WHAT HAPPENED IN RUSSOGRAD
Though Katina was an avowed foe of all Muscovites, she nevertheless
possessed a characteristic in common with them,--a passion for furious
driving.
With a stamp of her pretty red shoes, and with cries that sounded
somewhat wild on the night air, she urged the horses to their full
speed. She carried a short-handed whip with a long leathern thong, but
she used it only to lash the air.
Amid the tintinnabulation of a peal of silvery bells hung from the
duga, the spirited coursers plunged forward, as if each were holding a
race with the other, Katina handling the team with a dexterity that
evoked Paul's admiration.
Now where the road was broad she would spread the galloping horses
outwards like a fan; and now where its narrowness seemed to preclude
all possibility of passage, she would draw them together till they
appeared to occupy the space of one, without delaying for a moment her
onward rush.
Occasionally she would rise from her seat and bend gracefully forward
over the horses in an attitude suggestive of a Grecian charioteer,
bidding the two friends with a merry laugh to "Hold fast," and the
next moment they would be racing down a steep descent; a sudden
splash, a drenching shower of spray, and ere the two friends had time
to realize that they were crossing a stream, the ponies would be
tugging the troika up the opposite bank.
The marvels performed by this daughter of Mazeppa in guiding her
vehicle along the edge of a declivity, or in avoiding some obstacle
that suddenly appeared in her path, are past all belief; and though
Paul expected every moment to see the troika fall to pieces, the rapid
see-saw motion which in some persons causes all the sensations of _mal
de mer_, was both novel and pleasant, the rush of air producing an
exhilaration of spirits that quickly effaced from his mind the uneasy
presentiment caused by the words of the old istvostchik.
"At this pace we ought soon to overtake Marshal Zabern," remarked
Paul.
"We are not following the same road," replied Katina. "In journeying
to Slavowitz I myself always take this route, though it is more
circuitous. I renew my patriotism when in sight of that building."
She had brought the troika to a standstill, and was now pointing to a
large monastery that rose in solemn mediæval grandeur at the distance
of about a hundred yards from the roadside.
"The Convent of the Transfiguration," said Katina. "On some Czernovese
monasteries you will see a crescent beside the cross; it is a sign
that the place was once in the hands of the Turks. But the crescent
gleams not here," she continued proudly. "The pavement of the Convent
of the Transfiguration has never been trodden by the foot of pagan or
heretical foe. A strong fortress as well as a monastery, it has often
checked the march of Muscovite and Turkish conquest."
A liturgical service was taking place in the convent. The chant of the
monks was plainly audible, intermingled with the notes of the organ.
"They are supplicating for Poland," said Katina. "They pray for nothing
else. Day and night their one cry is, 'How long, O Lord, how long?'"
The voices of the chanting friars produced a singular, nay, a weird
impression upon Paul. Paganini himself could not have devised anything
more awe-inspiring and unearthly than the refrain that now rose upon
the night air.
"Some of the holy brethren," continued Katina, "are men who were once
in Siberian mines. And such men! If you thought my back a pitiable
sight, Captain Woodville, what would you think if you could see some
of the dreadful forms hidden behind those walls?"
Her words, her looks, and above all the wild plaint proceeding from
the convent, increased Paul's eerie sensations.
"Come here what hour you will of the twenty-four, you shall never miss
the chant of those monks; their prayer never ends."
"A perpetual service? I have heard of such."
"When our fatherland was conquered in '95," continued Katina, "the
then abbot of yon convent ordained that from that time forth the
brethren should pray for no other thing than the restoration of
Poland.
"To this end he drew up a liturgy and divided the whole body of the
monks into three parts, directing that each in turn should recite this
liturgy, band to succeed band without a moment's break. The convent
has never wanted for devout men to consecrate themselves to this
service.
"Day and night unceasingly for over fifty years their supplication has
been going up to the saints above," said Katina. "Is it not time their
prayer was answered?"
