PAULINE REPENTS
A month passed, during which Runö remained untroubled by visits from
police or soldiery, nor did anything occur to create a suspicion that the
isle was under espionage.
This month had been a time of the purest happiness both to Marie and to
Wilfrid. Their intercourse was not confined to the walls of the castle;
they went out daily, keeping, for safety’s sake, to the woods and never
venturing within sight of the shore. These walks were necessarily
circumscribed, but, as Pauline remarked, they suffered far less hardship
in that respect than the voyagers on the deck of an East Indiaman.
The loss of her memory had ceased to trouble the Princess: nay, she was
now apprehensive lest the revelation consequent upon its recovery should
cause a return to her former life. With very little knowledge of that
former life she had, nevertheless, a profound belief that it fell far
short of her present happy state. At any rate it had been a life apart
from Wilfrid, and Wilfrid was now the chief, if not the sole, object of
her thoughts. It was no secret to her that she was loved by him, for
though he had not said it, his homage showed his feelings as plainly as
if he had spoken.
It was sweet to have such power over him; a source of pride to her that
she should be preferred to all others. It was wonderful, for example,
that he had not fallen in love with the beautiful Pauline, but it was
certain that he had not. In his eyes Pauline was a friend—the dearest,
staunchest friend, it might be—but still no more than that. At least,
that is what Marie usually thought, but, once or twice, when she was
sitting close to Wilfrid, Pauline had drawn near, in her eyes a wistful
look, as if yearning for the affection that was being bestowed upon
another.
One day when Wilfrid was in the armoury teaching Beauvais some secrets in
swordsmanship, Marie ventured to question the Baroness on this matter.
And she came to the point without any skirmishing.
“Pauline, do you love Lord Courtenay?”
The Baroness gave a start.
“Have I ever shown that I do?”
“No,” answered Marie, not altogether truthfully.
“Then why should you ask?”
“Because,” said Marie evasively, “Lord Courtenay is so brave, so
handsome, so—so winning—that’s the word—that—that——”
“It is difficult for woman to avoid falling in love with him. Is that
what you would say?” smiled Pauline. “Well, you see, it would be foolish
to love one that does not love me.”
“Ah, but you are not answering my question!”
“Would it please you if my answer were, ‘I do love him?’”
Marie coloured and was silent.
“Ah! you are not answering _my_ question,” smiled Pauline. And then after
a pause she continued:—
“Lord Courtenay is never likely to ask me to be his wife, but if he were
to ask, my answer would be, ‘No.’”
She spoke in a tone that carried instant conviction to Marie’s heart.
“Why?” she asked simply.
“Because I have promised myself to another.”
This was indeed a surprise to Marie—a welcome one, as her looks
testified. Pauline was not her rival, then.
“I am willing,” said Pauline, “to tell you his name, on one condition.”
“And that is——?”
“That you will keep it a secret, especially from Lord Courtenay.”
Marie thought it hard that Wilfrid must not be permitted to share this
new knowledge with her.
“I should not tell the name, even to you,” continued Pauline, “but that
it will prove beyond a doubt that I am not aiming at the affections of
Lord Courtenay.”
This remark decided Marie; she consented to observe secrecy as to the
name.
“Learn, then, that I am pledged to marry the Czar Alexander!”
If Pauline had said that she was pledged to marry the Archangel Gabriel,
Marie could not have been more startled. Her bewilderment was at first
too great for words. The fact that Pauline was not of royal blood did not
make her statement doubtful, for had not the great Peter mated with a
peasant girl? But—but——
“How can that be, when the Czar is already married?”
“An emperor can always find an archbishop willing to pronounce sentence
of divorce.”
Marie, unconsciously perhaps, drew away from the speaker.
“You are trying to steal a husband from his wife! You would put an
innocent woman away in order to gratify your ambition! Oh, Pauline!”
There was on Marie’s face a look that went directly to Pauline’s heart.
“Listen, Marie, and see whether there be not some justification for me.
It is some months ago since I first guessed Alexander’s feelings towards
me. Knowing the love of a wedded Czar to be dishonour I avoided all
places where I was likely to meet him. But one night, quite by accident,
we met at a masquerade. No, not the Sumaroff fête; this was one that took
place a few days before Paul’s death.—Before I had seen Lord Courtenay,”
she murmured to herself.—“He came upon me when I was alone; he held my
hands in his, and asked why I had of late avoided him. Then all in a
moment he uttered a flow of wild passionate words that—that—well, I will
not deny it, they were sweet to me. But, remembering from whom they came,
I strove to put them aside. ‘Your love must be given to Elizavetta,’
I murmured, ‘and to her only.’ Ah! if you could have seen his look of
sorrow. ‘Elizavetta,’ he answered, ‘has already taken to herself a
lover.’ If this be true, if the Czarina be faithless to her husband, is
he justified in retaining her as his wife?”
