THE INQUIRY.
While following with absolute obedience the instructions of her husband,
the Princess Olsdorf still felt so deeply humiliated by the vileness of
the part she had to play that now and again she had thoughts of
rebelling. But she knew the character of the prince, she knew that
nothing would shake his purpose, and above all she remembered the
terrible calmness with which he had said: "If for any reason whatever
Monsieur Paul Meyrin does not marry you, I will kill him."
Feeling, then, that she must go forward to the end marked out for her,
she had bowed the head and sought forgetfulness in the arms of her
lover, whom the most ordinary conventionalities bade her to meet only in
secret. Her passion had gained from this unusual mystery a sort of
acuteness which gave it an unreal strength, under which she hid from
herself the uneasiness she felt. However, she was anxious that an end
should be made; she feared what might happen, believing it impossible
that there should not be new troubles in store.
She well knew, too, that there were yet many trials to encounter before
the decree of divorce would be won.
As for Paul, who still seemed passionately enamored of her, he left his
family in ignorance of what was going on, putting off to the last moment
the announcement of his approaching marriage.
Meanwhile things followed their legal course, and one morning the
princess received from a delegate of the Russian Consistory a summons to
appear before him.
To simplify matters, it is needful here to sketch the process to be
followed in Russia upon the presentation of a petition for divorce.
As civil marriages are not recognized in the empire of the czars, the
ecclesiastical authorities are charged with the trial of cases of
divorce, pronouncing or refusing a decree. The authority is made up of
two jurisdictions, the Consistory and the Holy Synod. The Consistory is
a kind of preliminary tribunal, or rather a court of inquiry and
investigation. The Holy Synod is a permanent grand council, invested
with every authority in religious matters throughout the schismatical
Greek Church of the Russian Empire. The Holy Synod is made up of
metropolitans, archbishops, a procurator-general and secretaries. Its
seat is at St. Petersburg, whence it governs the affairs spiritual of
the empire and the financial business of the Church. It has authority
over all prelates and consistories. It exercises a censure over
religious books and pamphlets, and enjoys a very wide-reaching power in
civil matters, notably in all matrimonial cases. The head procurator who
governs it represents the emperor, but it is an error to believe that
the Holy Synod obeys the orders of the czar. The autocrat of all the
Russias is not, as is often said, at one and the same time emperor and
pope in his vast kingdom. He, as well as his people, is subject in
religious matters to the ecclesiastical authority of the Holy Synod.
The injured party must address his or her complaint to the Consistory.
This first tribunal examines the facts, and if it finds in them _prima
facie_ a case for divorce, it tries first of all to reconcile the
petitioner and respondent, summoning them before it, and seeking to
persuade the one to pardon and the other to return to the path of duty.
Not until it has failed in this attempt at reconciliation does the
Consistory inform the Holy Synod of the petition that has been made to
it, and it is only after a long and careful examination that the higher
court will pronounce the decree of divorce, inflicting upon the guilty
one at the same time a religious penance and celibacy.
The penance may be a stay of several months in a convent, but the
condemned one can easily escape from the enforced retirement by the
payment of a sum of money. As for the decree of celibacy, the emperor
alone, on the recommendation of the Holy Synod, can abrogate it; but if
authority is sometimes given to a divorced husband to marry again, the
grace is always withheld from a guilty wife. A woman can marry a second
time only in case of the decree having been pronounced against her first
husband, or when the separation has been without stain upon the honor of
the husband or wife; for instance, in case of incompatibility of temper,
or of certain infirmities duly provided for by the civil code.
Formerly, it is true, matters of the kind were managed among the
Russians with greater simplicity. The husband and wife who longed for a
separation went out of their house holding a piece of linen or other
thin stuff, each of them having an end of it. So they went to the
nearest public square and pulled till the piece of stuff parted. Then
they went each their way: they were divorced.
Unhappily for the Princess Olsdorf this was no longer the practice; the
summons of the delegate of the Consistory recalled the fact to her. She
knew that she would again be brought face to face with her husband, to
accuse him of having been unfaithful to her; and, though the lesson had
been taught her, and mortifying as was the memory she had of the
encounter with the beautiful Vera Soublaieff in the Rue Auber, still, it
is not hard to suppose, she dreaded not being able to support her
petition with due firmness.
The arch-priest of the Russian Church in Paris was at this period the
Pope Joseph Wasilieff, an old man full of wit and kindness. Husband and
wife must appear before him. After receiving the plaint of the Princess
Olsdorf, the Consistory of St. Petersburg had sent a commission of
inquiry to the venerable priest of the Rue Daru.
