IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO.
During the three days that she was traveling on the railway in a
compartment near that of Prince Olsdorf, the pretty Vera Soublaieff had
been in one long dream. She was going to Paris, which she had so often
heard spoken of and so enthusiastically by her countrymen, to meet again
the Princess Lise, who had always been so kind to her, and to live a
less monotonous life than at Alba. The day after her arrival, already
recovered from the fatigue of traveling, she awoke joyously, and, like a
bird that the sun attracts, ran to the window of her room.
The apartments the Russian nobleman occupied at the Grand Hotel looked
on to the boulevard. Although it was barely ten o'clock the sight it
offered to Vera almost dazzled her. She had been for a long time under
the charm when the body-servant of her master came to announce, in
almost a ceremonious tone, that the prince was waiting luncheon for her.
"Waiting for me?" said the young girl. "I don't understand you, my good
Yvan."
"I am only bringing the prince's message. The table is laid for two, and
no visitor is expected."
After standing in astonishment for a moment, Vera dressed quickly and
went to the husband of Lise Barineff.
He was looking through the newspapers, perhaps to distract his thoughts
from the interview he had just had with his wife, perhaps, too, to hide
his face. One of the sub-managers was standing at the door of the room,
waiting for the order to serve the meal.
At the entrance of his traveling companion, Pierre Olsdorf rose, went
forward to meet her, and said gallantly, offering his hand:
"Good-morning, dear child. How have you slept?"
Thinking she must have misunderstood what she had heard, the farmer's
daughter looked round the room in surprise. There was nobody there but
herself and the manager, who still stood motionless. It was she, after
all, that the prince was speaking to.
Bending forward over the hand that was offered to her, Vera wished to
press her lips to it, but Pierre Olsdorf, drawing her gently toward him,
kissed her forehead, and said, pointing to the table laid for two:
"Has the journey made you lose your appetite?"
He drew her arm affectionately under his to lead her to the table, where
she fell into, rather than seated herself on, the chair Yvan offered
her.
Vera Soublaieff had never been more beautiful in her national costume.
Emotion had given a more brilliant color to her face; her scarlet lips
wore a childish smile full of charm, and her big eyes, with their long
black lashes, seemed to question with simple trouble all that surrounded
her.
She well remembered that the prince had always been gentle and kind to
her, as he was to all his servants, but she had never sat at his table,
and he had never paid her such attentions as these.
Was not all this a continuance of her dream? Was she really awake yet?
The nobleman recalled his beautiful guest to the reality by begging her
to partake of each of the dishes that the manager offered her; but Vera,
who blushed at being waited on, scarcely eat anything at all. She was
forced to admit the evidence of her senses; it was really she, the
daughter of Soublaieff, who was there, opposite her lord and master.
The thought of the princess then came suddenly to her mind. She wondered
why she had not yet seen her, why the prince had not taken her to his
wife, and why she was not with her husband.
An instinctive fear seized upon her. She rose suddenly, and clasping her
hands, her eyes filling with tears, said, in a supplicating voice:
"Pierre Alexandrowich, what have I done that you should ridicule me so?
What is your will with me, your servant?"
The young girl had spoken in Russian, adding, as is the custom, to the
first name of the prince the first name of his father. Pierre Olsdorf,
in his turn, was for the moment taken by surprise.
He told the manager to leave the room, sent away Yvan with a gesture,
and going to Vera, said in a tender voice:
"What is the matter, child? Why are you so agitated? How could you think
that I wished to ridicule you?"
He had led her to a sofa, on which she sunk, trembling.
The prince went on, seating himself beside her:
"You are the daughter of an old retainer, for whom I have a great esteem
and affection. That in itself should reassure you. When I told your
father I wished to bring you to Paris, he did not ask me for what
object. He knew, and he knows, that you have nothing to fear while you
are with me; that your honor is guarded by mine. I need your devoted,
complete, and blind aid. I must not tell you why; young as you are, you
will understand these things only too soon. It will be for me then to
thank you and prove my gratitude. Until then do not question me; be
surprised at nothing, no matter what I may require of you, or how
strange and inexplicable the scenes may seem to be in which you will
take part. I have chosen you to help me in accomplishing the end I aim
at because you are young, beautiful, intelligent, and worthy of
respect."
Her fine eyes, still tearful, fixed on her master's, Vera listened and
scarcely understood the meaning of his words; but her calmness had
returned. She was no longer frightened, and when the prince asked if he
could count upon her obedience she took his hand and kissed it,
replying:
"Your servant is your property. Do with her as you please."
