“From prying eyes and fingers defend us, good Lord!”
“Is Madame Kominski visible?” I inquired of the smart servant-maid who
answered my ring at the bell of the house to which I had been directed
to go.
“Is it an appointment, madam?”
“No, but I have reason to think that Madame Kominski will see me.”
“If you will step inside, I will ask her. What name shall I give?”
“Miss Dora Saxon.”
This change of name was the result of my deliberations while on my way
here. It struck me as desirable, in Belle’s interests. In Belle’s! How
strange it seemed that I should have to resort to trickery and
subterfuge for the sake of one who, though so nearly related to me, was
yet my mortal enemy! Yet so it was, for was not the happiness of those
whom I loved best on earth involved in her immunity from punishment, if
she were guilty; and in her protection from false accusation, if she
were innocent? Ah! would to God I could have thought the latter! My
course of conduct would then have been much easier for me.
“You wish to see me?” was the question addressed to me after a while, in
such a musical voice that I glanced at the owner of it in pleased
surprise, as I answered somewhat eagerly: “Yes, Madame Kominski. I have
been told that you are seeking a companion, and would like to secure the
post. I can give you good credentials.”
“And references to former employers?”
“I have never lived away from home before.”
“And why, may I ask, do you wish to come to me now?”
“My home associations have become painful. I was to have been married a
month ago, but—”
“The old story. Your lover forsook you?”
“No, my lover died.”
There was a quick glance of sympathy, and a few moments’ pause. Then
Madame Kominski resumed: “Your story is very sad. But I am afraid that
for that very reason I cannot entertain the idea of making you my
companion. I want some one who will be cheerful and bright, not a woman
whose bearing will wear the impress of a tragic past. Pray do not think
me unfeeling, but I often have to leave my little daughter for days
together, and would not like her to be made melancholy.”
“You would find me as cheerful as you could desire. I intend to cast my
past from my mind as much as possible.”
“If I could think that—”
But there is no need to give the whole conversation in detail. Suffice
it to say that I prevailed upon Madame Kominski to write to Mr. Garth
for further particulars of me, and that I obtained her promise to engage
me, should his reply prove satisfactory. Feeling quite sure that this
would be the case, and that Madame Kominski was a woman who could be
trusted, I told her that my real name was Courtney, but that I preferred
to be called Miss Saxon for the future, as I did not wish it to be known
that I had left home to go to service. As it happened, it was well that
I took my prospective employer into my confidence. She had heard
something about my history from the newspapers, and my candor seemed to
win both her sympathy and her good-will.
She insisted upon my having lunch with her, and introduced me to her
daughter Feodorowna, a girl of ten, who could not boast of a much more
attractive appearance than myself. But by-and-by, as she grew to
womanhood, her looks might improve, and she might possibly become more
like her mother, who certainly was a very beautiful woman, being tall,
stately, and inclined to embonpoint, though as yet being only
sufficiently stout to make her voluptuously perfect. Her fine dark eyes,
Grecian features, clear skin and purple-black hair, which waved and
curled about her brows in charming disorder, would seem to disclaim a
Mongolian origin altogether, and were all in harmony with her musical
voice and graceful gait.
Two days later, a very satisfactory reply to madame’s letter having come
from Mr. Garth, all arrangements were completed. My luggage had been
sent for, and I was formally installed as companion-governess in the
household of Madame Kominski, who readily agreed to my wish that my true
appellative should be discarded for the present, and that I should be
introduced and known to others only as Miss Saxon. I had not forgotten
May Morris’s idea that absence of good looks was the best recommendation
to madame’s favor. But I did not let the notion worry me. I was by this
time convinced that nature, when denying me beauty, had given me some
compensating qualifications, and Madame Kominski was so kind and
friendly with me that I found no difficulty in being comparatively happy
and wholly cheerful.
Feodorowna, or Feo, as she was called by her mother, seemed to have
taken quite a fancy to me, and I won her heart altogether when I
proposed teaching her to play the violin. I found her to be an apt and
docile pupil, but as masters came to the house to teach her many of the
branches of her education, such portion of it as fell on my shoulders
did not prove onerous.
