A ROMANCE OF THE STEPPE.
Our final glasses had been clinked; Mademoiselle had crossed herself
devoutly before the _ikon_ hanging over the door of the dingy old
post-house at Uziansk, at the foot of the Ourals; and in a few moments
our sleigh-bells were jingling merrily, and our runners hissing over the
frozen snow, as the pretty Russian and myself sped along in the bright
moonlight on our journey of over two thousand miles into Siberia. I was
on my way to the little town of Lebiázhia, on a secret mission, and was
travelling, as usual, with a false passport.
At the last moment I had been asked by my old friend, Paul Cherniávski,
lieutenant in the Tzar’s Dragoons, to allow a friend of his to travel
with me to Irkutsk; and having consented, I had discovered, to my
surprise, that his friend—who was introduced to me only a quarter of an
hour before as Mademoiselle Mariána Néstoff—was an exceedingly handsome,
dark-eyed young lady of about twenty-two.
Who she was I had no idea, and Paul did not enlighten me. He was the
best of good fellows, but in Petersburg he had always had a reputation
among the fair sex; and one or two of his little affairs of the heart had
afforded subjects for gossip, notably the coupling of his name with that
of La Belle Estelle—a little French circus-rider, about whom he fought a
duel.
But our adieux had been said; he had grumbled at being quartered in that
out-of-the-world village; and soon my fair charge and I were out upon
the open, snow-covered steppe, where the telegraph poles and verst-posts
ran in a long black line to the horizon; and for a couple of hours the
horses, eager for a spin, galloped steadily, taking us along swift as the
wind.
“Why are you going to Irkutsk?” I asked, after chatting for a long time
with my pretty travelling companion, who, under her rich furs, had
nestled warmly at my side, and was smoking a cigarette.
“You will pardon me, M’sieur, if I do not answer that question,” she
replied in musical French, moving uneasily. Then she whispered into my
ear, “It—it is a secret!”
We were silent. I drew up the collar of my heavy coat and sat silent and
puzzled; while upon my fair companion the rhythmic jingle of the bells
and gliding motion of the sleigh must have had a soothing effect, for
very soon she closed her great lustrous eyes, and her head gradually
pillowed itself upon my shoulder. She fell fast asleep, and I drew her
soft otter hood across her white cheek to prevent frost-bite.
She was evidently tired out, for through the long night she slept
soundly, now and then murmuring low words that I could not catch. Her
beauty had enchanted me; the mystery surrounding her added to the intense
interest I felt in her. Even when, cramped by remaining in the same
position so as to allow her head to rest comfortably, my arm stole gently
around her waist and drew her towards me, she did not wake. Indeed, she
remained oblivious to her surroundings until, just as the wintry dawn was
spreading, Ivan, our driver, pulled up at the post-house of the little
village of Rytsaieva, having accomplished our first stage.
Then, on opening her eyes and finding herself in my embrace, she blushed
deeply, apologised for being such an uninteresting companion, and,
shivering, alighted and entered the small log-built house.
During that day and the following night we remained at the post-house.
Then each day passed much as its predecessor. While the light lasted we
sped onward, putting up each night at the wretchedly dirty post-houses,
at last crossing the frontier at Zverinogolovsk and entering that dreaded
prison-land, Siberia. Gaining the Great Post-Road, we continued upon it
day after day, week after week, over the barren snow-covered country
through Ishim, Omsk, and Kolivan, until we reached Tomsk, one thousand
miles from our starting-point. Mariána was an enigma, and, even before we
had been companions a week, I found myself admiring her. Yet the mystery
surrounding her was most tantalising. Though apparently a provincial, she
spoke of people in the highest circle in Petersburg in a manner which
showed them to be intimate friends, for many of the people about whom she
gossiped so pleasantly were my own acquaintances.
At times I was inclined to regard her as a pure-minded girl whose safety
had been entrusted to me by Paul; yet, when I remembered that his life
had been one of joys without sorrow and loves without a morrow, I felt
more inclined to suspect her to be a handsome adventuress.
Time after time we passed convicts dragging their leg-irons onward;
men and women with hope left far beyond the Ourals, and with looks of
unutterable despair upon their care-lined brows, were trudging wearily
through the snow with footsteps hastened by the terrible knout wielded by
fierce, brutal Cossacks.