At this moment there was a tap at the door, and Yvan entered with a
letter for his master which a commissionaire had brought.
In it the princess told her husband that she was awaiting his
instructions and was ready to follow them.
"Dear child," said Pierre Olsdorf to Vera as soon as they were again
alone together, "the moment for action has come sooner than I looked for
it. To-morrow we shall leave this hotel. Meanwhile dry your eyes and go
for a drive with Yvan to see Paris, that you were so happy in the
thought of visiting."
The prince pressed the young girl's hands gently, and left her still
somewhat moved, but no longer alarmed. Fear had yielded to curiosity.
Pierre Olsdorf and Vera met again in the evening at dinner, and the meal
was almost a merry one. Yvan had driven his countrywoman to the Champs
Elysees, the Bois de Boulogne, and the Jardin d'Acclimation; and the
daughter of Soublaieff, who had only seen St. Petersburg and the great
park at Pampeln, was so astonished at what she beheld that, encouraged
by the approving smile of her master, she told him with enthusiasm about
all she had seen. At the end of the evening when she had retired to
rest, she slipped into the large bed with a sort of indefinable pleasure
after linking the name of the prince with that of God in her prayers.
Next day Pierre and Soublaieff's daughter were able to move into some
charming rooms in the Rue Auber, in consequence of the sudden departure
for St. Petersburg of the Countess Panine. She was charmed to be able to
let Prince Olsdorf have her furnished rooms, leaving him, too, her cook
and her maid, who, on account of her health, could not go with her
mistress to Russia. In this way, within twenty-four hours, the prince
had his house on a comfortable footing.
Thenceforward began for Vera a life she had never dreamed of, surprise
following surprise. Every morning in waking her, Julie, the lady's maid,
brought her flowers from the prince, and almost every day there was some
present or other offered by himself--a jewel, or fan, or one of those
costly gewgaws, which are so thoroughly identified with Parisian luxury.
Moreover, Soublaieff's daughter must abandon herself to the
dress-makers, who took possession of her, acting under orders; and the
surprises for her grew more frequent and complete as she saw herself, a
child of the people, clothed ordinarily, in holland or wool, a fine lady
robed in silk and velvet. Obedient, as she had promised to be, she made
no difficulties; she murmured her thanks and was passive. But one
evening, when, being dressed--the prince had told her they were going
out together--she saw herself covered with diamonds, in a long gown of
white satin terminating in a train, her luxuriant dark hair twisted up
above the neck instead of hanging in thick plaits, she scarcely knew
herself.
However, with the singular faculty of adaptation that all women have,
Vera was neither awkward nor strange in a part so new for her; she
played it with simplicity and admirably. Up to now she had been adorably
pretty; the transformation made her strikingly beautiful.
When she was seen at the opera this evening a murmur of admiration ran
through the house. Everybody's eyes turned to her, but she was almost
unconscious of them, being wholly given up to the brilliant scene on the
stage, which was the first thing of the kind she had seen. Seated behind
her, Pierre seemed to delight in her triumph, and on his arm the young
girl descended the grand staircase, passing through the crowd amid a
flattering murmur.
Next morning all the papers spoke of the new and resplendent star that
had shone out in the Parisian sky. They did not know her name, but they
gave the prince's, adding significantly that the princess was not with
her husband.
Pierre Olsdorf had gained the end he had in view in showing himself at
the theater with Soublaieff's daughter. In the eyes of the
scandal-mongers the prince was simply taking his revenge. He retorted
upon his wife and Paul Meyrin by parading one of the most ravishing
mistresses imaginable.
However, amid the luxury that surrounded her, in the whirl of this new
life which still occasioned her some little fear, there was one thing
that Vera could not understand, and that was the strange bearing of the
prince toward her. Complete as her ignorance was of life and its
passions, his conduct struck her more and more, putting into her mind
thoughts which troubled her and her virginity of soul.
Before the servants, or when they were together in public exposed to the
curious looks of everybody, Pierre Olsdorf was eager in attentions,
tender, and happy; while as soon as he was alone with her, though still
affectionate and kind, he grew serious and almost cold.
Vera could not understand these sudden changes. She had never said to
herself that her master might love her, and indeed his love would have
frightened her, although she was full of affection for him and ready for
any sacrifice. The conduct of the prince was most strange of an evening
when they came in from a stroll on the boulevards.