On the day and at the hour indicated Lise Olsdorf attended at Pope
Wasilieff's. The prince had been there a few minutes. On entering the
room where the priest awaited her, the guilty wife saw her husband; she
hesitated and fell back a pace, but a look from Pierre Olsdorf made her
understand that, not shrinking or pausing, she must play her part to its
last line.
"Madame la Princess," said the venerable Joseph Wasilieff, "I am charged
by the Consistory to question you on the facts you have reported to it,
and I must also, in conformity with the law as well as in pursuance of
my duty as a minister, ask you if you persist in your petition. Before
you reply to me, let me urge how generous it would be on your part to
forget the outrage you have suffered. Pardon it--for the honor of the
name you still bear, for the sake of your children's future. You would
know how to win again your husband's heart and you would avoid a great
scandal."
Pale and trembling Lise Olsdorf found not a word to say. Leaning back in
the deep chair in which she was seated she remained there silent and
with downcast eyes.
"As for you, prince," the pope went on, "you can not hide from yourself
the gravity of the sin you have been guilty of. The sin is doubly to be
condemned in that your accomplice in it was a young girl over whom you
had the authority of a master, and whom you carried off from her father
to give her in your house the position that your legitimate wife alone
has the right to fill. I am convinced that if you would but express the
regret that you should feel for your past conduct, Madame la Princess
would pardon you."
"Forgive me, holy father," said Pierre Olsdorf with great deference but
in a firm tone, "if I can not follow you in the way of conciliation that
you are so good as to point out to madame and me. Things have come to
such a pass that we can not either of us retrace our steps. It would be
best, I think, to shorten this scene, which is equally painful to both
of us. What you reproach me with imposes upon me an obligation which my
honor, and of it I am the only judge, will not allow me to shrink from."
Pope Wasilieff did not think he ought to insist further. Perhaps he knew
more of the facts than the princess imagined. He said, then, addressing
her:
"It only remains for me, madame, to put to you this question: Do you
persist in your petition?"
"I persist, holy father," replied Lise Olsdorf, in a stifled voice.
"Then you may retire. With deep sorrow I shall inform the Consistory at
St. Petersburg of the defeat of my attempts to reconcile the prince and
you."
The princess rose and walked out of the room, lowering her veil. Soon
afterward she reached her home, at the moment that her husband arrived
at the house in the Rue Auber, where the daughter of his farmer
Soublaieff still was.
The pretty Vera was greatly changed. Since the night when she played a
part so completely unforeseen by her, everything had tended to add to
her uneasiness--the events that succeeded this evening and were not
without mystery for her, and also the bearing of the prince toward her.
It will be remembered that, on returning to the bed-chamber where the
commissary of police had appeared to bear witness against him as having
been found _in flagrante delicto_, the prince had asked for Vera's
forgiveness, and that she, letting her head sink upon his shoulder,
replied: "Are not you the master; am not I the slave?"
This was more than an act of submission to his will on the part of the
young girl; it was an avowal of the passion that had seized on her
wholly, and against which she did not try to struggle--out of the deep
love to which her very innocence delivered her without defense.
Chaste as her abandon was to the feeling, the prince was deeply moved by
it. He remembered that a few minutes earlier, when the knocking came at
the door of the bedroom, and she feared some danger for him, Vera had
wound her arms about his neck.
He had gently drawn himself from the embrace and had done his best to
calm the poor child by telling her there was nothing to fear. Then,
calling her maid, he had begged her to go to bed again.
As usual, Vera obeyed his wish, but it was easy to guess what a wretched
night she had passed.
The prince went to his room, and there, thinking over what had happened,
he soon grew very discontented with himself, though he had gained the
end he had aimed at. But had he been right in choosing as his accomplice
this maiden who was now irretrievably compromised, and in whose heart he
could not doubt that he had awakened a feeling which he was forbidden to
return? What answer could he make to Soublaieff, her father, who had
trusted to the honor of his master, when he asked for an account of the
honor and happiness of his daughter? Had not he done everything to
persuade Vera of his love for her, and was not it his duty now to
undeceive her? But what would she think of him then?
Must he tell her that she had been nothing but a tool in his hands, to
be broken and cast aside when she was of no further use? He felt he
could not tell her this. But if he were silent, if he left Vera to her
illusions, her love would grow with each day, and inevitably the time
would come when he must yield to this love or speak out. Pierre Olsdorf
was too honorable a man to think of making this young girl his mistress,
and as, at the same time, he was full of tenderness for, and gratitude
toward her, he dreaded the infliction of a cruel wound in telling her
the truth.
