“I know all these places well,” observed my host. “But do you know you
will have to be prudent. The authorities hereabouts are very vicious
just now. They arrest every wayfarer they see. You must look out, my
brother, or they will arrest you.”
“What would you advise me to do, then,” I asked, greatly alarmed at
this news.
“I will tell you, brother; listen!”
And then he gave me very valuable information; described the villages
through or near which I should have to pass, indicating at the same
time those that were dangerous and the footpaths by which I might avoid
them. He gave me the names and described the dwellings of the peasants
with whom I might lodge, and, in a word, told me everything which it
imported a wandering outlaw to know.
“But why,” I asked, “are the police so active just now? I thought this
road was one of the safest for vagabonds in the whole country.”
“God knows. Perhaps they have found a body somewhere and are looking
for the murderer.”
I made no remark, but I thought it was much more likely that they had
discovered my flight and were looking for me. And so it proved.
After finishing the tea we talked a little longer, and as I took my
leave I thanked my host warmly for his hospitality and information.
When I reached the last village before that at which lived my friend,
I was quite overcome with fatigue, and faint with hunger and cold;
but I counted on a long and quiet rest in the cottage of a peasant
woman whose address had been given me by the friendly exile. It was
at the extremity of the village, and to get thither I had to pass the
headquarters of the communal authorities. In the light of the exile's
warning, and my own fears, this seemed a sufficiently dangerous
enterprise. Albeit I put on an air of indifference and took care not to
increase my pace, yet I could not avoid an occasional backward glance
to see if I was being followed. No one, however, seemed to notice
me, and I reached my destination without receiving any unpleasant
attentions. The peasant woman welcomed me kindly, if not very
effusively. But she was a dear good soul, gave me of her best, and let
me lie on a bench and pass the night in her house.
About two hours before sunrise my hostess came into the kitchen and
began to busy herself with preparations for breakfast. But I remained
stretched on my bench; the cottage was warm. I felt very comfortable,
and I saw no reason for hurry. The day was before me, and I had not far
to go. So I turned round on my wooden couch and was just sinking into
a second slumber when I heard the sound of bells, such as post-chaises
and mail-carts in Russia invariably carry.
“Bells!” I cried, starting up. “Does a mail-coach run on this road?”
“No,” answered the peasant, “we have no mail-coach here; it is probably
a private carriage which is passing through the village.”
Meanwhile the bells came nearer; then the sound suddenly ceased, as it
seemed not far from the cottage. I did not like this at all. What could
it mean?
“Would you mind going to see what or whose carriage it is?” I said. She
went, and as the door closed behind her, I jumped off my bench and put
on my clothes.
In a few minutes she was back with the news that the carriage belonged
to the gendarmes, and that they were questioning the _starosta_ and the
clerk.
“The gendarmes!” I exclaimed, “who says so—where are they from?”
“From Irkoutsk. It is the coachman himself who told me. He thinks they
are after a political runaway.”
“In that case, I had better be going,” I said, laughing. “They
may perhaps think I am the man. Now look here—if they ask you any
questions, know nothing. If you do it may be worse for you; they may
make you pay a fine. Good-by” (putting the last of my kopecks on the
table).
“Good-by,” answered my hostess; “don't be uneasy. I shall not say a
word.” She was a worthy woman, and a friend in need, that old peasant.
I went out. It was still dark, and I might creep through the village
without being seen. The last of the houses passed, I ran at the top
of my speed, for I felt sure that the pursuers were at my heels, and
the possibility of being retaken enraged me almost past endurance. I
had been denounced shortly after leaving the settlement, of that there
could be no doubt. But how had the police managed to trace me so soon?
I had been very careful, neglected no conceivable precaution, given
misleading answers to all who questioned me about my past movements
and future plans. I had made long _detours_ to avoid the larger
villages, and during the latter part of my journey put up only with
the most trusted friends of vagabond wanderers. Yet the gendarmes
had followed me step by step to my very last resting-place, and but
for the friendly warning of the bells I should certainly have been
recaptured, for I could not have left the village by daylight without
being seen. Even now I was in imminent danger; my safety absolutely
depended on my reaching my friend's house at once, and lying a long
time in hiding. Though I had never been there, I knew the place so
well by description—its situation and appearance were so vividly
impressed on my mind—that I could find it, even in the dark, without
asking a question. It was only about seven miles from the village I
had just left. But how could I get thither unperceived? For if I was
seen by a single person entering my friend's house, it might be the
ruin of us both. Something must be decided on the instant. Day was
dawning, the gendarmes were behind me, and by the barking of the dogs
I reckoned that the village where dwelt my friend could not be more
than two miles away. I looked round. On one side of the road were
open fields; on the other thick brushwood grew. As yet, I had not
met a soul,—nobody could tell the gendarmes in which direction I had
gone—but it was now no longer dark, and if I went on, I might encounter
a peasant or a wayfarer any moment. Only one thing could be done; I
must hide somewhere—even at the risk of being frozen stiff—and remain
hidden until sundown, when I might perchance gain my friend's house
unperceived. Among the bushes! Yes, that was the place, I could lie
_perdu_ there all day. But just as I was about to put this plan into
execution, another thought came to trouble me. How about my footsteps?
Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and the police could follow me to
my hiding-place as easily as a hound tracks a deer to its lair. And
then I bethought me of an ingenious artifice, about which I had read
in some romance. Turning my face to the road I walked backward toward
the bushes, taking care at every step to make a distinct impression
on the snow. It was now quite daylight, and a little way off I could
see two summer cabins of the Buriats—in winter always empty. Thither I
went, always backward, and entering one of the cabins remained there
the whole day and far into the night. When I thought all the peasants
would be indoors, I stole quietly out, and going stealthily and with
many precautions to my friend's house, knocked in fear and misgiving at
his door.
To my great relief he opened it himself.
“I should not have recognised you, if I had not just heard all your
history,” he said, after we had exchanged greetings.
“I am very curious to see myself,” I returned, approaching a mirror
which hung on the wall. “I have not seen a looking-glass since my
arrest.”
I was so much altered that I hardly knew myself. I saw before me the
reflection of a wild, strange, haggard face, and I could almost have
believed I was somebody else.
“When did you hear of my flight?” I asked.
“To-day. There has been quite an inquest here. The gendarmes questioned
everybody and searched every house. They followed you step by step to
the last village. They found out where you passed the night, and then
they seem to have lost the scent entirely. Where have you been?”