“We start for St. Petersburg on Monday,” said Madame Kominski, the
Friday after I had become a member of her household, looking up from a
letter which she was reading. “I suppose you have no objection to go
there, Miss Saxon?”
“None whatever, madame. I shall like it very much, I am sure.”
“I have no doubt you will, for you will have every possible comfort and
will mingle in the best society St. Petersburg affords. And you, Feo,
now that you are going to see your cousins again, must not neglect your
English. I shall depend upon Miss Saxon to insist upon constant practice
in that and in French.”
“You may depend upon me, and upon Feo, too. We have already made a
compact to speak nothing but English together one week, and nothing but
French the next.”
“And, mother, what is the use of saying Miss Saxon every time? Why don’t
you call her Dora, like I do? She will really seem like one of the
family then.”
“Well, Dora be it, with all my heart, child. Ah! what’s this? Dora, I
find that I have to go out of town to-day. I may be back to-morrow, but
cannot be sure. You will see that the servants push on with the
packing.”
“Certainly. I will do my best to make up for your absence.”
Madame Kominski had evidently read something in the last letter she had
opened which had caused her to form the sudden resolution of leaving
home that day. She hastily gathered the papers which had come by that
morning’s post together, and was leaving the breakfast room with them,
when Feo exclaimed: “Oh, mother, it is too bad! You promised to take us
to the theater this evening.”
“My dear child, I cannot help that. This journey cannot be postponed. You
shall go to the Grand Theater soon after we arrive in St. Petersburg.
You know that I never willingly disappoint you or break a promise to
you.”
“Forgive me, dear mother. I won’t complain again.”
From this it may be gathered that Feo was a docile, affectionate child,
and such I always found her. I could not help hazarding a faint
conjecture as to the nature of the business which took madame from home
at a time when one would suppose her presence to be more than usually
necessary in it. But it was no business of mine, and I found sufficient
to do to occupy all my thoughts and time for the next few days. It was
Monday at noon before the mistress of the household returned to it. She
seemed tired and somewhat dispirited, but insisted upon starting for St.
Petersburg that night, as had already been arranged.
A week later we were all comfortably installed in a splendid house, on
the Nevski Prospekt, and my eyes were fairly dazzled by the magnificence
of some of the houses to which I was introduced. I was very glad that my
wardrobe was so liberally furnished, and that I was at least possessed
of the means of mitigating my plainness as far as was possible. I was
also spared some of the humiliation which had been so often meted out to
me in England. Whether it was that I was surrounded by more people,
whose chief characteristic was lack of physical beauty, or whether it
was that less importance was attached to the possession of mere outward
charms, I cannot say. But it is certain that my personal deficiencies
were less often brought home to me here, and, greatly to my surprise, I
seemed to promptly win the favor of several cultured aristocrats, who
apparently never dreamed of discounting my few mental attractions
because I was only a hired companion.
Many of them spoke English, and showed great interest in our social laws
and customs, so different to those prevailing among themselves. To the
best of my ability, I answered all the questions put to me, sometimes; I
fear, forgetting that to extol English institutions was to decry the
systems of the land in which I had temporarily found a home. One evening
madame, always good to me, had taken me with her to the house of a
certain Prince and Princess Michaelow, both of whom welcomed her with
great warmth and affection. The princess, who proved to be English, and
only a few years older than myself, was a girl of strikingly imposing
figure and lovely appearance. Her rich, glittering auburn hair framed a
face of the purest oval. Her arch, piquant features were set off by a
complexion of exquisite fairness and purity, the cheeks reminding me of
nothing so much as of the dainty pink dog-roses I had so often delighted
to gather at home. Her teeth were white and even, and were given plenty
of opportunity for display by their smiling owner. But her eyes struck
me as her chief charm. They were large and limpid, fringed by dark
lashes, and were of the deepest azure, with a bright-rayed amber iris
that gave them an almost uncanny beauty. She was dressed in a gown of
soft pale blue surah, and her only jewels were pearls. But such pearls!
