Honor and old ideals, I fear
Are with the snows of yester-year,
Or like old houses--straitly mewed
In some sequestered solitude.
A Russian forest is assuredly one of the most impressive of all
sights, especially in winter when the world has put on its ermine
mantle. Soundless in its depths as the deeps of the sea--hushed in
its silence like the great Sahara--save when an overloaded branch
succumbs to its weight of snow and breaks with the dry crack of a
gun, it seems utterly untenanted by beast or bird. The latter always
congregate on the fringes of the villages, where grain is always to
be found, owing to the gracious custom which causes every inhabitant
at harvest-time to hang a sheaf beneath the eaves; while the bears
have withdrawn into the comfortable quarters they have prudently
arranged for themselves at the first serious hint of real cold.
Wolves there are, on the prowl in the sly, shambling fashion which is
peculiarly their own, but after sundown only--at least until
emboldened by starvation. Now and then a ptarmigan, as white as the
bitter season itself, flits heavily above the underlying thicket,
though his appearance is as rare almost as when a capercailzie
(_kurópatkà_) starts up to break the stillness with a tumult of
wings and a sifting of powdery snow.
In the “wealthy” forests belonging to great territorial nobles, broad
paths--or narrow roads--are cut and numbered, like the _allées_ of
some colossal park, and there, sleighs as also saddle-horses, become
the easy means of pleasure to the owners or their guests. For there
are few sensations more exhilarating and buoyant than to gallop upon
those clear, smooth avenues between the serried trunks of trees,
upbearing like the pillars of some Gothic cathedral the roof of a
silent world.
Such a forest was that skirting the estate of the Duchesse de
Salvières, _née_ Palitzin, and in the dark before a bitter November
dawn--bitter even for that glacial region--this charming person
herself, masked to the eyes in fur, was driving her tröika furiously
in the direction of Tverna. To drive a tröika, whether on earth or
on snow, is an accomplishment seldom acquired by women, but
Tatiana-Vassilièvna de Salvières--who never lost an occasion of
declaring that she was _not_ a woman--knew the art as thoroughly as
the foremost _yèmshik_ in Muscovy.
Her above-mentioned pretensions were, fortunately, not borne out by
any stigma of masculinity, either physical or mental--unless one
could class in the latter category a fixity of purpose, a calm
courage, and an inexhaustible fund of dogged endurance; which
qualities, either singly or in combination, are wholly foreign to the
feminine nature. Extremely lovely still, with her graceful oval face
lighted by deep dark-gray eyes, and framed in warm-chestnut hair
threaded already with narrow ribbons of clear silver, her short,
authoritative nose, her firm, well-arched mouth and obstinate little
chin, deft by a characteristic _fossette_, she was what the French
graphically call _faite au tour_ (made on a turner’s lathe). She
was not tall, but admirably proportioned: slim-waisted, full-hipped,
and square-shouldered, and her hands, extraordinarily small, but yet
in no way resembling the useless, tapering, monkey-like variety so
dear to flashy novelists under the appellation of _mains de Duchesse_,
were shaped on an especially artistic model, which showed both
character and strength. Her feet followed suit, amusingly
high-arched, eminently aristocratic, and yet capable of being stood
upon with supple energy, under any and every circumstance, and from
her whole being there emanated a vigor, a self-reliance, and a
_savoir-faire_ altogether uncommon in these slouchy, spineless,
neurasthenic days.
Such was the sister-in-law given by a far-seeing Providence to
Laurence Seton, Princess Basil Palitzin, and lucky it was for her
that this was so, for, to put it mildly, that fair daughter of Albion
was just then seriously dismayed by a certain hornet’s nest that
she had wilfully broken open.
* * * * *
After her unwilling and ungracious return from “abroad,” as she
distinguished between Russia and other more fortunate European
countries, Laurence had consented, not without painfully apparent
reluctance, to reintegrate the Castle of Tverna during the hunting
and shooting season. Great parties of guests had then filled the
place and made life endurable to her for the time being; but when
these had departed and she had succeeded in making her husband
promise to take her to Petersburg for the winter, a sudden call to
the bedside of an aunt who was also his godmother--a relationship
very seriously considered in Russia--had forced him to leave in haste
just as the first heavy snow was beginning to fall. He had not done
so without many qualms of anxiety; for not only did he by now fully
realize the unpopularity of his wife on his estates, but also the
fact that the peasants’ restlessness was slowly increasing, owing
to the scantiness of the last harvest. Every precaution had been
taken by him, however, to protect Laurence from any sort of annoyance
during an absence that might be prolonged if he found his aged
relative in danger; but notwithstanding this he had left Tverna with
a heavy heart and an anxious mind.
