_THE GENDARME._
I had pictured them as old, or middle-aged, with gray or white hair,
hard faces and fierce eyes, which could look through one and see if
there was anything concealed. But the tall man, who bowed so
deferentially, and hesitated a little before speaking, as if he thought
I would not understand, was quite different. He was neither very old nor
grizzled, although his heavy beard, which covered the most of his face,
was streaked with gray. I could not judge well with regard to his eyes,
as the lids were partially closed, the result of some chronic trouble
with them, I afterward learned. I knew they were looking at me
sharply—so sharply, indeed, that I felt my face growing red with
resentment, and, as he continued to scrutinize me, coming close to do
so, all my dread of him and his craft vanished, and, with a proud turn
of my head, I said: “Why do you stare at me as if you thought me a
smuggler, or a nihilist? I am neither.”
Instantly there came upon all I could see of his face for the heavy
beard and into all I could see of eyes for the drooping lids a smile,
which made my brain whirl, and for a moment I asked myself if theosophy
were not true, after all, and I had lived another life somewhere, and
been in the position in which I now found myself, face to face with a
gendarme, who, as the smile disappeared under his heavy mustache, said:
“Madame speaks Russian well.”
“Thanks!” I replied. “I ought to, with so good a teacher as I had in
Nicol Patoff.”
I don’t know what spirit possessed me to mention Nicol’s name. I had
never rid myself of an impression that he would rather I should not
speak of him to strangers, and I had blurted it out to this gendarme,
who started visibly, and repeated: “Nicol Patoff! Do you know him? Where
is he?” he asked, and, with every sense alert lest my old teacher’s
safety was in danger, I answered: “The last time I saw him he was in
America.”
“In America. Yes; but what do you know of him _now_? Where is he?” was
his next question.
“I know nothing of him, except what is good, and, if I did, I should
keep it to myself, if the telling it would harm him. He was my teacher
and friend, and a gentleman,” I said, rather hotly.
I did not know what right he had to be asking me about Nicol Patoff, and
was very angry as I confronted the gendarme, who, I fancied, was
laughing at me.
“You don’t know where he is now?” he continued, in good English, and, to
my look of surprise, continued: “You see, I can speak your language,
though not as well as you speak mine. Nicol Patoff must have been a good
teacher, and you an apt scholar.”
I did not reply, but, with a formal bow, left him and joined my
companions, who were curious to know what I had been saying to the
gendarme. But I was noncommittal, and gave some evasive answer, as I
watched him in the distance, with his staff, of which he seemed to be
the head. Standing near the purser, later on, I said to him, rather
indifferently: “Who is that officer with the queer eyelids? He carries
himself as if he owned the ship and all the passengers.”
Glancing stealthily around, as if to make sure no one was listening—a
habit I noticed in many of the Russians—he spoke very low, and said:
“That! Oh, that is Michel Seguin, one of the very highest of the police.
The suspects dread him as they would the plague. He’s a regular
sleuthhound, and can detect a criminal and unearth a plot when everyone
else has failed. I don’t know why he was sent here to-day, unless they
had heard there was a suspect on board. You can’t escape Michel Seguin,
when once he is on your track.”
He looked hard at me, as if he thought I might be the suspect Michel
Seguin was sent to arrest. He had certainly talked with me longer than
with anyone else, and I had been rather saucy to him. But I was not
afraid of him, and had a feeling of quiet and safety just because I had
talked with him. We were through with the police for the present, and
were free to look upon the frowning fort of Cronstadt, bristling with
guns and threatening destruction to any enemy’s vessel which might
venture near it.
From Cronstadt we could see in the distance the golden dome of St.
Isaac’s towering against the sky, and around it the turrets and spires
and roofs of the city I had come so far to see, and where I was destined
to meet with so many adventures. The sail up the Neva to the wharf was
soon accomplished, and we were in the whirl and hubbub of a great town,
where Henri, our guide, nearly lost his wits in the confusion, and
finally left the ordering of affairs to me, as I could speak the
language so much better than he. Most of our party chose to take a large
conveyance from the station to our hotel, but I preferred a _drosky_, as
I had heard so much of them from Nicol Patoff, and wished to try one.
Half a dozen were ready for me in a moment, and, after my choice was
made, I said to the coachman, who looked like a small haystack, or
rather like a feather bed with a rope tied around its center: “Don’t
drive fast. I shall fall out.”
He nodded that he understood me, gathered up his reins, which looked
like two narrow strips of leather, shook them at his horse, and we were
off like the wind, jolting over the cobblestone pavement, now in one rut
and now in another, while I tried in vain to find something to hold to.
There was nothing; neither side nor back was of any use. To clutch the
padded garment of the driver was impossible. It was like holding so much
cotton wool in my hands. There was no alternative but to pound him with
my fists, which I did, in imminent danger of being thrown from the
_drosky_. At last the point of my umbrella reached him, and, slacking
his speed, he asked: “What will little madame have?”
“Drive slower,” I said. “You have nearly broken every bone in my body,
and I have nothing to hold to.”
“Very well,” he replied, and started again, faster than before, it
seemed to me, as I swayed from side to side.