And such a mass of them, in ropes, strings, sprays and festoons, which
helped to put the finishing touch to as fair a vision of human beauty as
I had ever beheld.
I was half inclined to stand in awe of her at first, and to shrink into
a pained comparison of her appearance and mine. But her frank, cheery
smile and demonstrative welcome at once put that nonsense out of my
head, and I was henceforth content to worship her as the embodiment of
all that was good and beautiful. My admiration must have shone in my
eyes, for the prince bent down to me, and said smilingly, in rather
broken English: “I perceive that Miss Saxon’s tastes are similar to my
own. I hope she will often favor us with a visit. My wife has been
looking forward to meeting Madame Kominski’s new friend.”
New friend! Was that Prince Michaelow’s delicate way of putting the
case, or did he really not know that I was madame’s paid companion? I
caught myself revolving this conjecture even while conversing brightly
and with outward ease. But it was not destined to trouble me long. Later
on in the evening, Madame Kominski, who was a brilliant
conversationalist, and an evident favorite wherever she went, being
surrounded by a group of admiring friends, I found myself somewhat
isolated and thrown upon my own resources. Yet I was by no means tired
or dull, for I watched the ever-varying panorama in the brilliant salon
in which I found myself with considerable interest.
One man in particular attracted my notice by his somewhat sinister
aspect and gloomy bearing. He stood, half concealed by the draperies of
a large portière, with erect figure and folded arms, looking at Madame
Kominski with an expression in his eyes which I found it difficult to
fathom, but which gave me an uneasy conviction that it boded her no
good. He was tall, of fine build and bearing, and would, I think, by
most people be considered handsome. But there was a depression of the
eyes and upper part of the nose which I did not like, and which seemed
to me to argue the possession of a cunning and perhaps malignant nature.
My inability to fathom the meaning of his frequent glances in Madame
Kominski’s direction began to irritate me. Was it love that he felt for
her? Or was it hate? If the latter, why did such a look of desire shine
from his eyes when they rested on her sparkling beauty? If the former,
why did he frown and clinch his hands at the sound of her merry laugh?
“You seem engrossed in contemplation of Count Karenieff,” said a voice
at my elbow. “Does his appearance charm you so much?”
“By no means,” I replied quickly, turning to the Princess Michaeloff,
who seated herself by my side. “On the contrary, he strikes me as rather
repellant than otherwise. I have been wondering if he hates Madame
Kominski.”
“Certainly not. He is madly in love with her. Unfortunately for him, our
friend’s tastes lean in another direction and she has been compelled to
reject his suit.”
“Then he does hate her, and his glances mean revenge.”
“I hope not. He is a dangerous enemy. There are several people now doing
penance in the fortress of St. Peter and Paul who have been doomed to
their awful fate through his denunciations. Only last week the son of
one of these, a mere child of fifteen, was banished to Siberia, and
there is little doubt that Count Karenieff has a hand in this business
also.”
“But what could he, a boy of fifteen, have done to deserve so horrible a
fate?”
“He has done nothing to deserve it. No one pretends to say that he has.
But he is a bright and intelligent lad, who might some day be seized by
a desire to avenge the wrongs of his parents, and he is the heir to a
vast property which is now confiscated by the State. Of course the man
who has given the State an excuse for increasing its revenue has also
come in for a share of the spoil.”
“What a monstrous system! What a monstrous—”
“For God’s sake, be quiet! If you are overheard talking like that, we
are lost! How could I have been indiscreet enough to dwell on tabooed
subjects like that? I think it must be through meeting with some one who
is as unsophisticated as I was myself when I first came here, only
twelve months ago.”
“So short a time as that?”