Alone, or practically so, in the grim old cradle of her husband’s
race--for her maternal instincts had remained utterly undeveloped,
and her little son’s absence was always preferred by her to his
company--Laurence found time hanging wearily on her hands. From
morning till night, dressed with the costliness and splendor she was
so fond of, she paced about the long enfilades of salons and
galleries between which all the doors remained wide open, Russian
fashion, bemoaning her unlucky fate. Now and again she paused before
one or another of the interminable lines of windows fronting upon the
_steppe_--the rooms were kept so warm that there was no rime on the
glass--and could have shrieked aloud at the awful immensity stretched
out beneath her. To this peculiar mind the prospect held no beauty,
no grandeur even, though it possessed both in a great and marked
measure. The Castle itself, built as it were from the rock whereon it
stands, is gray as its gray escarpments, abrupt and uncompromising--a
fortress armed _cap-à-pie_, impregnable to assault from three sides.
At its back rises the mountainous ridge punctuated by the “Tverna
rock”--as it is designated--which quickly broadens into an upland,
miles and miles wide, dense with forest that, after a fashion,
shelters the vast sweep of the rearward walls.
Basil had already been gone two weeks, and little by little
Laurence’s exasperation had been growing to unbearable proportions,
when one afternoon, as she, according to her custom, was trailing her
fur-bordered velvets up and down the first floor, Garrassime
presented himself before her--hands crossed upon breast, and head
bowed, as is the rule of inferiors toward their masters there.
“What do you want?” Laurence threw at him over her shoulder, not
deigning to pause for the fraction of a second in her caged-tigress
walk.
“The _staròstá_, Your Highness, waits below, and would crave the
boon of a short audience.”
Laurence turned irritably and came toward Garrassime.
“Indeed! Then let him know that I have no time to waste upon such as
he!” she said, contemptuously.
Garrassime recoiled as if he had been struck, and, instinctively
retreating to the nearest wall, put as great a distance between
himself and his mistress as space would allow.
“Well, why don’t you go?” she demanded, stamping her narrow foot,
“instead of looking at me like a distressed owl. D’you hear?”
“I will go--Highness--I will go--but the _staròstá_ reports two
cases of typhus in the village--at least he thinks it is typhus, and
he prays a doctor may be sent for, and disinfectants, and--”
“Typhus!” Laurence cried, falling back in her turn. “And you dare to
approach me after speaking to that infected man! Go away! Go away!
This instant!”
But Garrassime did not move. For once, on the contrary, he
straightened himself to his full and enormous height, as if no longer
in presence of a loftier personality, and when he spoke it was in
altered accents.
“There is no risk, no danger!” he said, as he would have done to
reassure a fretful child. “He, the _staròstá_, has not been near
the houses where there is sickness--but there will be worse erelong
if one does not act promptly. Had there been risk of contagion I
would not have gone near him, for Prince Piotr’s sake--indeed, Your
Highness, not for mine, but for Prince Piotr’s.”
“How do you know whether there is risk or not?” Laurence exclaimed,
violently drawing her skirts around her. “Send for twenty doctors, if
you like. What do I care! I am going. I’ll leave here to-day. Give
orders for instant departure. Prince Piotr and his household can come
away, too. But go, go at once, and see to it!”
She was clutching distractedly at the back of a chair, and her
fingers fidgeted restlessly upon it. Garrassime was gazing at her in
absolute consternation. What was he to do in so unexpected a
dilemma--so unheard-of a situation! And this was his beloved
master’s wife--the Princess--the mother of the Boy-Heir of
his--Garrassime’s--adoration!
“Your Highness does not know,” he said, without moving from his
place, “that the doctor is far away. He has twenty thousand _souls_
to look after, and will not move without peremptory orders from the
_Zèmtsvo_, or from Your Highness, since his Excellency our Prince is
not here.”
“And if it gets worse?” Laurence asked, shivering like a leaf. “If
there is more of that plague coming? If--”
“_Bòg dâl y Bòg vzial_,” Garrassime gravely replied (God gave and
God took!). “That is all we will say then, Highness. It is for you,
Illustrious, however, to prevent its happening--if it can yet be
done!”
“The land-steward and the intendant must look to it all!” Laurence
cried, tripping over her words. “You are here to take care of me--of
Prince Piotr. You must not have anything to do with this ghastly
affair!”
Garrassime, hiding his indignation, advanced nearer to her
unreproved; she was too frightened now to notice it. “The people,” he
pronounced, with slow respect, “would long since have starved, or
died of many sicknesses, had our lords not taken care of them. The
taxes are heavy, Your Highness. We of the villages were happier a
thousand times as serfs--before the Little White Father of other
days--peace be to his soul--gave them their liberty.” Here Garrassime
bowed three times, crossing himself devoutly, and Laurence, held by
something she could not have explained, stood still, watching him.