Mariána, as she gazed with pitying looks at the miserable, smileless
bands, would sigh heavily and lapse into deep thought. Once only when,
just as we were passing, a Cossack’s whip fell heavily upon the shoulders
of a young woman who seemed very weak and ill, the sight moved her to
angrily declare that the Russian penal code was a blot on the progress of
modern civilisation.
“Such thoughts are best left unuttered here, Mademoiselle,” I said. “To
recklessly criticise his Majesty’s actions is a serious matter.”
“I care nothing for that,” she answered defiantly. “If you knew half as
much of the injustice, the bribery, and corruption that exist all over
the empire as I do, you would find it difficult to restrain your tongue.”
She spoke earnestly in French, so that Ivan, the driver, could not
understand; and the vehemence of her words showed her to be suffering
from some injustice. I was amazed at her violent denunciation. Suddenly a
thought occurred to me, and bending, I whispered into her ear.
“So Mademoiselle is a _Nihilist_?”
She started, turning pale. With trembling fingers she clutched my arm and
gasped—
“Who—who told you? Have I betrayed my secret?”
“Words are an index to one’s convictions,” I replied briefly, smiling.
“Now that I know that you are working for the Cause, surely I may know
why you are going to Irkutsk.”
“Ah,” she cried, terribly agitated. “Do not let us discuss it. The driver
may understand, and—and it would mean _death_!”
“Your secret is quite safe with me, Mariána,” I said, reassuringly,
taking her gloved hand in mine, and I uttered one word that gave her
confidence.
“I—I do trust you,” she replied, in a low, faltering voice. “Ah! You do
not know my past!” And her breast heaved and fell in a long, deep-drawn
sigh.
“May I not know it? Are the recollections so very bitter?”
“Bitter!” she cried. “It is a story of wretched duplicity and dishonour.
If you knew all you would hate me; therefore it is best that I should
keep my secret hidden, and when we part you will perhaps sometimes
remember me with kindly thoughts.”
“But tell me one thing,” I demanded anxiously. “Is Paul Cherniávski your
protector?”
She held her breath, and as she looked at me I saw tears welling in her
bright eyes.
“Yes,” she faltered. “He—he is my only friend.”
The silence that ensued was long and painful. The truth, as far as it
went, was out, and I felt angry with myself.
That night, having halted at the lonely post-house of Artinsk, we sat in
the uncleanly common-room, and Mariána, as usual, served tea to Ivan and
myself from the _samovar_. As she handed the driver his cup I noticed
that his hand trembled and he looked at her with a strange, almost
demoniacal expression of hatred. In a moment, however, it had passed; yet
throughout the evening, while Mariána and I smoked our cigarettes and
chatted to the old post-house keeper and his wife, the sole occupants, I
pondered over it, and at night little sleep came to my eyes.
Was there some secret between them, or had he understood Mariána’s
confession?
Rising early, I went out into the clear, crisp air to smoke and think. It
was a lonely place, sixty miles to the nearest village. When I returned
I found the post-house keeper speechless with terror, and at once
apprehended that some strange event had occurred. Judge my amazement and
horror, however, when he half dragged me to a room where I saw Ivan, the
driver, lying upon his truckle bed fully dressed. He had been stabbed to
the heart!
Mariána, who came from her room a moment later, was horrified, though
she declared that she was too much upset to enter to view the murdered
man’s corpse. Pale, nervous, and haggard, she whispered in French a wish
to get away as quickly as possible, and so agitated did she become when
I announced my intention of going on to Irkutsk, four hundred versts
distant, to inform the police, that suspicions were at once aroused in my
mind.
I noticed, too, a deep scratch across her delicate wrist. How did she get
it? Her actions were strange, and she was so anxious to get away from the
scene of the crime that I at last became convinced of her guilt.
My fair travelling companion was a murderess!
We arrived in the Siberian city of Irkutsk one afternoon in December, and
took tea at the post-house. Before we had finished our meal Mariána, who,
though very pale, looked undeniably beautiful in a dress richly trimmed
with otter, suddenly disappeared.
“Has any one seen the lady who arrived with me?” I asked presently of the
men who were warming themselves around the stove.
“Yes,” replied a man who had just entered, and was shaking the snow from
his sheepskin. “I saw her entering the Governor’s Palace.” Then he added,
with a wink, “His Excellency has an eye for feminine beauty—he has.”