“Yes, so short a time as that. I came out here as Madame Kominski’s
companion. Thanks to her goodness, I had as many social advantages given
me as if I had been a sprig of nobility, instead of being merely the
daughter of a poor country curate, who had found it necessary to leave
home to earn a livelihood. How kind fate has been to me! I was scarcely
here before I won the love of the man who is now my husband. I have
surely all that woman can desire. I love and am beloved, and I revel in
unlimited wealth and comfort. Better still, I am able to free my parents
from the harassing anxieties against which they have hitherto had to
contend. Still—”
“You must be perfectly happy.”
“I have only one wish ungratified. I would dearly like to live in
England, and to escape the constant espionage to which we are all
subject. But this cannot be, so I spend as much time in the company of
English people as I can. Do you know, Madame Kominski brought an English
companion out here three years ago. She was very fond of her, and was
somewhat cut up when Miss Vernon, a very handsome woman, by-the-by, left
her to get married. When I left her, she said that she would have no
more companions, as she grew fond of them only to lose them. I am very
glad that she has altered her mind.”
So then, madame had been actuated by no petty feeling of jealousy when
she declined to engage a pretty girl as her companion. She had few
relatives, felt somewhat lonely in the house, and desired to secure a
companion who would be likely to remain a member of her household for
some time. Struck with this conviction, I felt more assured than ever of
the real kindness of madame’s nature, and actually felt glad for the
moment that there was no likelihood of her being disappointed in me as
she had been disappointed in her other companions. Little did I dream
how soon she would stand in dire need of loving friendship, she, to whom
the world seemed to wear so smiling and benignant a front!
While we had been talking, there had been a slight movement of
dispersal, and some of the guests now claimed the attention of the
princess, who had certainly given me a disproportionate share of her
attention. Soon afterward, we also took our leave, and both madame and
myself seemed to have plenty of food for pleasant thought during the
short drive home.
The next morning it was found a difficult matter to rouse Feo at the
usual time, and her maid expressed the opinion that the child must be
ill. I went to see her, and found her pale, sick and languid, possessed
of a violent headache and consuming thirst. Somewhat alarmed, I
announced my intention of summoning a doctor at once. But to this plan
Feo entered very strenuous objections.
“Indeed, Miss Dora, I am not really ill,” she protested. “I shall soon
be all right again, and I’ll never, never do it again as long as I
live.”
“Do what, child?”
“Oh, that would be telling, and I promised Olaf that I wouldn’t tell.”
“That mischievous little cousin of yours! You have been up to some
naughtiness together. Tell me, have you been out and caught a fever, or
something of that sort?”
“Oh, dear no, Dora. At least, we caught something, but it isn’t a fever,
and we didn’t have to go out for it. Oh, dear, my head!”
“Well, I must just go and see if madame knows what will cure you.”
“Oh, Dora, dear! pray don’t! She would be so vexed. Look here. I’ll tell
you all about it, if you’ll promise not to let mother know what is the
matter with me.”
“But suppose you should get worse. Madame would blame me then, and
serious mischief might result from delay. I really think we must call a
doctor in.”
“Oh, Dora, you are so silly! Why can’t you understand? I see I shall
have to tell you everything. But do give me a drink of lemonade first. I
shan’t get worse, that is certain. They never do; Olaf says so.”
“Let Trischl fetch you a cup of coffee.”
“Bah! Do you want to make me sick? I want lemonade, and you might—yes, I
wish you would get me some vodki to put in it.”
“Vodki! Is the child crazy?”
“No, I’m not crazy. But I think you must be, or else you would
understand that it’s just the Katzenjammer that’s the matter with me.”
“Katzenjammer! What a queer complaint. I hope it isn’t catching.”
But at this point Feo suddenly became convulsed with laughter, provoked
thereto, I think, by the comical aspect of Trischl, who had all this
time remained in the room, and who had thrown her hands up in horror at
the name of the mysterious disease. The sight of Feo’s mirth began to
make me feel angry, for it struck me that she had been hoaxing me a
little. But all at once the laughter ceased, and was replaced by sobs,
amid which I heard an occasional protest to the effect that she would
“never do it again—no, never!”
I now deemed it wisest to keep silent for a while, and presently Feo
raised a repentant and shamefaced countenance to mine.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” she said. “But you must promise not to
tell mother.”