“There is nothing left,” the gray-haired servitor ventured on, “but
to help them in every way, and that is what the Prince, Your
Highness’s Illustrious Consort, has always done, as his noble
father did before him. By their holy forethought cholera has already
been almost frightened away, and the people no longer starve. But
there are other evils, Highness--and we--that is, they thought--that
in the absence of our beloved master, Your Highness might
consider--the welfare of--his--people, Highness--that you might wish
to do for them what he does.”
She gave a short toss of the head. There was an expression of extreme
disgust in her whole attitude that did not escape him, and perhaps
emboldened him to go yet further.
“Your Highness cannot leave them now,” he said, almost sternly. “Not
while His Excellency is away, while they are so hard pressed already.
His Excellency’s forefathers through many, many generations have
aided and saved the forefathers of these in pain and trouble.
Remember that, Highness.”
“Cannot leave!” cried Laurence. “Cannot leave! Is there somebody here
or anywhere with enough effrontery to call _me_ to order?”
Garrassime glanced at her flashing eyes, at her white, furious face,
and suddenly he dropped to his knees before her, in a dumb attitude
of passionate entreaty, his hands clasped and upstretched to her. At
last he spoke: “You are our Lady, our hereditary Providence, our
all-powerful Mistress!” he said, almost as pale as she. “Have mercy
upon them--upon yourself also--Highness. Do not show the people that
you do not care--that you really are a stranger to them. They are a
strange sort here, Highness. You do not know--you do not know!”
Tears of anguish were in the eyes of the giant as he knelt there at
her feet, almost on the sumptuous folds of her gown. His inheritance
and training admitted of no other belief than that those living on
the land were born to look up to their Princes and Princesses, and
that these latter had been put into the world for few other purposes
than to help the peasants--no longer serfs, and therefore no longer
valuable property--as long as they needed help. It was a simple and
direct creed, encouraged by Basil, easily assimilated and followed,
and in his heart Garrassime prayed passionately that she might not
close her eyes and ears to his entreaties; that God would not allow
her to harden her heart.
Trembling with fright, Laurence once more stepped back. Her hatred of
Russia and everything Russian was so intense for the moment that it
obliterated the feeling of satisfied vanity which at times had come
to her when she saw her husband’s vassals--hers also by marriage if
she had so willed it--grovel at her feet. A half-crazed desire to fly
for safety deadened all other sensations, and her voice was dry and
hoarse as she again ordered Garrassime to leave her presence, to
hurry--only hurry--preparations for her departure.
Slowly the devoted man rose to his feet, and for an instant their
eyes met like two blades naked for combat; then the servant lowered
his gaze and, forcing himself to humility, bowed profoundly.
“I must obey,” he said, sorrowfully. “But Your Highness assuredly
does not comprehend the evil that will be done--the anger of His
Excellency, nor what the people are capable of if the sickness
spreads, and stricken by panic, they feel themselves forsaken. We of
the Castle cannot restrain them. They will break. I, Garrassime,
know them well--although I am not of them. They will become
uncontrollable--unrestrainable. I implore Your Highness not to decide
anything in haste. God knows what they might be exasperated into
doing--perhaps prevent Your Highness from leaving the place, and”--he
added, desperately--“if Your Highness goes, they will feel--and
justly so--that there is great danger: that they are lost.”
“But this is intolerable--unthinkable! Am I a prisoner here in my own
Castle--prisoner of that mob of diseased brutes?”
She glanced affrightedly around her at the ancient tapestries
shadowing the thick walls with uncouth figures, at the grim effigies
in knightly mail that with their tall lances so helplessly guarded
the great room, and finally at the row of unshuttered windows slowly
darkening to the night, and through which she saw a swift gleam of
powdered snow, a mere haze of sifting atoms fine as dust, but which
she knew might precede a _tourmente_.
“Ah, God!” she cried. “Is there no help for me? No one who can come
and release me from this torture?”
Garrassime was staring--staring--staring at her in her now disheveled
beauty, his lips slowly curling back from his sharp white teeth.
“The Duchess!” Laurence suddenly shrieked. “She is at Palitzinovna.
Send for the Duchesse de Salvières. She will know how to deal with
this. She may still come in time. Surely she will not refuse to come!
You don’t think she will refuse, Garrassime?”
“No, she will not refuse to come,” Garrassime assured her in a deep,
extra-guttural voice. “But will it be well, Excellency, if it be
found out afterward that Your Highness cannot manage her own people;
that only our own born Princess, one of our House, can do this easy
deed?”
“Easy deed?” exclaimed Laurence. “Easy deed? Besides, what does it
matter to me? I will have nothing to do with the people, I tell you!
What do you think I care about what these savages think or don’t
think? The Duchess may do so, but the Duchess belongs here, not I!
