Who can say that in those days he was not so? The dreadful Prilukoff,
assassin and blackmailer, who turned against me, livid with wrath, in
the court-room at Venice, was he--could he be?--the same Prilukoff who, in
those far-off days, mended little Tioka's playthings? Who was so anxious
if he saw me looking pale? Of whom Elise, clasping her work-worn hands,
used to say: "When he appears he seems to me like Lohengrin!"
Lohengrin! How bitterly I smile, remembering all that ensued. And yet--I
cannot believe it. I cannot understand it. Which of those two beings--the
maleficent demon or the chivalrous knight--was the real Prilukoff?
Perhaps, when these sinister years of prison and sorrow are past that
cancel in their flight so many things, and shed light upon so many
others, some day he may cross my path again. Shall I then not discern in
his faded, grief-stricken face the strong and compassionate Lohengrin of
long ago?...
Meanwhile I drifted on, submissive to my fate.
Only two things perturbed me. One was the fear lest Tioka should be
taken from me--an anguish that was with me day and night. The other was a
torturing secret, which I confided to no one. It was--how shall I say
it?--my terror of closed doors!
Every time I found myself alone in front of a closed door, I did not
dare to open it. I had the fixed, frightful idea that behind the door I
should see--Bozevsky! I had the irremovable conviction that he was
standing, motionless and expectant, behind every door that confronted
me. All the doors of our apartment had to be kept wide open. If it ever
happened that I found myself alone in a room of which the door was
closed, instead of opening it I rang the bell, I called, I cried for
help; and if it chanced that every one was out, or no one heard me, I
stood riveted to the spot, rigid with fear, staring at the terrifying
mystery of that closed door before me. Perchance, with a great effort of
will, holding my breath while the beads of cold perspiration started on
my brow, I ventured to put out my hand towards the handle--but in an
instant I found myself pushing the door to again, leaning desperately
with all my strength against the frail barrier which concealed--oh, I
knew it did!--Bozevsky, standing upright and terrible, with the yellow
gauze round his neck.
This notion, horrible as it was in the daytime, became an unbearable
fear after nightfall. Tioka went upstairs to bed, accompanied by Elise,
at about eight o'clock. Twice it happened that, when they were both
asleep, a draught caught the open door of the drawing-room in which I
was sitting, and shut it. With chattering teeth, and shivers running
over me like chilly water, I remained there, motionless, through all the
hours of the night, knowing that Bozevsky was there, separated from me
only by that slender wooden partition.
In the morning Elise found me lying on the floor in a faint.
One day Elise was summoned to Neuchâtel. Her father was at the point of
death, and wished to give his last embrace and blessing to his only
daughter. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when the telegram for
Elise arrived; at eight o'clock, distracted and weeping, she was in the
train.
Tioka and I, who had accompanied her to the station, returned homeward
feeling sad and lonely. We felt doubly lonely that day, as Donat
Prilukoff had been obliged to leave Moscow on account of a lawsuit, and
was not to return until the following evening.
We had, it is true, another serving-woman, a cook; but she left us every
evening to go and sleep at her own home.
We entered our dark and silent apartment nervously. I hastily turned on
all the lights and then carried Tioka, who was cross and already half
asleep, up the inner staircase leading to our bedrooms.
I undressed him and put him to bed, tucking him up warmly and
comfortably.
"Oh, dear," he sighed, rubbing his eyes; "do you think the wolves will
come and eat me if I don't say my prayers to-night?"
"No, no, dearest. I will say them for you. Go to sleep."
I kissed him and turned out the light; then I went downstairs to get a
book from the library, intending to return to my room at once. I felt
nervous and restless. I was afraid I should not be able to sleep.
How did it happen? Perhaps it was an instant's forgetfulness that caused
me to draw the door of the library after me. It closed with a heavy
thud. The long, dark-red curtain turned on its rod and fell in front of
the doorway.