I waited for no more. Struggling into my _shuba_, I crammed my cap on my
head and hurried to the Palace, only a few hundred yards away. Of the
sentry at the gate I learned that a lady had called upon his Excellency,
and been admitted. After a short conversation with a flunkey, the man
pocketed one hundred roubles as a bribe, and I was conducted through the
great handsomely-furnished residence of the representative of the Tzar,
and shown into a small anteroom, shut off from another apartment by heavy
plush curtains.
As I entered I heard voices in the adjoining room.
“So you have come, my little one,” a man’s gruff voice exclaimed.
“Yes—at last,” was the reply. The words were Mariána’s.
Peeping through the curtains I found I could observe all that went on in
the luxuriant gaudy apartment. Before the glowing fire a tall, elderly
man, in the white uniform of the Imperial Guard, with his breast covered
with orders, was standing; and near him Mariána, pale, erect and queenly.
“I have come, General Korolénko, to free myself from the hateful toils
you cast about me three years ago, when you were Chief of the Third
Section of Police in Petersburg,” she said, regarding him steadily. “I
was a Nihilist, and you, taking advantage of my youth and inexperience,
gave me a choice of alternatives. You ordered me to the mines, and then
gave me a chance of regaining my liberty and of saving my brother’s
honour by becoming one of your contemptible spies. I agreed. For three
years I have been your puppet. I have acted my ignominious, dishonourable
part in Petersburg society, and been the means of sending dozens of
unoffending persons to their terrible doom—to rot in the dungeons under
the Neva, or toil in the dark silver mines of the Trans-Baikal—while you,
the ex-Chief of Secret Police, live here in luxury and pose before your
Imperial Master as the great detector of conspiracies!”
“And what of that?” he cried angrily. “Is my conduct to be criticised by
a mere chit of a girl? Remember, you are an agent of the Third Section
charged with the protection of the person of his Majesty, and as such you
will remain. If not, recollect you are now in Siberia, and I have merely
to sign this order here and you will go to hard labour at the mines
for the remainder of your life, where my Cossacks will soon teach you
obedience. So go, jade, and don’t let me hear or see any more of you,”
and he stretched forth his hand to ring the bell.
“Hear me out!” she cried hoarsely. “I intend to change my despicable mode
of life. I tell you that you must sign this paper releasing me from our
secret compact and give me complete immunity from arrest,” and she drew a
paper from her breast. “Otherwise I shall take——”
“Oh! You use threats—eh? Well, my dear, and what can you do, pray?” he
asked with a sneer.
“Once you held me in your power,” she continued angrily. “Now the tables
are turned. Refuse, and I shall send to his Majesty proofs, together with
the signed confession, of the miserable coward who in Petersburg one
night struck Marie Smirnitskaya dead!”
The General started, and his face blanched.
“How—how do you know?” he gasped.
“The confession is signed by you! Perhaps you forget that we, the
Nihilists, tracked you down, compelled you to confess, and spared your
life in consequence. Besides, have I not had another instance of your
murderous villainy only last week at Artinsk, where one of your hired
assassins brutally did our driver, Ivan, to death, because he knew the
identity of the murderer of Marie Smirnitskaya!”
“You—you lie!” he cried, livid with rage. “You—you would wreck my life,
and bring me to the mines! But, _diable_, you shall not!” he hissed,
drawing a revolver and advancing towards her. “You—you too shall die!”
In a second I parted the curtains and sprang upon him. I was not a moment
too soon, for he fired, and the bullet sped over Mariána’s head, smashing
one of the great mirrors.
Wrenching the weapon from his grasp, I covered him.
“The safety of this lady has been entrusted to me, sir,” I said. “I have
overheard all that has transpired, and as soon as you sign the document
we will withdraw. Until then, we shall remain.”
He turned upon me, threatening to have me arrested; but I laughed,
informing him that I was an official of the Tzar, holding his Majesty’s
personal passport, therefore he had no power to detain me. For nearly
half an hour he endeavoured to evade appending his signature, but at last
he did so, and we left, Mariána telling him that if she were arrested as
a Nihilist her brother would see that his confession was sent immediately
to the Tzar.
“Who is your brother?” I asked, at last, as we slowly walked together
down the frozen road.
“My brother and protector is your friend, Paul Cherniávski,” she answered.
“Paul—your brother!” I cried, half beside myself with delight. “Then I
have no longer any hesitation in asking you to become my wife.”
Before we again entered the bare smoke-blackened post-house she had given
her promise.