Let her come, and I will go. I have had enough--enough of this awful
country and its awful ways. Send for her. Tell the women to pack up
my things at once. Prepare Prince Piotr. We go, I tell you--we go--at
once!”
“No!”
At the sudden cry both Laurence and Garrassime turned with one
impulse to face the gallant little figure in Russian-green velvet
bounding in from the next salon.
“No!” again repeated the childish voice. “I have heard! I was looking
for Garrassime. I will not go and leave the sick people alone. Papa
is away, and now _I_ am the Prince!”
The boy’s dark eyes were glowing, and with his little flushed face
thrust excitedly forward, his baby speech suddenly clear and
masterful, in spite of his short five years of life, he looked every
inch what he claimed to be--the master in his father’s absence.
A silent laugh swept over Garrassime’s severe features, but he said
nothing.
“You wretched child!” shrieked Laurence, sweeping forward as she
spoke. “Carry him to his room, Garrassime, this instant. Well, this
_is_ the climax!”
“Don’t you touch me, Garrassime--and, mother, you keep off.” Two
small fists shot out in defense, and, quivering all over, Piotr stood
his ground.
With a choking gasp Laurence paused. This was the last straw for
nerves wire-drawn with boredom, and now frayed out by fear. “Do what
you like with him, Garrassime, but send immediately for the Duchess,”
she cried, and, gathering her long train under her arm, she fled
before the unspoken contempt of the servant, the hatred in her
son’s eyes--fled by the nearest door, running straight before her,
and as fast as she could.
Only after traversing several corridors did she begin to notice the
unfamiliarity of her surroundings, and realize that her headlong rush
had carried her far beyond the state apartments into regions where
she had never as yet penetrated--the oldest part of the Castle,
disused now for many years--a gloomy labyrinth of intersecting
passages, of dark rooms furnished in the austere fashion of many
generations before; somber salons and antechambers and galleries
where faded brocade draperies shivered and rippled in ghostly
cross-currents of icy wind. She was breathing short, her feet tripped
again and again on wrinkled carpets and rugs, but she never stopped,
for nervous panic such as she had never known was clutching her by
the throat, and it was from sheer exhaustion rather than from any
purposeful intent that she suddenly broke her flight and leaned
panting against a wall.
Where was she? The early winter afternoon was drawing to a close, and
every object around her was beginning to be shrouded by the
snow-footed twilight stealing in from without. Great chests bound
with bands of tarnished steel lined the vast oval chamber where she
stood; ancient oaken benches, worm-eaten and scarred with age, were
stiffly ranged along the four gaunt sides of a ponderous table; the
windows were uncurtained, excepting by rigid lambrequins covering
only the upper portion of them as they might have a catafalque.
Laurence shudderingly took in all this, and her teeth began to
chatter, not from cold only--though it was intensely cold there,
where the benefits of hot-water pipes, or even of stoves or open
fires, were non-existent--but from fear and apprehension carried to
their highest degree.
“The muniment-room,” she whispered to herself. Basil had spoken of it
once, but she had never come there, so incurious was she about the
past of a race she cared nothing for, excepting in so far as it
concerned her own present High-Mightiness and colossal wealth.
Twice she tried to steady her trembling limbs--she knew she must go
back to her own apartments before she fainted--twice she failed,
clutching convulsively at the top of the nearest chest for support,
and it was only after five minutes of strained effort that she
succeeded in dragging herself away, step by shaking step. What she
had at first taken for a niche in the wall opened before her like a
crafty eye, revealing a winding stair in the thickness of the
masonry, dusty, gloom-filled, and spider-webbed. Had she
unconsciously climbed to an upper floor, she questioned herself, or
was she still on a level with her own rooms? She did not know, nor
had she any means of finding out, especially in her present state of
semi-collapse, so she fearfully recrossed the muniment-room and
glanced down a straight, narrow gallery which she could not recall
having traversed. Night was creeping on so rapidly now that once more
terror shook her, and sooner than try that way she summoned her
remaining strength, and, going back once more, after a moment’s
hesitation whether to follow the gut-like spiral up or down, she
commenced to descend the narrow steps. It must be in a tower, she
hazily realized, since there it was a trifle lighter, owing to the
thickly glazed _meurtrières_, which reappeared at each successive
winding of the interminable flight. Would she ever reach the bottom?
