Kirila Petrovitch was pacing up and down the hall, whistling his
favourite air louder than usual. The whole house was in a commotion;
the servants were running about, and the maids were busy. In
the courtyard there was a crowd of people. In Maria Kirilovna’s
dressing-room, before the looking-glass, a lady, surrounded by
maidservants, was attiring the pale, motionless young bride. Her head
bent languidly beneath the weight of her diamonds; she started slightly
when a careless hand pricked her, but she remained silent, gazing
absently into the mirror.
“Aren’t you nearly finished?” said the voice of Kirila Petrovitch at
the door.
“In a minute!” replied the lady. “Maria Kirilovna, get up and look at
yourself. Is everything right?”
Maria Kirilovna rose, but made no reply. The door was opened.
“The bride is ready,” said the lady to Kirila Petrovitch; “order the
carriage.”
“With God!” replied Kirila Petrovitch, and taking a sacred image from
the table, “Approach, Masha,” said he, in a voice of emotion; “I bless
you....”
The poor girl fell at his feet and began to sob.
“Papa ... papa ...” she said through her tears, and then her voice
failed her.
Kirila Petrovitch hastened to give her his blessing. She was raised
up and almost carried into the carriage. Her godmother and one of the
maidservants got in with her, and they drove off to the church. There
the bridegroom was already waiting for them. He came forward to meet
the bride, and was struck by her pallor and her strange look. They
entered the cold deserted church together, and the door was locked
behind them. The priest came out from the altar, and the ceremony at
once began.
Maria Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing; she had been thinking of
but one thing the whole morning: she expected Doubrovsky; nor did her
hope abandon her for one moment. But when the priest turned to her
with the usual question, she started and felt faint; but still she
hesitated, still she expected. The priest, without waiting for her
reply, pronounced the irrevocable words.
The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her hated husband;
she heard the flattering congratulations of those present; and yet she
could not believe that her life was bound for ever, that Doubrovsky
had not arrived to deliver her. The Prince turned to her with tender
words--she did not understand them. They left the church; in the
porch was a crowd of peasants from Pokrovskoe. Her glance rapidly
scanned them, and again she exhibited her former insensibility. The
newly-married couple seated themselves in the carriage and drove off
to Arbatova, whither Kirila Petrovitch had already gone on before, in
order to welcome the wedded pair there.
Alone with his young wife, the Prince was not in the least piqued
by her cold manner. He did not begin to weary her with amorous
protestations and ridiculous enthusiasm; his words were simple and
required no answer. In this way they travelled about ten versts. The
horses dashed rapidly along the uneven country roads, and the carriage
scarcely shook upon its English springs. Suddenly were heard cries of
pursuit. The carriage stopped, and a crowd of armed men surrounded
it. A man in a half-mask opened the door on the side where the young
Princess sat, and said to her:
“You are free! Alight.”
“What does this mean?” cried the Prince. “Who are you that----”
“It is Doubrovsky,” replied the Princess.
The Prince, without losing his presence of mind, drew from his side
pocket a travelling pistol and fired at the masked brigand. The
Princess shrieked, and, filled with horror, covered her face with
both her hands. Doubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; the blood was
flowing. The Prince, without losing a moment, drew another pistol;
but he was not allowed time to fire; the door was opened, and several
strong arms dragged him out of the carriage and snatched the pistol
from him. Above him flashed several knives.
“Do not touch him!” cried Doubrovsky, and his terrible associates drew
back.
“Your are free!” continued Doubrovsky, turning to the pale Princess.
“No!” replied she; “it is too late! I am married. I am the wife of
Prince Vereisky.”
“What do you say?” cried Doubrovsky in despair. “No! you are not his
wife. You were forced, you could never have consented.”
“I have consented, I have taken the oath,” she answered with firmness.
“The Prince is my husband; give orders for him to be set at liberty,
and leave me with him. I have not deceived you. I waited for you till
the last moment ... but now, I tell you, now, it is too late. Let us
go.”
But Doubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of his wound, and the
violent emotion of his mind had deprived him of all power over himself.
He fell against the wheel; the brigands surrounded him. He managed to
say a few words to them. They placed him on horseback; two of them
held him up, a third took the horse by the bridle, and all withdrew
from the spot, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, the
servants bound, the horses unharnessed, but without carrying anything
away with them, and without shedding one drop of blood in revenge for
the blood of their chief.