“You are dealing in ‘ifs,’” replied Marie. “Have you any proof that the
Czarina is false?”
“The Empress has been under espionage for some time; her conduct is very
equivocal. When she has given clear proof of guilt her divorce will come.”
“In other words you and Alexander are waiting for her to take the
irrevocable step?”
“Something of the sort.”
“And will she?”
“I think so.”
“And you will be pleased when it is taken?”
Pauline was silent.
“She is gliding on towards wrong, and you are letting her! You can stop
her by a word of warning, and yet will not! Pauline!”
Marie could not have spoken with more touching earnestness had she been
pleading her own cause. Involuntarily Pauline turned from the look of
disapproval in those grave, innocent eyes.
“If the Czarina,” said Pauline—and none knew better than she the
sophistical character of the self-justification she was now attempting,
“if the Czarina knew that a hundred eyes were secretly on the watch for
her fall, she would of necessity be virtuous. But why should she, more
than other women exposed to similar temptation, be put on her guard?
Respect for her fair name, the memory of her altar-vows, the imperial
diadem itself, should each be a sermon to her. To warn her would be to
put her into a state of enforced virtue. Why should Alexander retain
a wife willing to go wrong but kept in the right only by the fear of
discovery? No! let her be tried by the fire of temptation. She must
fulfil her destiny, as I must fulfil mine.”
The Princess was silent, not knowing very well how to refute what she
felt to be sophistry. No wonder Pauline was anxious to keep the matter
a secret from Wilfrid! The knowledge of it might lead him, with his
sense of honour, to decline any longer the hospitality of a hostess so
questionable in her ways.
“You may gain a crown, but you will not gain a hero,” said Marie with a
touch of scorn. “A man who sets spies to watch his wife, and, before his
suspicions are verified, promises to wed another woman, cannot be a very
honourable character.”
In her haste Marie forgot that the same charge was equally applicable to
her hostess. Pauline felt the point of the rebuke.
“I cannot imagine Lord Courtenay acting so,” continued Marie proudly.
Nor could Pauline. Wilfrid was a man of very different stamp from
Alexander.
“How can you trust one that acts so dishonourably?” continued Marie.
“What guarantee have you that Alexander will fulfil his promise?”
“I have here his written pledge,” said Pauline, taking from her bosom
that same scroll of parchment whose contents had evoked such emotion on
the part of her father.
This secret document would certainly have sent a thrill of amazement
throughout the various European chancelleries, for it was nothing less
than a statement to the effect that, in certain circumstances, the
Empress Elizavetta should be divorced in favour of Pauline de Vaucluse!
The document was signed, “Alexander Paulovitch, Czar and Autocrat.”
That her friend Pauline might one day wear the diadem did not appear to
afford much gratification to Marie.
“You aspire to a crown,” she said. “Remember the fate of the Hungarian
King Bela; his throne one day broke beneath him and its pieces crushed
him in their fall—an apt illustration of the dangers attending a throne.
It will bring you more sorrow than joy, especially if gained by the means
you contemplate. Pauline, will you let me destroy this?” she continued,
seeming as if about to tear the document in two.
The Baroness hastily recovered the scroll.
“Why,” asked Marie, “did you not destroy it on first receiving it?”
“Why should I have done so?”
“To show your trust in Alexander. What sort of love is it that needs
a written guarantee? Pauline, you dare not burn it, and that very fact
shows you have no real faith in him.”
It was true, poignantly true. Though it had not appeared to her in this
light before, Pauline began now to realise that the satisfaction arising
from the possession of this document and the care with which she guarded
it, were but so many proofs of distrust in Alexander. Nor could she
help reflecting, at the moment, that she could have implicitly trusted
Wilfrid’s spoken word.
As Pauline contrasted the English peer and the Muscovite Czar, a pang of
jealousy seized her that Marie should be the chosen of Wilfrid, while
she herself, though the chosen of an emperor, could find little joy in
the fact. The diadem that had looked so splendid, when viewed from afar,
seemed a bauble now that it was well-nigh within her grasp.
“What have you been saying to Marie?” said Wilfrid later in the day, on
finding himself alone with Pauline. “She is quite grave and pensive.”
“She is wondering, perhaps, whether Lord Courtenay’s attentions to
her are to be interpreted merely in the light of friendship. Are all
Englishmen so cold and tardy in their wooing? You love, and yet you
hesitate to say so to her, who would be but too willing to listen.”
“It is precisely because I _do_ love her that I hesitate to say it. Her
present state of mind is not normal. Supposing that with the recovery of
her memory there should come a reversal of her sentiments towards me?”
“You are over-scrupulous,” answered Pauline. “A return to her former
state should not be so very unfavourable, if she voluntarily kissed you
in the Sumaroff Gardens. The fairest woman in Russia is waiting for your
love, and by your hesitancy you are adding to her suspense. See, yonder
is your Princess taking her way to the woods. Go with her, and on your
return let me hear that you have said the words that will gladden her
heart.”