She clasped her hands and turned her face to the starlit heaven,--a
face made beautifully touching by its earnestness.
"Oh! Queen of heaven," she murmured, "look down upon our country. Give
us the thing we long for."
For a moment she stood in silent prayer, and then, taking up the reins
again, she began to urge the horses forward, as if finding in that act
a relief to her overwrought feelings. Once more the troika skimmed
along, scarcely seeming to touch the earth, and the majestic convent
with mysterious voices faded away in the gloom.
"Abbot Faustus still maintains his attitude of defiance towards the
new archbishop," said Trevisa addressing Katina.
"And he will ever maintain it," she replied. "Be sure that Ravenna,
anathematize as he may, will never be permitted to enter that
convent."
"Your mysterious smile, fair Katina, disposes me to believe that you
know the reason of the abbot's defiance."
"I _do_ know it," asseverated Katina, "but I must not reveal it. Ask
the marshal to make you one of the 'Transfigured,' and you will
understand the mystery. Faster, faster, my little doves," she added,
shaking the whip over the heads of her team.
Onward flew the horses _ventre à terre_, and within an hour of the
time of setting out, there glimmered into view the battled walls of
Slavowitz, with its towers, spires, and domes standing out in gray
relief against a background of blue sky dimly set with stars.
"Shall I take the Troitzka Gate?" asked Katina.
Trevisa nodded assent.
"'T will save a circuit," he said, "and will serve to show my friend
the two sides of Slavowitz. You have seen Cracovia, the fashionable
suburb," he added, addressing Paul; "now take a view of Russograd, the
Muscovite quarter."
Katina accordingly drove through an arched gateway, where, armed with
a long halbert, stood a Polish sentinel, who, at sight of Paul,
saluted, mistaking him for an officer of the Blue Legion.
As the troika, leaving the city gate behind, rolled forward over the
smooth wooden pavement of the main thoroughfare known as the Troitzkoi
Prospekt, it became quickly evident that the dwellers in this quarter
had become aware both of the princess's Romanist faith and likewise of
the duke's arrest,--matters that naturally tended to produce a state
of great excitement. Indeed, it looked as if there would be little
sleep that night in Russograd; for though the hour was late, all the
denizens of the faubourg, men and women alike, were abroad, discussing
in shrill tones and with fierce gesticulations this latest phase of
Czernovese politics. Russians, Tartars, Cossacks, and representatives
of other nationalities, who at ordinary times were ready to cut each
other's throats, were now united by the bond of a common religion
against "Natalie the Apostate."
"Now the saints confound these Long-beards!" murmured Katina,
compelled to exercise great care in steering her course. "Is it
Butter-week, that they throng so? Our short route is proving a long
one."
Owing partly to the crowded state of the street, and partly to the
condition of the wooden pavement, which a recent shower had rendered
somewhat slippery, it was impossible for the vehicle to proceed other
than at a walking pace, and thus the trio could not fail to overhear
the remarks made by some of the throng.
"I saw the duke brought in through the St. Florian Gate," cried a
woman, addressing a circle of bystanders.
"They knew better than to bring him in through the Troitzka Gate,"
observed a man beside her, apparently her husband. His face was
disfigured by a long smear of dried blood.
"He was riding with downcast eyes in the centre of a troop," continued
the woman. "And when my goodman cried, 'Long live our prince,' one of
the troopers struck him across the face with the flat of his sabre,
bidding him begone for a traitor. Look at the mark of the sword," she
screamed.
"Yes," chimed in her husband, "and the princess herself passed by a
minute later in her droshky, and drove off to the Palace, not looking
one whit troubled by the thought of the duke's imprisonment."
"Troubled, do you say?" cried his wife. "I never saw her looking more
glad than she did to-night. And to think that a mere girl should have
the power to arrest a big handsome man like our Duke John! We want a
full-grown, bearded soldier to rule over us, and not a silly maid."