“If it is nothing very bad.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Very well, then, I promise.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be nasty with me. And now I’ll explain what the
Katzenjammer is. You get it after you have been tipsy.”
“Feo!”
“It’s quite true. You see, last night, after mother and you had gone
out, Uncle Feodor and Aunt Anna called with Olaf to take me to the
theater, as they had promised to do. But Olaf didn’t want to go to the
theater, and asked me to stay at home and play with him. He knew of such
a splendid new game, he said. So we got permission to stay here, for I
thought Olaf’s new game was something wonderful, he made such a fuss
about it when he ran to my room to persuade me to agree to his plan.
Then, when we were alone, he said: ‘I have a short story to tell you
first. Our old isvostchik, who has been with us so many years, has got
dismissed to-day for getting drunk. He has often been drunk, and he was
told that if he did it once more he would lose his place. Old Hans, who
is a German, knew the penalty of offending again, and he was always
troubled with what he called the Katzenjammer after he had been tipsy.
But this seemed to make no difference. He got tipsy yesterday, and
couldn’t drive the carriage when mother wanted to go out in the
afternoon. So he was packed off about his business, in disgrace. Now
don’t you think, Feo, that it must be delightful to get drunk? If it
were not, do you think a poor man would risk so much for the sake of
drinking vodki? I’m sure he wouldn’t, so I’m determined to try what it
feels like to be tipsy, and I want you to share the fun. We’ll pretend
to be two friends, who haven’t seen each other for a long time, and
we’ll keep inviting each other to have a drink with us.’
“‘But suppose it makes us have the Katzenjammer after it?’
“‘Oh, then we have only to take a little drop more vodki, and then we
shall be better again.’
“So at last I agreed and Olaf reached a decanter and some glasses out of
a sideboard, and we made ourselves tipsy. It was great fun, too, for we
grew quite jolly, and we danced, and we sang for ever so long. Then Olaf
fell asleep on the floor, and I came to bed. I don’t know whether Olaf
wakened up or not when they came to fetch him. And it isn’t half so
jolly as I thought it would be. My head aches awfully, and I’m never
going to get drunk again.”
Now was it very wrong of me to be so stricken with laughter that I found
it necessary to turn away to hide my emotion? I’m afraid a strict
moralist would hardly approve of my behavior, and I must have felt some
twinges of conscience, or I would not have tried so hard to recover a
stern demeanor. Finally, I succeeded, and drew such a picture of future
horrors, that would certainly be the consequence of indulgence in a
taste for strong drink, that Feo was almost frightened out of her wits
and was not likely to transgress again in a hurry. Of course I tabooed
the idea of giving her any more of the pernicious stuff which had made
her ill. As Trischl appeared to know all about the matter, I purchased
her silence by the gift of a silver rouble, which she received with many
manifestations of satisfaction. Then I ordered some hot extract of beef
to be brought for Feo, advised her to lie still for an hour or two, and
went to the morning-room in search of madame.
I found her looking somewhat disturbed. She always had a surprising
amount of letters, seeing that she was a private individual. I had once
or twice offered to take some of the fatigue of correspondence off her
hands. But to this she would never consent. Indeed, I never even saw the
addresses of the letters she sent away, as might have been the case had
she cared to trust me with the duty of writing them down to her
dictation. There was much that was mysterious in her way of receiving
and dispatching her postal communications, and she was so good-natured
with me on every other point that I knew she must have a good and
sufficient reason for keeping me aloof in this respect. On this
particular morning one of her letters had brought her tidings which
necessitated a sudden change of plans on her part. As had been the case
when in London, she left home for a few days, scarcely allowing herself
time to have a small portmanteau packed, and giving us not the slightest
idea of where she was going or how long she would be away. I was told
that she depended upon me to take her place in the household as far as
possible, but specific directions she had not time to give me.
That afternoon, I was writing a letter to Mrs. Garth, when Feo came into
my room.
