Suddenly I thought that Tioka might call me. But between him and me,
standing outside on the threshold of that draped door, was there not the
man whom I had seen die in Yalta? Horrifying memory! For a long time I
did not venture to stir. I turned my head and looked behind me, then
fixed my eyes afresh on the red curtain. Suddenly I thought I heard a
cry.
Yes; it was Tioka calling me, Tioka all alone upstairs, who was
frightened too, frightened even as I was. With shivers swathing me from
head to foot as with an icy sheet, I listened to those cries which every
moment grew shriller and wilder. Then, in answer to him, I screamed too.
Oh, those shrieks ringing through the empty house--shrieks which only
that silent ghost behind the door could hear!
Suddenly another thrill ran through me; the electric bell had sounded.
Some one was ringing at our door; some one was coming to save us. Tioka
still screamed, and the bell continued to ring. I could also hear blows
on the door and then a voice--Prilukoff's voice--calling: "It is I. Open
the door!"
With a sob of mingled terror and joy I thrust back the curtain and flung
open the dreaded door. Stumbling blindly through the passage I reached
the hall door and drew back the latch. Prilukoff stood on the threshold;
he was pale as death.
"What has happened?" he cried. "What is the matter?" And he gripped my
arm.
I was sobbing with joy and relief. "Tioka, Tioka!" I called out. "Don't
cry any more. Donat has come! We are here, we are near you!"
Tioka's cries ceased at once.
But Prilukoff still held me fast. "What has happened!" he asked,
clenching his teeth.
"I was afraid, I was afraid--" I gasped.
"Of whom?"
A fresh outburst of tears shook me. "Of the dead," I sobbed.
"Leave the dead to me," said Prilukoff.
He entered and shut the door.
* * * * *
Thus, unconscious and unwilling, I descended yet another step down the
ladder of infamy.
Shrinking and reluctant I trailed my white garments into defilement,
sinking with every step deeper into the mire which was soon to engulf
me; the mire which was to reach my proud heart, my pearl-encircled
throat, my exalted brow on which nobility had set its seal in vain.
It was about that time, I remember, that Delphinus, a renowned
fortune-teller, came to Moscow. One morning, having nothing else to do,
I went with the smiling, skeptical Elise to consult him in his luxurious
apartments.
He took both my hands and gazed for a long time at a crystal ball which
was before him. Then he said: "Woman, your life is a tragedy."
I smiled, incredulous yet disturbed. "Pray say rather a comedy, if you
can."
He shook his head. "A tragedy," he repeated gloomily. Then he uttered
several commonplaces which might apply to any other woman as well as to
me. Finally, with knitted brows, he looked still more closely into the
crystal. "Two men," he said, speaking slowly, "have yet to enter into
your life. One will bring salvation, the other ruin. Choose the one, and
you will attain happiness; choose the other and you will perish."
He paused. "You will choose the other," he said, and released my hand.