Mechanically she began to count them one by one, lost the sequence,
and at length found herself stranded in a square hall that smelled of
mould and ancient damp. A faint gray light showed beyond an arched
doorway on the other side, and toward this she walked, dragging her
mauve velvets in the sodden grime, for even the weight of her train
had grown to be too much for her. Another minute or so and she was in
a high-vaulted passage, opening far down an endless perspective of
groinings like some queer souterrain upon a clearer place--a lamp-lit
place, evidently--some sort of still-room or cellar, she thought, for
presently she could see great casks and chests along its rough
stonework. This she negotiated, steering for another opening exactly
opposite, but before she quite reached that she heard voices from
beyond a nail-studded door that stood ajar on her right--angry
Russian voices raised in execration or denunciation--she knew not
which, for she had never been able to learn Russian well enough to
follow a rapid conversation, nor had she tried very strenuously to do
so, but in her over-excited condition the whistling syllables
became, curiously enough, almost plain to her.
“She? Help us?” the raucous, _vòdka_-soaked accents were saying.
“This stranger from among strangers! Bah! You don’t believe it, do
you? Did she ever do any of us a kindness, or throw us a look, even?
We are not as good as dogs to her. But wait, she’ll find us to
be wolves, too, on occasion. Have patience, little fathers;
our turn will come soon now; and were it not for the Boy--for
Basil-Vassilièvitch, too, who cares for us in his way--when she lets
him--we’d show her what we can do! Let her not tempt us too far,
however--or we’ll make her dance in the moonlight!” There was a
chorus of coarse laughter, and then a short silence.
Making herself exceeding small, Laurence flattened herself against
the spring of the huge stone arch behind her. Who could that be who
had just spoken words of sedition within Tverna Castle? Who were they
who had threatened her--and what--what was that about “dancing in the
moonlight?” Her servants, the _staròstá_, _mujiks_, perhaps? Who
could it have been? she asked herself. She felt that in another
second she would ask aloud, and then cry out for help; and yet she
knew instinctively that no sound could pass her throat, her parched
lips. Suppose the speakers were to come out and see her there--she,
the abhorred one? Would they tear her to pieces? She scarcely doubted
it, and as noiselessly as she could she slipped into a near-by
recess, trying still further to conceal herself. Encountering wood
instead of stone, her hand groped feverishly for some means of
escape--and, yes, was luck going to be with her at last?--her shaking
fingers found a polished knob which yielded at her touch. A slight
creak that brought the goose-flesh all over her for fear it should be
heard, and the panel of a door receded, showing a lighted staircase,
clean and garnished for constant use, as every inch of it denoted.
With a wild heart-beat she slid the panel to as quietly as she could,
and ran with reviving energy up and up and higher up, until after a
little she cleared the last steps and found herself face to face with
another door. This she had no difficulty in opening, pushed aside a
thick curtain, and there was the state-hall with its two huge
fireplaces, its fur rugs and broad divans, its panoplies of arms, and
tall candelabras shedding their mellow radiance over multitudinous
and exquisite luxuries. At the farther end rose grandly the double
flight leading to the private apartments, and up this too she raced
as if hotly pursued, although all was silence and peace and delicious
warmth, from the heaped-up logs burning rosily on the twin hearths to
the broad bowls of violets and narcissi, roses and gardenias, filling
the air with their delicate fragrance.
The same impulse of unquenchable terror drove her to close and
double-lock all the entrances of her own rooms before letting herself
fall in a heap upon the white-bear rug of her boudoir, and there she
lay motionless, save for a persistent tremor which ran up and down
her slim body in spasmodic waves.
After a time--it might have been an hour, more or less--there was a
soft tap at the door opening upon the main gallery; but she did not
stir, and the knock was repeated louder, and then still more loudly.
“Who is there?” Laurence asked, raising herself on one elbow.
“Célèste, Madame la Princesse!” fluted the mincing voice of her
French maid, one eye to the keyhole and both ears keenly on the
alert. “It is past the hour for Madame la Princesse to dress for the
dinner.”
“Don’t bother me!” Laurence called, tremulously. “_Allez vous en,
Célèste._ I’ll ring when I want you.”
The pointed heels of the _camériste_ beat a gay little tattoo on the
inlaid floor of the corridor as she retreated, and again there was
silence. Laurence settled down again in the fur, her head cushioned
on the stuffed bear’s head, her brain slowly awakening to the fact
that she must at any cost make good her escape before her
sister-in-law arrived, for assuredly the Duchess would force her to
remain at her post until Basil came back. Time was not lacking. The
distance was great between Tverna and Palitzinovna, and even with
fast horses it would take hours to accomplish the trip, especially in
view of the severity of the weather; but still, had she not been so
cramped and sore from her recent and unaccustomed exertions, she
would have begun instantly to make preparations, although as yet she
had not the faintest idea how, unaided, she could get away. This was
absolutely the end of Russia for her! Nothing that Tatiana or even
Basil could do or say would alter that resolve. He could stay there
if he wished, or follow her if he chose. She would leave Piotr in his
aunt’s care, and Basil was welcome to keep his son, should he
prefer remaining in his own land. _She did not care._ No, the worst
of it all was that she really did not care a jot for either of them,
and presently her fast-awakening imagination began to call forth
pictures of a life of unbounded pleasure and luxury for herself in
Paris and the Rivièra. Long days of _dolce far niente_, long nights
of amusement, suffused with incessant adulation, compliment, praise
and appreciation of her charms, her wealth, her beauty! The image of
Neville Moray gradually detached itself from this enticing
background, and with a little gasp of surprise she saw before her new
possibilities of delightful companionship, such as her present
existence did not easily afford. Paris, Monte Carlo, Nice, Cannes,
Cap Martin, yachting trips to Algiers or Alexandria, a month or so at
Trouville or Deauville, the races, the _petits chevaux_, a box at the
opera, probably sojourns in Rome during the season, and certainly
brilliant appearances in May-decked London, or on the Solent later
on, when Royal and Imperial visitors displayed their pennants there.