"Especially a maiden under the thumb of Cardinal Ravenna," interjected
a bystander. "We all know why she has imprisoned the duke; because he
is a Greek, and loves the Muscovites and the great White Czar."
"And the princess hates the Czar," cried the woman.
"The shoes she wears in her palace are stamped on the sole with the
portrait of our little father Nicholas, so that she may tread his
image under foot whenever she walks."
This little anecdote, entirely without truth, found ready credence
among the haters of the princess.
"She is removing the duke from his command to make way for Zabern. And
why Zabern? Because he is a Pole, and a Catholic, and hates the
Muscovites."
Amid these observations, and others of a like character, the troika
moved, its rate of progress gradually diminishing, until the vehicle
was finally brought to a standstill by the immobility of the crowd in
front, who either could not, or would not, move out of the way.
"_Na pravo_--to the right!" cried those on the left angrily; while
just as angrily those on the right cried,--
"_Na levo_--to the left!"
Unable either to advance or retire, the occupants of the troika
remained stationary, the centre of a crowd evidently bent on mischief,
a crowd composed mainly of the lower orders,--or, to use the
suggestive phrase of the Russians themselves, the "Tshornoi Narod," or
"Black People."
Russograd was at no time a safe place for the adherents of the
princess; but in the present political crisis the sight of one
wearing, as they supposed, the uniform of her _corps du garde_ raised
the fanaticism of the Muscovite mob to a dangerous pitch. The three
friends were ill prepared for repelling an attack. Paul was armed with
his sabre only; Katina had her savage-looking whip; Trevisa was
without weapon of any kind.
Paul's chief fear was for Katina; but the maiden who had bravely
endured the knout did not seem at all disconcerted by the circle of
scowling faces.
"My little mother, step aside there," she cried, toying with her whip,
and gently endeavoring to urge the horses forward. "Now, old soldier,
have a care."
"Have a care yourself," exclaimed a harsh voice in front,--the voice
of a red-bearded individual in a blue caftan. "Would you ride over
me?" he added fiercely, grasping the bridle of one of the horses.
His was a voice which Katina had previously heard that same day in the
parlor of her own inn. Springing immediately to her feet, she looked
fearlessly around.
"In the name of the princess," she cried, "I call upon all loyal
citizens of Russograd to arrest that man and to convey him to the
Citadel, for he is an escaped prisoner."
"The more welcome for that!" said the man with the bloody smear.
"In the name of the Czar," cried the spy, "I call upon all loyal
citizens of Russograd to arrest that woman, and to convey her to
Orenburg, for she is an escaped prisoner, a fugitive from Russian
justice. What?" he continued, advancing into the ring of space around
the troika, "do you not know Katina Ludovska, the Polish harlot with
whom Zabern takes his pleasures?"
Quivering with indignation, Katina leaped from the troika, bent on
chastising the insulter. One lash from the thong of her whip would
have laid open his cheek as effectually as a sabre-stroke; but ere she
could carry out her purpose, the more prudent Paul had laid hand upon
her belt and swung her lightly back again.
"And do you not recognize this fellow?" continued Russakoff, pointing
to Trevisa. "He is the princess's paramour; private secretary is the
name used in court circles."
A coarse laugh greeted these words.
"The princess will never marry the duke. Why? Because the secretary
has poisoned her mind against him."
The mob grew more menacing in their attitude.
Katina laughed defiantly.
Trevisa glanced around, wondering what had become of the night watch
appointed to patrol the streets of Russograd.
Paul, casting about for a way of escape, observed that the crowd
facing the horses was but a few ranks deep. If Trevisa and he put on a
bold front, while Katina plied her whip vigorously, there was a
possibility of breaking through the hostile circle. He whispered this
idea to the two, who both nodded assent.
"Be it known to all that the princess has arrested our duke for
duelling. And here," continued Russakoff, pointing to Paul, "is the
man that fought with him. Before St. Nicholas I speak the truth. I lie
not," he added, taking out one of those sacred icons which the Russian
usually carries with him, and kissing it as he spoke. "The princess
imprisons the duke; she lets this man go free. Men of Russograd, is
this justice?"