Her chamber was separated from his by a bath-room alone. From the one
chamber access could be had to the other. When the time came, Julie
undressed her young mistress, put her to bed, and then went to tell the
prince, waiting in a sitting-room hard by, that madame had retired.
Prince Olsdorf appeared almost immediately, closed the door softly
behind him, walked gently through the room as if afraid of disturbing
the young girl, wished good-night to Vera by a friendly gesture, not
going near her ever, and so went into his own room.
Vera whose heart beat more quickly as the prince passed through her
room, would soon fall asleep, but her slumber was sometimes troubled by
strange thrills, indefinite thoughts, and modest fears.
For nearly a month this had gone on. The prince had had a final
interview with his wife to arrange everything in conformity with his
design, when one evening, he having taken the farmer's beautiful
daughter to the Vaudeville Theatre, it was past midnight when they got
back home.
Pierre Olsdorf had never been more affectionate and attentive. They
walked back from the theater. When he offered his arm to the young girl
as they started for the Rue Auber, going by the boulevard and the Place
de l'Opera, she had to summon all her strength to master the beating of
her heart, which threatened to betray her by its violent throbs.
Vera could no longer hide the truth from herself. She loved, with a
timid and chaste but deep love, the man who for some weeks had shared
her life. She did not ask of herself now what he wished to do with her.
She cared little. She saw him every day, almost every hour, and she had
but one fear--that she might awaken from this delicious dream.
As for the prince, he seemed uneasy, preoccupied, and impatient.
When they had got back to the house, Vera, as usual, went to her room,
whither Julie followed her. In a few minutes she was in bed, feverish
and thrilling, for Pierre, before she left him, had kissed her with a
sort of passionate tenderness which had troubled her deeply. At the
long, close touch of his lips on her forehead the sweet virginal eyes
had closed, and she had nearly fainted.
Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed, when the door of her room
opened.
It was the prince. As usual, no doubt, he would walk through the room to
his own, and Vera was smiling already in reply to the "good-night" that
he always waved to her as he walked by, when the husband of Lise
Barineff, instead of going on his way, approached the bed and seated
himself on the chair near it, on which, in womanly disorder, warm and
fragrant, was heaped the silken dressing-gown which the young girl had
just thrown off.
Vera, greatly surprised, half raised herself, adorably beautiful in this
movement of chaste trust; and, in reply to the questioning look in her
large eyes, Pierre Olsdorf said, taking her hand:
"Do not fear, dear child; listen to me."
"Oh, I am not afraid," she said, with innocent trust, leaving her little
trembling hand in the prince's.
Pierre, more moved than he was willing to seem, went on:
"The moment has come for you to give me a great proof of your devotion.
In a few moments something will happen here which will seem inexplicable
to you--an event in which you will play the chief part. What I desire of
you is that you will be surprised at nothing, that you will obey me
blindly, and not be afraid whatever may happen."
"I don't understand you," murmured the young girl, "but I promise to do
all you wish me to do."
Vera's hand was as cold as ice; all the blood had rushed to her heart.
A bell ringing violently and suddenly made her tremble.
The prince had risen from his seat and was listening, but he did not
move away.
Yvan, who had not gone to bed, had answered the bell, for the footsteps
of several people were heard in the antechamber, where the unexpected
visitors were parleying with the servant.
"Remember what I have just told you," Pierre said, rapidly, to
Soublaieff's daughter.
And, quickly taking off his coat, he sat on the side of the bed, and
leaned toward Vera as if to kiss her.
At that moment the door of the bed-chamber was opened abruptly, and the
poor child, who had stifled a cry of surprise at the prince's action,
instinctively threw her bare arms about his neck, as if to protect him
or to beg for his help and protection.
Pierre Olsdorf drew himself gently from the embrace and turned round.
He was before three strangers, one of whom, plainly the chief actor in
this singular scene, said to him, politely uncovering:
"Monsieur, you are Prince Pierre Olsdorf?"
"That is my name," the Russian nobleman replied at once, with the
greatest calmness.
"I am the commissary of police of this district, delegated by the Juge
d'Instruction Leroy to prove against you an act of adultery, by virtue
of Article 1307 of the Code Civile. The law directs me to summon hither
Madame la Princess, at whose petition process has been issued."
Lise Barineff, who was waiting in the next room, came forward,
accompanied by the commissary of police's secretary.
The princess was pale and trembling. She looked as if she would faint.
"Madame," said the police agent, "is this gentleman your husband?"
"Yes," stammered the guilty wife, raising her eyes.
"Very good, madame; you may retire."