A breeze had blown up from the Neva, and this, added to the motion of
the _drosky_, took my hat from my head and carried it along, with little
swirls of dust and dirt, until it was some distance in front of us. The
blows I dealt that padded figure in front were fast and furious, but of
no avail. Nothing availed, not even my umbrella, till I sprang to my
feet and clutched him around his neck, as if about to garrote him.
Stopping his horse with a suddenness which drew the beast upon his
haunches, he gasped: “In Heaven’s name, what will little madame have
now?”
“I’ll have my hat!” I cried, pointing to my crumpled headgear, which
some little girls had picked up and were examining, one of them trying
it on and turning her head airily.
I think the driver swore, but am not sure.
“Madame shall have her hat,” he said, and was about to plunge on, when I
stopped him again, by saying: “Let me out. I will walk the rest of the
way. We are almost there,” and I pointed to what I was sure was our
hotel, for I had studied St. Petersburg so carefully before coming that
it seemed to me I knew every street and alley and public building.
“As the little madame likes,” was his polite rejoinder, followed by a
call to the girl who was still sporting my hat, to the evident
admiration of her companions.
“Drop it, or it will be the worse for you!” he cried, with a flourish of
his whip. “It is madame’s.”
But I did not need his interference, for, as I came up to the girl,
breathless and panting, a tall gendarme crossed from the other side of
the street, and at sight of him the children fled in haste, leaving my
hat behind them. Picking it up and brushing some particles of dust from
it, and straightening the crushed flower with a deftness I hardly
expected in a man, he handed it to me, and said: “You will not wear it
again, after it has been on her head,” and he motioned toward the girl,
who, with her two companions, was scampering away as fast as her little,
bare legs and feet could carry her. I had another hat in my trunk, and,
remembering what I had heard of the condition of Russian heads,
answered, emphatically: “Never! She can have it. Here, girl, come back!”
I screamed to the child just disappearing in the distance.
I doubt if my call would have reached her if the gendarme had not sent
after her a short, shrill, peremptory whistle, which brought her to a
standstill as quickly as if she had been shot. Turning round, she saw me
beckoning to her, and holding at arm’s length my hat, as if there was
contagion in it. In a few moments she had it, or, rather, the three had
it, pulling and fighting over it, until the last I saw of it one little
girl was dangling a long ribbon, a second appropriating the bunch of
forget-me-nots, while the eldest was wearing the poor, shorn thing as
proudly as if it were a great acquisition.
I had scarcely realized till then, in my excitement, that the gendarme
who had come to my aid was the one who on the boat had questioned me of
Nicol Patoff. Would he ask me about him again, I wondered, and was
relieved that he did not even act as if we had met before. Glancing at
my hair, which I was beginning to rearrange, he said: “Madame must go
bareheaded.”
“Only from here to the hotel. I have another hat,” I answered, thinking
of the day Nicol Patoff had found me drying my hair, and complimented
its beauty.
It was darker now, with a wonderful sheen upon it in the sunlight, and I
could not help feeling that the man was admiring it through his
half-closed eyes, and scanning me very closely. He had certainly been
going in the opposite direction when I first saw him across the street,
but he turned now and went with me to the hotel, where my friends
gathered round me, asking what had happened, and why I had come on foot
and without my hat. While I was explaining to them, the gendarme was
speaking to the clerk about me, I was sure, as he glanced toward me, and
nodded that he understood. Then, with a bow in my direction, which
included those of my party standing near me, the gendarme walked away.
I had learned by this time that our German conductor, Henri, was of very
little use, except to smoke and take a glass of beer when he could get
it, and, if I wanted a thing done, I must do it myself. I could speak
Russian much better than he could, and, as I wished to ask some
questions, and was particular about my room, I went to the desk to
register. After I had written my name, “Miss Lucy Harding, Ridgefield,
Massachusetts, U. S. A.,” the clerk called a young boy, whom he
designated “Boots,” and bade him show Miss _Garding_ and her friend, who
was to room with her, to a certain number. If there is in the English
alphabet one letter which puzzles a Russian more than another, it is the
letter “H,” and he usually ends by putting “G” in its place.
Consequently, I became Miss or Madame Garding, developing, finally, into
a Garden, and remaining so during my stay in St. Petersburg. From what
we had heard of Russian hotels, we were not prepared for palatial
apartments, and I was surprised at the large, airy corner room into
which I was ushered. Turning to Boots, I asked if there was not some
mistake. Was he sure this room was intended for us, and if it were not
the best in the house?
When he found I could speak his language, Boots became communicative and
familiar, although, evidently, he had no intention to be pert. It was
one of the best rooms, he said, and tourists did not often get it, as it
was reserved for Russian gentry when they came to town from the country.
“I heard Monsieur Seguin ask the clerk to do his best by you. I guess he
thinks you are some great lady at home.”
Just then there was a hurried call for Boots, and he left me wondering
what possible interest Michel Seguin could have in me. I had been rude
to him on the boat, and had not shown myself very friendly since.
Probably any special attention he might pay me was prompted by a wish to
learn something of Nicol Patoff. But forewarned was forearmed, and
Nicol, who undoubtedly was under some ban and in hiding, was safe so far
as I was concerned.
“I’ll take the good the gods provide,” I thought, as I unpacked my trunk
in my spacious, airy room, and then went down to dinner, where I found
several tourists, all eagerly discussing what they had seen and what
they expected to see.