"No! No!" cried the mob.
It was impossible to rescue their beloved duke from the grim Citadel
with its massive walls loop-holed with artillery; it was impossible to
do hurt to "Natalie the Apostate" in her strong palace, which the
foresight of the ministers had surrounded with a military cordon. But
here were persons almost as obnoxious as the princess herself, and a
hurricane of yells arose from all sides, the women exhibiting more
fury than the men.
"Down with the Jesuits!"
"Drag them from the car!"
"Tear them limb from limb!"
"Hurl their bloody heads through the princess's windows!"
As the crowd surged madly forward, Paul sprang to his feet, sabre in
hand.
"Now, Katina, now! Ah! the cowards!" he muttered in an agony of rage,
as a stone flung by one of the mob caught her on the temple.
Their escape seemed a doubtful matter. On all sides men, and women
too, were attempting to clamber into the troika, and dealing blows
with fists, sticks, and knives. They yapped and snarled like so many
dogs as they were hurled off again by the sturdy Englishmen, Paul
standing on the left side and using the flat of his sabre, Trevisa on
the right dependent merely upon the weapons supplied by nature, to
wit, his fists.
While this contest was being waged Katina, though dizzy from the
effects of the stone, bent backwards, and with a strength of wrist
marvellous in a slender maiden, she pulled the horses so far back on
their haunches as to cause their front hoofs to rise and describe
circles in the air. Poised thus she lashed them with a savagery
justified only by the occasion, though even in that moment of peril it
went to her heart to ill-treat her favorites; and then, with a warning
shout, she launched the maddened steeds pell-mell upon the crowd in
front, endeavoring also to clear the way by striking out to right and
left with her reddened whip.
The crowd facing the troika divided like water cleft by the hand, and
the vehicle flew forward with nothing to oppose it. A double line of
faces seemed to be rushing by; oaths and cries; a jolt, occasioned by
the troika bounding over a prostrate body; another, more violent,
which left a sickening sensation in the mouth; and the moment
afterwards the vehicle, with its bells wildly jangling, was clear of
the press and racing down the Troitzkoi Prospekt, the very embodiment
of the wind, followed by the yells of the baffled crowd.
"Bravo, Katina!" cried Paul. "You are the princess of charioteers. A
narrow shave, that--eh Noel?"
But, on turning to his companion, Paul gave a cry of horror. Trevisa
lay helplessly on the seat of the troika, his face as white as china,
his teeth set in agony, in his eyes an awful look.
Paul's cry drew Katina's attention to Trevisa. She immediately pulled
up the horses.
"Mary, mother of angels!" she cried in a tone of anguish. "He has been
stabbed; stabbed in the side!"
And all the womanhood of her nature asserting itself, she gently
raised Trevisa's head, and pillowed it upon her breast, regardless of
the blood that flowed down her dress.
"It was Russakoff," gasped Trevisa. "Paul," he continued, seizing his
friend's wrist. "Remember! it is the furies, the furies of--of--"
The act of speaking brought a rush of blood to his mouth, and ere he
could finish the strange utterance, he was gone.
"Jesu Maria, he's dead!" murmured Katina in awe; and then, her mood
changing, she added with a wild laugh, "Russakoff has earned his
roubles."
The whole affair had happened so quickly that it was almost
impossible to believe in its reality, though the dead form of Trevisa
lay there before their eyes. For fully half a minute Paul stared
helplessly at the silent figure. Amazement--grief--horror kept him
mute and motionless; then in a moment these feelings gave way to the
wild desire for vengeance.
"I'll find the assassin," he muttered, springing from the troika, "and
sabre him on the spot, though I die the next moment for it."