“I wish you would take me for a drive, Dora,” she said. “My headache has
nearly gone, and I believe fresh air would cure it altogether.”
So I put my half-finished letter on one side, ordered the carriage, and
prepared myself to go out with Feo. We both enjoyed the drive, and as I
was still fresh to many of the sights of St. Petersburg, there was
plenty of subject matter for conversation.
On arriving home again, I repaired at once to my own room, as I was
anxious to finish the letter which I had begun to write to Mrs. Garth. I
took the key of my room door out of my pocket. As I did not want the
prying eyes of any of the servants to glance over my correspondence, I
had taken the precaution of locking my door instead of putting my papers
into my desk again.
I was somewhat surprised to find that the door was not locked, after
all, and thought for a moment that I might have been mistaken as to
having turned the key. But no. Reflection convinced me that there had
been no mistake. I distinctly remembered that, after taking the key out
of the lock, I had tried the door-handle. It would not yield to my
touch. Therefore, the door had been locked. It was not locked when I
returned. It was evident, then, that it had been tampered with during my
absence. But who could have taken such an unwarrantable liberty? The
question puzzled me, until I recalled to mind a figure I had seen on the
stairs as I came up. It was the figure of a man whom I had not seen
before, but who was walking leisurely downstairs, as if he felt assured
of a safe and familiar footing in the house.
Who, or what could he be?
A servant in the house?
I thought not.
What then, a spy?
At the mere thought of being subject to the government espionage of
which I had heard so much my limbs trembled under me and I fairly gasped
for breath. I thought of May Morris and her gruesome predictions, and
the wildest consternation seized me as I wondered if I had written
anything that could compromise me. Had my letter to Mrs. Garth been
overhauled? I must ascertain, if possible. I examined my blotting case
and papers. They did not look as if they had been disturbed. I was
putting them down again, half-reassured, when I perceived the faint
impress of what must have been a dirty thumb on the edge of the sheet of
note-paper on which I had been writing. I disclaimed the idea of having
soiled the paper myself; but resolved to apply a test, in order to be
quite sure.
Taking another sheet of paper, and wetting my right thumb with ink, I
lightly grasped the paper between my thumb and forefinger, leaving upon
it a slight mark. Then, taking a magnifying-glass from the table, I
observed the two marks with its aid. The veinings on them were totally
different. I had not soiled the half-written letter. A spy had been in
my room. Could it be that trouble was in store for me, and that I had
already fallen under the ban of suspicion?
Madame was away a week. When she returned, I was struck by the anxious
expression of her face and still more by the evident effort with which
she strove to be her old bright self.
“Are you not well?” I asked her, feeling considerable solicitude on her
behalf.
“Quite well, Dora. Only a little tired after traveling. Tell me, has
anything notable occurred during my absence?”
“There have been several callers.”
“Were the Prince and Princess Michaelow here?”
“Yes. They came on Thursday, and took Feo and myself for a drive. We
spent a very pleasant afternoon. Feo is spending the day with them
again.”
“And Count Karenieff. Has he been here?”
“No.”
“Ah! I thought so! I must be on my guard against him. Is that all you
have to tell me?”
“There is something else. But I am not sure that it is worth mentioning,
or that the circumstances warrant the uneasiness they have caused me.”
“For Heaven’s sake! tell me all there is to tell. You little dream all
there may be at stake.”
“I am convinced that there is a spy in the house. Hush—what was that?”
As I uttered the last words, I sprang to my feet, and ran toward a large
portière, which seemed to me to have moved while I was speaking. The
door behind the portière was open, and I was just in time to see the
figure of a man disappear round an angle of the great corridor into
which all the rooms on this floor opened. When I turned and faced madame
again, after carefully shutting the door, I saw that she was deadly
pale, and that she was literally shaking with nervous apprehension. I
hastily gave her a glass of wine, which she just as hastily drank, and
then sat looking at me with a mute question in her startled eyes.
“A man has just run away from this door. He has been listening,” I
whispered, feeling as if the raising of my voice might bring ruin on the
unnerved woman of whom I had already grown fond. Then I rapidly related
how I had been driven to the conclusion that the house was under
espionage.
