he
felt a strange beating in his heart.
This girl, this stranger! She was helpless, dependent on him and his
strength. He would guard her and protect her with his life. His arms
were around her and no one should take her from him--no one! Not the
Tsar himself! She was breathing, she was there; she was a woman and he
was a man, and his strength was as the strength of a lion. What harm
could befall her?
He bent his head on his breast and his lips touched her hair. Across
the sodden floor of the prison, suddenly, came the first rays of dawn
falling aslant, touching the shadows, the two figures crouching, the
rats as they fled.
Velasco drew the cloak closer about the sleeping form of the girl, with
a tender, protecting gesture. His eyes were alert. He had forgotten
himself; he had forgotten his violin; he had forgotten his art. He was
facing the sunlight grim and determined.