Moreover, his pride as a nobleman revolted from the thought of taking as
a confidante of his dishonor the daughter of one of his tenants. And
then, how could he tell her what had passed between him and the
princess? In what words could he explain to an innocent girl the outrage
he had been the victim of? Was there not, too, some danger for the
success of his plan in acquainting Vera with the part he had made her
play? Would not she refuse indignantly to continue her role, and would
not she, in the course of the inquiry that was to be held, betray by her
bearing, if not in words, the real situation in which she had been
placed?
Troubled by all these doubts, Pierre Olsdorf cast himself on his bed to
seek a few hours' rest. He had come to no decision by the next morning,
when his valet came to say that breakfast was served.
Not knowing what he should say or do, he went to the breakfast-room,
where Vera awaited him. Seeing her white and trembling, in his remorse
he thought only of comforting her with tender words.
"Dear child," he said, pressing her little hands in his, "will you give
me a fresh proof of your devotion?"
Vera's only reply was a smile, which told the prince, better than any
words could have done, how completely he might count on her.
Pierre continued:
"This fresh proof that I require of you is not to question me on the
events of last night, to be calm, not to doubt me, and to have full
confidence in the future. The mysterious trial that my selfishness has
condemned you to must last some weeks longer. During this time we shall
not be separated; we shall still live the life in common that we have
lived since our arrival in Paris; you will still be my dear, my tenderly
loved daughter. Do you consent to this?"
"I will do all that you wish," said the young girl, lifting her eyes to
his. "I will ask no questions; I will wait. But, my father--"
Pierre Olsdorf could not but tremble slightly. He went on quickly:
"I will tell Soublaieff what it is needful for him to know, that he may
continue to love and respect you as you deserve. In the future every one
will respect and love you as I do; I will not fail in my duty to you.
Meanwhile, I want you to go out, to amuse yourself, and be as happy as
possible."
"I shall be happy, for am not I to stay with you?"
And, as if ashamed of these words, drawing herself from the arms of the
prince, who was holding her to his heart, Vera ran to her room to give
herself up wholly, in solitude, to the great joy that had taken
possession of her.
Henceforward, in accordance with Pierre Olsdorf's will, she continued
her drives to the Bois, through which she passed swiftly, shrinking back
in the carriage, an object of curiosity for the idlers of Paris, who
sought vainly to discover whence came this beautiful foreigner who was
so indifferent about the sensation she created. Sometimes she went to
the theater with the prince; and these hours were the best of her rather
lonely life, for Pierre's tenderness for her then was more real and
apparent than ever.
All this, however, was not enough for Vera, whose heart, though she
herself was only vaguely conscious of the truth, desired more. Often her
eyes would fill with tears, and her smile had lost something of its
old-time frankness. Her affection, too, for the prince had grown uneasy
and nervous. When he did not lunch or dine at home she eat scarcely
anything; and at night, if he were late in coming in, she could not
sleep until she had heard him return and had received his affectionate
"Good-night," waved to her with his hand as he passed through her room
into his own. Since the night of the judicial inquisition, however,
Pierre had never gone near Vera's bed. Indeed, he seemed to pass more
rapidly through the room than he did formerly.
These successive and constant emotions, the unconscious and irrational
aspirations that she felt, all had an injurious effect upon the young
girl's health. If the prince, seeing her every day, did not notice the
change in her looks, the moral and physical sufferings of Vera were none
the less real. She took no interest now either in her drives or the
theaters. She would lie for hours at a time on a sofa, scarcely
thinking, and not daring to question her own heart.
In such a state of prostration Pierre Olsdorf found her on his return
from the house of the arch-priest Wasilieff.
Noticing for the first time how changed she was, he was so troubled by
the fact that he understood at once what his own feelings were. He had
not lived two months with this adorable and devoted child for nothing;
he loved her.
At first the knowledge of the feeling frightened him, and he hesitated
to go to Vera. But the young girl's great eyes were raised to his with
such softness in their depths, they expressed such pain, that Pierre,
charmed, went to her gently, and kneeling by the couch on which she was
half lying, he said, in a troubled voice:
"Soon, Vera, there will be no Princess Olsdorf. Now I can tell you that,
with my son, you are what I love most in the world."
The daughter of the serf Soublaieff did not reply by a single word; but
she raised herself suddenly, and the blood rushed so violently to her
heart that she fell, half dead, in the arms that the prince held out to
receive her.