All this made up a kaleidoscopical jumble which whirled in her brain
until she almost forgot what she considered her pressing and imminent
personal danger. Another tap at the door, however, roused her to
reality, and, sitting bolt upright, she listened.
“Excellency!” Garrassime was whispering through the keyhole.
“Excellency, I implore Your Highness to let me in!”
“Old beast!” muttered Laurence, furiously, and gave no answer.
The pleading voice rose from a mere discreet murmur to a louder, yet
always subdued, entreaty, and at last, remembering that she had
better find out if her message had been sent; Laurence rose to her
feet, and, noiselessly crossing to the door, pulled it brutally open
without the least warning. Garrassime, the imperturbable, had been,
so to speak, shaken out of his usual calm by Laurence’s variegated
doings that day, and no wonder, so that when brusquely confronted by
the white-faced, wild-eyed, _décoiffée_ woman, who had hitherto
only appeared to him perched upon her faultless elegance, he fell
back with some abruptness.
“Ah, the poor lamb!” he thought in his Russian way; “if she only
would be good and let us love and respect her!” Fortunately for him,
she was no mind-reader, and the pity in his eyes escaped her somewhat
muddled powers of observation, for when she spoke it was with a hint
of civility she had never deigned to grant him.
“Did you manage to send a rider to my sister-in-law, Garrassime?” she
asked, swaying a little as she held on by one hand to the door-jamb,
for she was far from steady yet.
Garrassime eyed her apprehensively. She did look bad, poor lady--and
this was a difficult position and a rough place, after all was said
and done, for such as she.
“Yes, Highness,” he said in a humble voice. “Platon went with the
message nigh three hours since.”
Laurence heaved such a sigh of relief that she actually tottered on
her tired feet, and, greatly alarmed, Garrassime picked her up like a
baby and, crossing the room in two strides, had laid her down on a
lounge before she knew what was happening. Dazed still, but
absolutely indignant, she tried to struggle up, but an enormous
hand--light as a feather--held her tenderly back, while to her
outraged feelings Garrassime’s deep voice, coaxing as if he were
talking to little Piotr, uttered the following astounding and
unpardonable words in impulsive Russian, “My daughter, my little
dove, be quiet and let your old servant take care of you now, my
pretty lamb!”
“That’s what comes of Basil’s impossible leniency toward his
people! Impertinence! Familiarity! Indecent meddlesomeness! Ah! This
unbearable pretense of belonging to the family!” thought Laurence,
crimson with fury; and she wrathfully twisted out of his gentle grasp
and sat up, frowning and haughty, on the edge of the lounge.
“Go! And send me Célèste before I do you a mischief, you insolent
dog!” she cried, pointing to the door with a rigidly extended finger
and the mien of an opera-bouffe queen dismissing a slave.
Completely stupefied, Garrassime stared at her, scarcely
understanding what she was saying. How could his solicitude have
offended her? He raised his eyes in involuntary protest; then he
backed out of “The Presence,” pausing on the threshold merely long
enough to make a very low and final obeisance, and was gone.
A few minutes later Célèste came tripping in, her pert face alight
with curiosity; but when she caught sight of her lady she uttered a
little shriek of distress thin and as piercing as a penny whistle.
“But _mon Dieu_! What has Madame la Princesse done to herself!” she
cried, her large dark eyes widened to their uttermost extent.
Laurence rose impatiently, marched to the door, which she
double-locked, and returned to the fire-corner, suddenly quite cool
and collected.
“I have had a terrible fright, Célèste,” she said. “This is a
dreadful place; not fit for me to live in!”
“Ah, Madame la Princesse may well say so!” the maid affirmed, hands
and eyes uplifted in dramatic acquiescence. “Ah, but a place! A place
of devils and devilries!” she continued, volubly; for though Laurence
so angrily resented familiarity from her inferiors, to her maid and
quasi-confidante of secrets perhaps weightier than those of the
toilet, she was decidedly “uncorseted,” both physically and morally.
