“Ah! your lordship, it is you?” said their chief, on seeing me. “Be
welcome! Honor and place at the table!”
The guests drew closer together. I took a place at the end of the table.
My neighbor, a young Cossack of slender form and handsome face,
poured out a bumper of brandy for me. I did not taste it. I was busy
considering the assembly. Pougatcheff was seated in the place of honor,
elbow on table, his heavy, black beard resting upon his muscular hand.
His features, regular and handsome, had no ferocious expression. He
often spoke to a man of some fifty years, calling him now Count, again
Uncle. All treated each other as comrades, showing no very marked
deference for their chief. They talked of the assault that morning; of
the revolt, its success, and of their next operations. Each one boasted
of his prowess, gave his opinions, and freely contradicted Pougatcheff.
In this strange council of war, they resolved to march upon Orenbourg, a
bold move, but justified by previous successes. The departure was fixed
for the next day. Each one drank another bumper, and rising, took leave
of Pougatcheff. I wished to follow them, but the brigand said: “Wait, I
want to speak to you.”
Pougatcheff looked at me fixedly in silence for a few seconds, winking
his left eye with the most cunning, mocking expression. At last he burst
into a long peal of laughter, so hearty, that I, just from seeing him,
began to laugh, without knowing why.
“Well, my lord,” said he, “confess that you were frightened, when my
boys put the rope around your neck? The sky must have seemed to you then
as big as a sheep-skin. And if not for your servant, you would have
been swinging up there from the cross-beam; but at that very instant I
recognized the old owl. Would you have thought that the man who led you
to a shelter on the steppe was the great Czar himself?” Saying these
words, he assumed a grave and mysterious air. “You have been very
guilty,” continued he, “but I have pardoned you, for having done me a
kindness, when I was obliged to hide from my enemies. I shall load you
with favors, when I shall have regained my empire. Do you promise to
serve me with zeal?”
The bandit’s question and impudence made me smile.
“Why do you laugh?” said he, frowning, “do you not believe that I am the
great Czar? Answer frankly.”
I was troubled. I could not recognize a vagabond as the emperor; to
call him an impostor to his face was to doom myself to death; and the
sacrifice which I was ready to make under the gibbet that morning,
before all the people, in the first flush of indignation, seemed now
a useless bravado. Pougatcheff awaited my answer in fierce silence. At
last (I still remember with satisfaction that duty triumphed over human
weakness) I replied to Pougatcheff.
“I will tell you the truth and let you decide. Should I recognize you
as the Czar, as you are a man of intelligence, you would see that I am
lying.”
“Then who am I? in your opinion.”
“God knows, but whoever you are, you are playing a dangerous game.”
Pougatcheff gave me a sharp, quick glance. “You do not believe that I am
the emperor, Peter III? Be it so. Have not bold men succeeded before me
and obtained the crown? Think what you please about me, but stay with
me. What matters it whom you serve? Success is right. Serve under me,
and I will make you a field-marshal, a prince. What say you?”
“No,” said I. “I am a nobleman. I have taken an oath to her majesty, the
Empress; I can not serve with you. If truly you wish me well, send me to
Orenbourg.”
Pougatcheff reflected. “If I send you there, you will, at least, promise
not to bear arms against me?”
“How can I promise that? If I am ordered to march against you, I must
go. You are now a chief; you desire your subordinates to obey you. No,
my life is in your hand; if you give me liberty, thanks; if you put me
to death, may God judge you.”
My frankness pleased him. “Be it so,” said he, slapping me on the
shoulders, “pardon or punish to the end. You can go the four quarters of
the world, and do as you like. Come tomorrow, and bid me good-bye. Now
go to bed--I require rest myself.”
I went out into the street. The night was clear and cold; the moon and
stars shone out in all their brightness, lighting up the square and the
gibbet. All was quiet and dark in the rest of the fortress. At the inn
some lights were visible, and belated drinkers broke the stillness by
their shouts. I glanced at Accoulina’s house; the doors and windows were
closed, and all seemed perfectly quiet there. I went to my room, and
found Saveliitch deploring my absence. I told him of my freedom. “Thanks
to thee, O God!” said he, making the sign of the cross; “tomorrow we
shall set out at daybreak. I have prepared something for you; eat
and then sleep till morning, tranquil as if in the bosom of the Good
Shepherd.”
I followed his advice, and after having supped, fell asleep on the bare
floor, as fatigued in mind as in body.