It was none too soon. Lise Olsdorf could hardly stand, though she was
leaning against the side of the door-way. She had stifled a cry of
surprise.
She had recognized Vera Soublaieff in the young girl lying in the bed of
this room, and she felt a jealous pang at her heart, while her pride was
cruelly humiliated at the same time.
So it was the daughter of one of his farmers whom Pierre Olsdorf had
chosen to play the part of his mistress in this domestic drama. Before
Vera, who knew her, and whose humble homage she had so often received,
she must bow the head! Ah, it was too much; and she had been a stupid
simpleton up to now in regarding her husband's conduct as chivalrous. He
was but a man like other men; he had eagerly snatched at the chance to
gratify a caprice no doubt of long standing. Who could say? Perhaps she
had been first deceived.
She had, of course, heard and read in the newspapers that Prince Olsdorf
was openly to be seen in Paris with an adorable young girl; but, forced
to go out very rarely by reason of the stir that her divorce made and
the victim's part that she had to play, she had never met the two
lovers. As for Paul Meyrin, it can easily be surmised that he was
careful not to show himself where he might be face to face with the man
whose wife, by his order, he was to marry.
Lise Barineff, therefore, had no reason to expect to surprise Vera
Soublaieff in her husband's arms; and the sight of this young girl, who
had so often stooped to kiss her hand, was well fitted, in the actual
circumstances of the scene, to make her forget her own fault and to
rouse all her pride.
These thoughts made her raise her head, and very likely she would have
smiled scornfully upon Vera, but that a look from Pierre Olsdorf
reminded her of the shame of her situation and commanded her retreat.
She obeyed.
"My only further duty, prince," the commissary of police then continued,
"is to draw up my report witnessing as against you the presence of a
concubine in the conjugal dwelling, to make the search prescribed by the
law, and to expel your accomplice from this room."
Vera, whom astonishment and fear had up to now made silent, could not
keep back a cry of indignation at this threat. Her innocence could not
now hinder her from understanding the truth. She the mistress of Prince
Olsdorf!
With an affectionate gesture he reassured her and enjoined silence, and
the unhappy girl, blushing deeply, fell upon the bed hiding in the
pillows her face bathed in tears.
Pierre Olsdorf replied to the commissary of police that he would submit
to all that was needful to be done.
After casting a glance around the room where this scene had passed, the
commissary passed into the adjoining room to dictate to his secretary
the report in which it was stated that in a bed-chamber of his house,
Prince Olsdorf had been found with a young girl who had lived with him
for more than a month and, that being questioned, the prince had not
denied the allegation of adultery made against him.
An intelligent and well-known officer, the commissary felt that no
search was necessary. Instinctively, perhaps, he suspected that he was
not witnessing an ordinary conjugal drama, and he was willing to confine
himself to doing what was strictly needful.
His report having been revised, read over to the prince, and
countersigned by the two witnesses, the functionary took his leave
without returning to the bed-chamber, where Vera taking literally the
threat that had been made about her, had risen and dressed hurriedly
without asking herself what was to become of her or where she would find
shelter.
When Pierre Olsdorf, returning to the young girl, found her half
dressed, sobbing, and nearly distracted with shame, he suddenly felt the
wrong that he had done this unconscious maiden; he understood how cruel
and blamable his conduct toward her had been.
The fact was that his actions had grown one out of the other by a chain
of fatal logic. He could not bear--he, the irreproachable husband up to
now--to pass for the lover of the first girl he could find, easy as it
would have been to put his hand on one in Paris to play the part he
would have had to offer her in this singular adventure. If he could have
made up his mind to the association with so vile an accomplice, perhaps
no one would have believed in his guilt, or would have found it very
excusable. He wished, on the contrary, to appear doubly culpable, and
had taken upon himself the responsibility of an act doubly blameworthy,
legally and morally, for he could be accused not only of adultery but of
the seduction and abduction of a young girl over whom he had, in some
sort, authority, and whose innocence and beauty would be cause enough
for his passion and forgetfulness of duty.
Now the prince thought no more of all these reasons for his course of
action; he saw only the despair of this child, dishonored though pure,
and, deeply sorrowing, struck too, perhaps, for the first time by her
adorable beauty, he sprung toward her, drew her into his arms, and,
pressing her feverishly to his heart, said tenderly:
"Vera, calm yourself and think no more of going away. I will very soon
explain everything; but will you ever pardon me?"
Soublaieff's daughter let her head sink on the prince's shoulder,
murmuring:
"Are you not the master: am not I the slave?"