“We shall all perish if Monsieur le Prince keeps us incarcerated here
much longer. And those peasants, so ferocious, so savage! Not that
some of them are not good-looking enough; the grooms, too. Madame la
Princesse has not perhaps noticed the grooms?”
Laurence laughed and shrugged her shoulders, but without any
indignation whatsoever. This merry daughter of Provence amused her
even at this critical moment. Moreover, during the last few minutes a
sudden plan had formed in her head: a plan for the execution of which
Célèste might be a most useful and powerful aid.
“Don’t you think, Célèste,” she began, a trifle hesitatingly--“don’t
you think that we might escape from here, you and I alone, without
anybody being the wiser?”
Célèste drew in her breath sensationally, and then let it out again
between her rather pointed white teeth, in sincere compliment to a
harmonious steam-valve. It was her usual method of expressing
surprise, admiration, fear, joy, and what not else? There may be
worse ones.
“Decamp!--vanish!” she cried, joyfully. “What a magnificent idea!
But”--and she paused, one dimpled hand to her lips--“how can we do
it, Madame la Princesse? The château is guarded like a _caserne_,
and it’s all rock, with walls that thick”--here she illustrated the
thickness of those walls by a flight of both arms inimitably
comprehensive and spaceful.
“You were speaking of the grooms, whom _you_ decidedly have noticed,”
interrupted Laurence. “Tell me frankly, have you got any special
friend among them?”
Célèste immediately fell into an attitude of unconvincing coyness;
her whole diminutive person emanated a righteousness not to be
trifled with, but the tip of her _retroussé_ nose moved quaintly,
like that of a rabbit scenting clover-laden breezes--the devil was
losing nothing--and Laurence, who knew her handmaiden by heart,
waited silently.
“Madame la Princesse must be pleased to joke!” the girl began, with
much underlying archness. “A special friend--an _amoureux_? Is that
what Madame la Princesse means?”
“Yes, if you like, an admirer.”
“No! no! Madame la Princesse--excepting of course that great lout of
a Fidèlka, who makes a fool of himself whenever he gets the chance,
and chooses to look at one with his big goggle eyes. These
Russians--Madame la Princesse knows well how they are when they see a
petticoat above a tight-drawn stocking--more especially a silk
stocking....” And the bright eyes glanced modestly down at the trim
ankle and charmingly slippered foot peeping from the hem of her
well-fitting dark-cloth skirt.
“Fidèlka! A reassuring name for you. Faithful! Can anything speak
more highly for him? Well, Célèste, do you believe that you could
persuade your goggle-eyed pet to smuggle a sleigh out of the stables
at sunrise to-morrow, and to drive us to the next post-station?
Nobody would dare to pursue me, I am sure of that!”
“But why does not Madame la Princesse order a sleigh? Madame la
Princesse is the lady of the house; her orders are to be obeyed.”
“You don’t understand, my poor Célèste,” Laurence said, with
dawning annoyance. “The peasants have got an idea about my being
created to look after them--when they are sick.” And with what she
deemed a flash of genius she hastily added, “Think of it, there’s
typhus in the village now; typhus, Célèste!”
Strange to state, however, Célèste did not pretend to faint. She
was an extraordinarily vain and feather-brained girl, but no coward,
and she merely nodded her tiny lace cap.
“Typhus! Oh yes! Old Garrassime said something of that to me a while
ago, but that’s nothing. One must have sickness about sometimes,
and that would not frighten Madame la Princesse, of course. As to the
peasants, these boors, they really mean no harm; they grumble and
curse and swear when they’re drunk--and they’re mostly drunk;
they’re like our ‘Reds’ at home, all brandy and silliness! If I
were Madame la Princesse I’d go out with a fat dog-whip and slash
them till they’re satisfied, that’s the only way with such
_canaille_. But it’s the silence here, and the snow, and the
_ennui_ I don’t like. I love shops and noise and electric lamps on
both sides of the street, and--”
“O-o-o-o-h! Never mind what you love. Can you or can you not induce
that Fidèlka of yours to take us away?” Laurence exclaimed,
peevishly; and Célèste, who felt vexed at the interruption, drew
back, pouting.
“How can I tell, Madame la Princesse? And then there’s Monsieur le
Prince to consider; he’ll make a fine fuss when he comes back and
doesn’t find us.”
“I don’t suppose he will mind not finding _you_!” Laurence said,
witheringly and quite tactlessly. “So you needn’t bother about that
part of it.”
This was going from bad to worse. Célèste’s supercilious
eyebrows became ominous, and Laurence quailed. She needed Célèste
badly.
