As I scream the name Elise springs upon me, covering my mouth with her
cotton glove, pressing my head to her breast. "Silence! hush, hush, for
the love of heaven! They will hear you. Hush!"
"Is he dead, Elise, is he dead?"
"No, no, he is not dead," gasps Elise in a toneless whisper, "he is not
dead. We are going to him. He is wounded ... he has been telegraphing to
you for three days, begging you to come. And you would not move, you
would not understand...." Elise is crying again.
But perfect peace has descended into my soul. Paul is not dead. He
lives! he lives! Nothing else matters but this--he lives.
The train still rushes along, beating rhythmic time to many tunes that
are in my head; I gaze out of the window, at the whirling landscape that
swings past like a giant chess-board, at the telegraph wires that dip,
and then ascend slowly and dip again. Hours pass or days pass.... And
the train stops.
Elise is hurriedly collecting cloaks and satchels.
"Where are we, Elise? Are we in Venice?"
"Not yet; not yet. We are in Vienna."
As I step from the train, two men whom I do not know approach me. One of
them asks me if I am the Countess Tarnowska. He has not taken his hat
off, and I do not deign to reply.
As I am about to pass him he lays his hand on my arm. The other man also
comes forward, and, one on each side, they conduct me along the
platform. I notice many people stopping to look at me.
Nothing seems to matter. I do not remember why we are in Vienna, nor
whither we are bound. I notice that it is a bright, hot day, and I feel
that I am walking in a dream.... I find myself thinking of Vassili; I
wish he would come, and send these men away and take me home. I shall be
glad when I am at home with Vassili and the children and Aunt Sonia....
Safely at home!
[Illustration: IN THE PRISON CELL]
Then I remember--I have no home. I am a forsaken, demented creature whom
Vassili cares for no longer. But where am I going? I am going to Paul
Kamarowsky, who lives and loves me!... Again I weep with joy and
thankfulness at the thought that Kamarowsky lives.
Now I am in a carriage driving through the streets of Vienna; and the
two strange men are still with me. They are taking me to a hotel. We
arrive. I pass through a large doorway and along some passages. Then I
notice that it is not a hotel. It is a vast, bare room with wooden
benches round the wall. Some men in uniform stand at the door, and I
notice that they do not salute me when I enter.
Neither does an elderly man who is sitting at the desk rise or come to
meet me. He looks at me steadily and asks me many questions; but I pay
no heed to him. The windows are open; I can hear the sound of a piano
very far away; somebody is practising a romance by Chaminade that I used
to play at Otrada.... How sad a piano sounds when played by an unseen
hand in the silence of a sunlit street!
The man at the desk speaks in German to the uniformed men; they take my
golden wristbag from me, and conduct me out of the bare room down a long
passage. As I go slowly forward between the two men I notice that from
the far end of the passage a group of people are coming towards us. In
the center of the group walks a man, handcuffed and wearing his hat
crookedly at the back of his head, as if placed there by some other hand
than his own. _It is Prilukoff!_
He sees me. A wave of livid pallor overspreads his face. Then he bends
forward towards me and makes a movement with his lips, pressing them
tightly together and shaking his head; he is trying to make me
understand something. As they notice this the men at my side grasp my
arm and make me turn quickly down another corridor. But I hear
Prilukoff's voice shouting after me. He utters a Russian word: "Molci!"
(Be silent).
The men thrust me rudely into an empty cell. I sit down on a bench fixed
in a corner under the small, barred window and lean my head against the
wall. I feel neither unhappy nor afraid; only weary, unspeakably weary;
and almost at once I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. Never since I
was a child at Otrada have I known such perfect rest--such utter oblivion
poured upon such limitless weariness.
Suddenly my door is opened abruptly and one of the men enters; he takes
me by the arm, and conducts me back to the large, bare room, where the
elderly official still sits at his desk. And there, standing before him,
I see Elise. She is weeping bitterly. I see her making those comical
grimaces which always accompany her tears, as in Italy cheerful music
accompanies a child's funeral. My mind--like a frightened bat that has
flown into a room and darts hither and thither--flutters and plunges
wildly through all my past life. I think of my mother, of little Peter,
and of Bozevsky; I remember a pink dress I once wore here in Vienna, at
a reception of the Russian Embassy.... I think of little Tioka and his
days for saying "No." ... How far, how far away it all is! What a gulf
of guilt and sorrow have my tottering footsteps traversed since then....
But now--now I will climb tremblingly, devoutly, the steep road that
leads back to safety; humbled to my knees I will pour out my thanks. For
Paul Kamarowsky is saved; he lives and will recover!
The man at my side is dragging me roughly forward. The elderly official
at the desk has beckoned to me, and as I stand before him in a line with
Elise he reads aloud from a sheet of foolscap. Suddenly I hear the
words: "Complicity in the murder of Count Paul Kamarowsky...."