“Was there anything in the letter that could be construed as matter of a
mischievous tendency?” madame asked anxiously.
“Nothing whatever,” was my confident reply. “I had merely said that my
life in St. Petersburg was being made very pleasant, and that I had met
a great number of very nice people. After I discovered that my
correspondence had been overlooked, I destroyed the letter and resolved
not to dispatch another in its place until I had consulted you. On
Thursday I wrote out a page from Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’ and left it,
together with my blotting-book and writing materials, on the escritoire
in this room. When I examined the things on my return, I found that the
page of poetry and the top layer of blotting-paper out of my blotter had
disappeared. Ah—that door is opening!”
The door, which slid on noiseless hinges, was quite concealed by the
portière, but a very slight motion imparted to the latter by the
incoming draught had not escaped my watchful attention, and the spy,
whoever he was, was baffled again for a time, for madame sprang up, and
drew the large curtains to one side, so that it was impossible for the
door to be moved again without our being aware of it. To make assurance
doubly sure, we slid the bolts that were on the inside. Then we explored
the room which opened out of the large morning-room in which we had been
sitting. We soon satisfied ourselves that nobody was there, and then,
after locking the doors of that room also, to prevent unwarranted
intrusion, we sat down to discuss the matter more fully.
“Dora,” said madame, “just reach me my desk, will you?”
Willingly I obeyed, and then the desk was carefully overhauled by its
owner, who became still more agitated when she failed to discover
certain papers of which she was in search.
“I am lost!” she said despairingly. “I have been mad to keep those
letters. And yet, how could I destroy them, when they were as life
itself to me! My God! have I been too late, after all? Is he already in
the hands of those cursed, bloodthirsty devils? Holy Mother of God! save
me from going mad!”
My own bewilderment and alarm were momentarily increasing, but I used my
best endeavors to soothe the distracted woman at my side.
“For pity’s sake!” I implored, “be calm. To lose your self-control may
help to bring about the very disaster you fear. And think of Feo. She
will still claim your attention, whatever may be the demands upon your
fortitude.”
“My darling Feo! God help her, if anything befalls me, for those
ravening wolves, my enemies, will have scant mercy upon the child of a
suspect. Dora, can I trust you? Dare I put my secrets in your keeping?”
“God helping me, I will do all I can for you.”
“I believe you. Now listen.”
Madame Kominski spoke in a low voice, but with a painful concentration
of purpose and a nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands which
could only be the result of extreme agitation and dread.
“Listen,” she said once more. “I belong to a family which has given many
martyrs to the cause of freedom, and from my earliest youth I was taught
to hate that merciless Juggernaut, the Russian autocracy, with all its
vile ramifications of pillage and murder. Pah! Curse it! What does
government do for us? It revels in luxury and splendors drained from the
life-blood of millions of groaning victims. It grinds the people into
nothingness as remorselessly as the millstones crush the wheat with
which they are fed. But the day will come when even that mighty thing of
evil will be numbered among the curses of the past, and when wealth and
happiness are no longer all absorbed by the thin crust of society, while
all beneath it is one mass of rotten, seething corruption and misery.
They talk of hell! What hell could display sufferings equal to those
which have been endured by my people? What hell could be big enough to
hold all the accursed wretches who have for ages helped to trample out
the lives and souls of a vast nation?”
“Madame! madame!” I whispered, in renewed alarm. “Think how dreadful it
will be if you are overheard!”
“Why, yes,” she said, sinking her voice again. “I believe I must be mad!
And is it not enough to drive one mad, to see the downfall of all one’s
hopes; the failure of all one’s plans; the utter hopelessness of trying
to rescue even one unit among all these millions from the remorseless
fate which an iron autocracy metes out for it? Where are now all my
struggles? Lost! Wasted! Gone! Crashed by the foul harpies who bloat
themselves on the miseries of others!
“But I forget that you do not yet know my history. Listen. I will tell
it to you.”
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