“Oh, don’t be foolish! I’m only joking!” she prudently remarked,
retreating from an untenable position with as much grace as she could
muster. “See, it’s getting late already,” and she pointed to a
little traveling-clock on the jewel-table that was nervously hurrying
over the minute marks. “Why don’t you go and try at once, _ma
petite_?”
Somewhat mollified, Célèste smoothed her eyebrows with a delicate
touch. “Eight o’clock,” she consented, “and Madame la Princesse has
had nothing to eat since tea; also Madame la Princesse looks
frightful in that bedraggled tea-gown.”
“Never mind the gown. Tell me, Célèste, can you slip out to the
stables? The men must just have had their supper. You’d find that
Fidèlka, perhaps!”
The girl did not move. She had a habit of instantly repaying any
small roughness meted out to her by the lady she served without love.
She rather fancied seeing her on a silver gridiron, and the clock was
still racing to the accompaniment of a wee musical tick, very
enervating to hear.
Laurence was beaten! She would not beg, she could not order after the
recent laxity of her talk, and quickly she unfastened a circlet of
large turquoises from her slender wrist. “Catch!” she cried, with
assumed gaiety, tossing the trinket to the girl.
Dexterously Célèste caught it in mid-air, and looked at it
thoughtfully.
“Madame la Princesse is going to undress?” she asked, demurely.
“Why--no! It’s for you!” responded the inwardly boiling Laurence.
“A bribe!” Célèste’s voice was flute-like. “Madame la Princesse
is too good. I do not deserve it!”
“But you do, Célèste--I mean a small present--since you’re going
to help me, you and your handsome admirer. No, don’t put it away;
keep it. I’m sure it will look well on your arm.”
“So do I, Madame la Princesse,” Célèste admitted, carelessly
dropping the jewel in the transparent pocket of her absurd lace
apronlet. “If Madame la Princesse insists, I must naturally accept
it. And now I will try to sneak out with a shawl over my head like
the peasant women here; but it’s only to please Madame la
Princesse, because that Fidèlka may not be alone, and, of course, I
can’t compromise myself before the other men.”
“Here, put on my hooded fur cloak!” Laurence exclaimed, rising as
though to fetch it herself--she was apparently willing to drain the
cup to its bitterest dregs.
“_Madame n’y pense pas!_” remonstrated Célèste. “I’ll be back
in a moment, and Madame la Princesse must lock the door behind me,
for fear the second or third or fourth maid should happen round. _En
voilà des arias!_” she concluded, with a funny twist of the
shoulders as she left the room.
As soon as she was gone Laurence got up, went into her bedroom, and,
taking a diminutive bunch of keys from her pocket, shifted the
_arras_, disclosing a narrow steel panel, which after some
incantation of an arithmetical nature she got open. Behind a second
fire-proof door, _écrin_ upon _écrin_ stood revealed, and these she
precipitately opened. From a side-shelf of metal she brought forth a
broad, flat reindeer-leather bag, hanging from a practically
unbreakable belt, and hurriedly thrust into its many snug
compartments the greater part of the jewel-safe’s contents.
Emeralds, rubies, pearls, sapphires, but especially diamonds--strings
and rivers and clusters of diamonds--sparkled through her busy
fingers and disappeared. Then she plunged her hand farther into the
recess, and, drawing out a thick packet of large bank-notes, stowed
them away by themselves in a separate pocket. One move more, and
with a click a secret drawer flew open. From this Laurence snatched a
square linen-lined envelope full of letters, pressed it almost
mechanically to her lips, and, slipping it beneath the notes, pulled
up her skirt, fastened the belt tightly around her slender waist,
and, having put everything in order, returned to the boudoir.
She was just in time to hear Célèste’s tap, and opened instantly.
“Well?” she asked.
“_Bien!_ Madame la Princesse! _Très-bien!_ Fidèlka was lounging in
the saddle-room--and for a consideration he’ll do it!”
“How much?” demanded Laurence, unconsciously touching the leather bag
beneath her crumpled velvets. “What have you paid? How much?” she
repeated.
Célèste, who stood behind Laurence, busily unclasping the hooks of
her tea-gown, laughed a mischievous laugh.
“A great deal--a great--great deal!”
“But how much?” repeated Laurence, vainly trying to look over her
shoulder at the little maid.
“Madame la Princesse needn’t worry,” the latter gurgled, “nor does
Madame la Princesse owe me anything.”
“Why?”
“Because I paid from my own private treasury.”
The soft dress had just fallen to the ground in a crushed circle
about Laurence’s feet, and Célèste’s face, as she bent down for
it, was pink as a June rose.
“Kisses!” exclaimed Laurence. “Only kisses?”
“But that’s a great deal. Though I would have given even more to
serve Madame la Princesse.” And gathering fur and velvet into her
arms, Célèste rushed into the adjoining bath-room, where a moment
later she was noisily turning on both taps.