"Would you go back among those wolves?" cried Katina. "No, no; they
will kill you too." She also sprang from the troika, and held Paul by
the wrist. "Indeed you shall not go. Leave the assassin to Zabern.
Zabern will find him. And thank heaven, here is the marshal!"
As she spoke the clatter of horse-hoofs was heard, and turning in the
direction of the sound, Paul saw a troop of lancers approaching with
Zabern at their head.
On nearing the troika the marshal halted his men, saluted Paul with
his sword, and then eying the crowd that was still impotently yelling
in the distance, he said,--
"In the fiend's name, what possessed you three to drive through
Russograd on such a night as this?"
His eye now caught sight of the limp appearance presented by the
silent form reclining on the troika. He sprang from his horse with
consternation written on his face.
"Good God! don't say that Trevisa is dead!--Trevisa, whom I hoped to
see fighting under the banner of the princess! Dead!" he muttered
under his breath, "and just as he was on the point of deciphering the
secret despatch, too!"
"He is dead," said Paul; "but this is no time for words. The assassin
is among yon crowd, and his name is Ivan Russakoff."
The name of the spy acted like magic upon Zabern. He shouted some
order, and in a moment more ten uhlans trotting forward with couched
lances scattered the crowd; the object of these troopers was to secure
the Troitzka Gate, and so prevent the assassin from making his escape
by this exit. Like precautions were promptly taken with the rest of
the city gates. The remainder of his forces Zabern skilfully disposed
around the suburb of Russograd, forming them into a cordon through
which no one could break without detection.
Meanwhile, in answer to his summons, fresh detachments of troops
arrived together with a numerous corps of police; and to both he
briefly explained the object of the muster.
Zabern was well aware that, owing to the hostility with which Polish
authority was viewed in this quarter, he would have considerable
difficulty in inducing the Muscovites to surrender the spy, whose act
in slaying a government official would be certain to enlist their
sympathies. Every dweller in Russograd would take a pride in
concealing the felon. Hence the marshal was necessitated to make his
arrangements with almost the same care as if conducting a siege. For a
few hours Russograd was to become subject to martial law,--no new
experience for this riotous faubourg.
"Remember, Russakoff must be taken alive; his dead body is of no use
to me," said Zabern. "But as to the rest, don't hesitate to shoot if
there should be any resistance. Nikita," he added, addressing his
orderly, "dismount, and assist Katina in conveying the body to the
palace. Captain Woodville, here is a horse at your service. You will
accompany us?"
Zabern's elaborate precautions failed to secure the person of the spy.
Though all the streets of Russograd were traversed by the military,
and every individual subjected to scrutiny; though private dwelling
and public building were explored by keen-eyed police; and though the
marshal and his staff formed a sort of inquisitorial tribunal and
interrogated and cross-examined during the whole night, yet no one
answering to the description of Russakoff could be found.
Still the marshal continued the search, encouraged by the statement
alike of the sentinels at the city gates as of the members composing
the military cordon, that the spy had not passed outwards.
"So, Nariskin," he said at seven next morning, and addressing a
patriarchal, long-bearded individual who carried himself with some
show of authority, "so, Nariskin, another government official murdered
in your ghetto! A pretty guard your night-watch keep!"
Nariskin, chief of the ward council that directed the affairs of
Russograd, became voluble in attesting his grief,--his indignation, his
horror, that anything so--so--
"It isn't an oration that I want," said Zabern brusquely, "but the
person of Russakoff. You will assemble your council this morning and
make two announcements: first, that henceforth Russograd shall cease
to do its own policing; that shall be my care. And, secondly, that
unless the spy is surrendered before six this evening Russograd shall
pay a fine of fifty thousand roubles."
Nariskin protested by Saint Vladimir that there was not so much money
in all Russograd, but the marshal turned contemptuously away.
"It's useless," he said to Paul, "to search longer for a fugitive whom
a whole people are bent on concealing."