Wilfrid went off, bent on following this advice, and Pauline, knowing
this, watched him, at her heart a pain such as she had never before known.
Turning, she saw Dr. Beauvais by her side.
“There was a time,” she said to him, “when I hated her, or thought I did;
you know for what reason. And now——”
“And now?” repeated Beauvais as she paused in her utterance.
“And now, during the past month, she has won her way to my heart and this
makes my task difficult. I have been telling her of my ambition, and
she has been pleading prettily with me to save the Empress Elizavetta
from dishonour, little thinking that she was pleading for herself! What
a shock when she learns how I have deceived her! when she realises the
guilt from which a word of mine could have saved her!”
“Her own fault. If blame is to be apportioned, she must take the initial
share; for, to her encouragement of Lord Courtenay is due our present
imbroglio. We are but helping her onward in the path she entered of her
own accord.”
“True,” assented Pauline, glad to snatch at any argument in justification
of her wrong-doing. “And to-day the goal is in sight, for to-day she
entrusts herself and her future to his keeping.”
“That’s good,” murmured the doctor. “I have all but completed the
arrangements for their departure, and her flight will prevent the Empress
Elizavetta from ever returning to her husband.”
“The sooner they go the better,” observed Pauline, “or I shall be
repenting my share in the plot.”
She turned from him and, entering the castle, proceeded to a little
oratory which, originally Byzantine in character, had been altered by
Pauline to a style more in harmony with Latin art.
The sunlight, coloured as it passed through stained glass, slanted upon
an altar surmounted by an ivory crucifix, a symbol forbidden by the Greek
Church.
To this place came Pauline in a devotional spirit. For, as Italian
bandits put up prayers to the saints for a successful haul, and as
Cornish wreckers of old went straight from church to kindle beacons on
the cliffs, so did Pauline attend daily to pray to the Virgin for the
furtherance of a scheme that required for its success a continuous course
of deception.
She was about to light a candle in honour of the Madonna, when a voice
seemed to whisper, “Hypocrite!”
The taper dropped from her hand and she sank trembling upon a seat, her
gaze wandering slowly around as if expecting to encounter some speaker.
For the first time she became conscious of the incongruity of her
devotions. There broke in upon her mind a light that revealed her past
doings in their true character. She was at the parting of the ways. If
she must pray let her cease deceiving; if she must deceive, let her cease
praying.
Her eyes, moving slowly round as if in the hope of receiving guidance
from some object in the oratory, rested finally upon the western oriel,
whose stained glass showed a divine face, lit up by the setting sun. She
had seen this face many a time, but never before had it exercised so
potent an attraction. The eyes seemed to be looking at her with infinite
pity. Pauline thrilled.
Her intrigue for the diadem of empire was receiving a silent rebuke from
a crown of thorns!
* * * * *
Vera, her face white and her eyes full of fear, came flying along the
corridor that led to the oratory.
She tapped at the door once—twice—thrice.
Receiving no answer she entered and found her mistress in a swoon on the
marble floor. Vera stopped short, her hands partly raised.
“She must have seen! But no! She could not from these windows.”
She flew to Pauline, dropped at her side, and, happening by good fortune
to have her _vinaigrette_ with her, employed it with such effect that
before long Pauline opened her eyes and smiled faintly.
“Dear Baroness, what has happened? You are looking like the dead.”
“It is nothing,” replied Pauline as she rose with the help of her maid.
“Only a swoon.”
Vera could see that for herself; she wanted to know its cause.
“Your coming has been so timely,” observed Pauline, “that I must not
scold you for disobedience. Tell me why you are here when I have said
that I am not to be disturbed at my devotions?”
This question reminded Vera of her mission.
“My lady, if I tell my news you will swoon again.”
Pauline’s face became transfigured with a smile, such as Vera had never
before seen, a smile that perplexed and awed her.
“Speak on, Vera,” she said gently. “Nothing that you may say can alarm me
now.”
Vera hesitated, and then, taking courage from her mistress’s manner,
said:—
“My lady, the Czar is in the castle!”
To Vera’s surprise the Baroness did not faint. True, she gave a great
start, but grew calm again in a moment.
“Is this an answer to my prayer?” she murmured to herself. “An invitation
from heaven to speak the truth and fear not?” Aloud she said, “What
brings him here? Does he suspect that——?”
“I think not, my lady. He is taking a quiet sail on the Neva in his
gondola with his equerries, Princes Ouvaroff and Volkonski, and has
pulled up off Runö for the purpose of paying his _devoir_ to the
Baroness. He is in the entrance hall awaiting my lady.”
“Where is Lord Courtenay—and—and—?”
It was with a ghastly smile that Vera replied—
“Lord Courtenay is by the lake making love to the Czarina!”