In gloomy mood he gave orders for the withdrawal of the soldiery from
Russograd. The military cordon, however, was still maintained, and
fresh injunctions were issued to exercise strict supervision over
every person passing outwards.
Paul accompanied Zabern at his request to the Vistula Palace, and
entered the apartments lately tenanted by Trevisa.
Beneath a catafalque of black velvet, surrounded by lighted tapers set
in tall silver candlesticks, reposed the body of Trevisa, his hands
folded across his breast, and holding within them lilies placed there
by Katina.
"A sad fatality!" murmured Zabern, his somewhat grim and hard nature
touched by Trevisa's early and mournful ending. "A sad fatality! And
partly of my own causing, too!"
"How so?"
"The cipher-despatch which I entrusted to his care has occasioned his
death."
"You mean that he was assassinated in order to prevent him from
deciphering it?"
"Precisely. The duke hesitates at nothing to conceal his treason."
"What proof have you of his complicity in this affair?"
"Actual proof--none, else would the headsman be now putting edge to
his axe. But here are matters that have a suspicious aspect. Not till
yester-morn did the duke learn that Russakoff was a prisoner in the
Citadel, and that Trevisa was occupied with the document found on the
spy. I did my best to keep the affair a secret, but our premier,
unthinkingly, revealed it; and, according to him, the duke, on hearing
of Russakoff's imprisonment, looked ill at ease. Why, unless the
matter concerned him? Subsequently the duke paid a visit to the
Citadel--in his official capacity, of course; but, mark the result!
Two hours afterwards Russakoff's cell was found empty. How? Great is
the power of the rouble-note!"
"Why, then, send the duke to the Citadel, since the itching palm that
opened the gate for Russakoff may do the like for Bora?"
"I have thought of that, and therefore I have appointed some of my own
troopers--fellows whom I can trust--to be the duke's jailers. But to
return to the cipher letter," continued Zabern, in a tone of profound
dejection. "It still keeps its secret. And Trevisa had just hit on the
clue! Did he speak of the matter at all on the way to Slavowitz? Did
he give you any hint?"
"None."
But scarcely had Paul given this reply than he started, as he suddenly
recalled Trevisa's dying utterance.
"Marshal, I believe he tried to make a communication to me in his last
moment. His words were 'Remember the furies!'"
"Passing strange! what meaning can there be in that?"
The two men puzzled themselves to no purpose over the singular saying.
"That cipher letter," said Zabern, reflectively, "was perhaps the last
thing in Trevisa's mind. With that sudden intuition which sometimes
belongs to the dying, he recognized why he had been assassinated, and
tried to give you a clue. 'Remember the furies!' Humph! here's an
enigma indeed!"
He paced the apartment gloomily, while Paul, looking down upon the
face of his dead friend, breathed a silent prayer for justice upon all
who had part in the cruel deed.
"The interpretation of that cipher letter," said Zabern, "would enable
us to defeat Russia's secret scheme for the subversion of Czernova;
but alas! where shall we look for the interpreter?"
"Give me the letter," said Paul with a sudden impulse, "and let me try
my wits upon it. I am not altogether ignorant of cryptography; it was
Trevisa's favorite pursuit when we were at college. He sought to
interest me in it, and I remember something of his methods."
There was at first some hesitancy on the part of Zabern. Was it wise
to trust such a weighty matter to one who owed no allegiance to the
Czernovese government?
Paul understood the scruples of the other.
"You may trust me; or if not, I will take whatever oath you wish. My
sole desire is to serve your beautiful princess."
Zabern's opposition vanished.
"You shall have the letter," he replied. "You defeated Russia's aim in
the East; now defeat her aim in the West. But, if you are like me, you
must feel the need of a little sleep. There is a bed in the next
apartment. Sleep for an hour or two, and rise fresh for the work."
Paul accepted this advice, and retired to the next apartment.
"Shall I call this Fate?" he murmured, as he laid his head on the
pillow. "Without any seeking on my part I am now beneath the same roof
as Barbara."