and our swords crossed, the sparks flying as the steel ground. His
horse, a fiery beast, plunged and I missed giving him a thrust over
his guard, as I had given M. d’Argenson, on the Place Royale. Then he
wheeled quickly, and tried to stab me in the side, and I parried, my
beast answering the bit well, but I saw I had my match, not trained
in a Parisian school, but a born swordsmen, as I think some men are.
Moreover, the thought of his humiliation in the painted gallery, of his
stolen bride, stung him to fury: he would have torn me to pieces with
the joy of a savage. We fought desperately, therefore, and the horses,
plunging and backing, kept us whirling in a circle, thrusting here and
missing there, and then clashing fiercely; once he drew blood on my arm
and once I touched his throat.
The Princess Daria’s horse had carried her a few yards away, and there
she held him, looking back, rooted, as it seemed, to the spot, though
I shouted to her to ride on. The swords whirled and ground together,
and in a flash I saw the whole scene and remembered it; the glory of
the sky, the wide sweep of land, the shadows of the sycamores, and the
sharp outline of her figure and her face, white as a pearl. But, all
the while, I had much ado to keep his steel from my heart, and verily,
I think the man fought more like a fiend than a human. The sun had
risen and sometimes it shone in my eyes, sometimes in his, as our
beasts moved to and fro, and sometimes the flash and sparkle of it
on our blades was blinding and once--when he almost thrust me in the
breast--I heard the princess cry out sharply.
Then I rose in my stirrups and he in his, and for a moment our steels
ground out fire. I saw his bloodshot eyes and heard his laboured
breathing; the man was tired and so was I, and yet I must wear him out
or give her up to him, and he--the barbarian devil--he knew that he
must kill me or give her up to me!
I had the longer sword, and once I thought I had him, but he parried
and well-nigh caught me under the arm-pit, and then I wheeled my horse
quickly and lunged at him, our swords clashed, and at the sound, his
beast plunged widely from me, reared up and pawed the air, while I
saw Kurakin’s face turn pale as ashes, and then the beast fell over
backward and rolled on his rider. My own horse careered wildly, and
the other brute turned over and got to his feet and was running with
an empty saddle, before I could approach his master. Kurakin lay in a
heap on the ground, and I leaped down and turned him over; his neck was
broken and he lay there, in the mire, stone-dead.
I turned and saw the princess holding in her horse, for he, too, was
restive, and her face was perfectly colourless.
Without a word I mounted and rode forward, and she sat looking back
with dilated eyes.
“Will you leave him so?” she cried; “is he dead?”
“Quite dead, madame,” I answered.
She made the sign of the cross, and I laid my hand upon her bridle,
guiding her frightened horse.
“We must ride,” I said. “We can send others back from Troïtsa for the
body--if it is safe to do so.”
For ten minutes we galloped on and then she spoke.
“Why did you not use your pistol?” she asked.
“In France a gentleman takes no advantage of his adversary in weapons,”
I replied courteously.
She bit her lip, and then, “But if he had killed you!” she cried.
Then I had my revenge. “Then, madame, instead of the goldsmith you
would have had a boyar,” I said coldly.
She looked at me a moment in sheer amazement, and then she turned
crimson, and rode on ahead of me without a word.
_XXX: THE PRINCE VORONIN_
IN this fashion, riding hard, we came in sight of Troïtsa. In the clear
sunshine the cupolas and turrets of the beautiful building rose clearly
outlined against the sky. The great monastery, with its chapels and
its shrines and its glebe, was a princely territory, and close under
the protection of its walls clung a village, grown there, doubtless,
through the constant stream of pilgrims, whose wants could not be
altogether satisfied at the refectory. Herds of cattle moved placidly
along the slopes to the south, the herds of the brotherhood, for there
was wealth there and power. From among these monks were chosen the
great dignitaries of the church, for the priests, compelled to marry
and to work in the parishes, could never receive high offices, and
a bitter jealousy raged between the two orders. The sunshine on the
golden crosses, and the white walls, and over the green slopes, the
peaceful atmosphere, the sweet chimes of the church bells, greeted us
and made the scene on the road seem like a nightmare. We slackened
our pace and went more slowly up the road which led to the gates, and
as we approached, I observed a cortège leaving them and coming toward
us. Such a cortège as I had seen commonly in Moscow, the serfs running
ahead of an open carriage drawn by three horses, the marten-tails
floating in the breeze, and in the vehicle a noble in his rich and
gaudy dress, and behind again, the serfs, bare-foot, but sparkling
in broad collars and belts of gold on their white caftans. As they
appeared the princess drew rein with a sharp exclamation, and I looked
around at her, divining the cause of her discomfiture.
“My father!” she gasped, and looked at me strangely.
“Yes, madame,” I said, smiling grimly, “his excellency, the prince;
have I not redeemed my pledge?”
“But,” she began, and stammered, “but my father--I must tell him--and
you--what can you do?”
My face burned.
“Madame,” I said coldly, “do you think I am afraid to tell your father
that I married you?”
It was her turn to blush, and her eyes shone strangely.
“You do not know him,” she replied simply. “He will not listen. I know
the customs of your country are different; here, sir, a girl is given
in marriage by her parents, as they will. Sometimes she never sees her
bridegroom’s face until the hour of the ceremony. My father----” She
stopped, bit her lip, and sat looking down at her horse’s ears, and the
animal, with his bridle hanging loose, put his head down and cropped
the grass.
“And your father intended you to marry Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested
coldly, and then--because the pain in my heart was sharp--I added; “and
you, madame; do you love him?”
Then I thought a smile quivered about her lips, her head drooped
prettily, she would not look up, and the prince’s carriage came swiftly
on.
“Do I love him?” she repeated innocently; “who, sir--my father?”
“No, no!” I cried, in fierce haste, my heart beating wildly, “your
lover.”
Then she cast a bewildering glance at me. “Which?” she asked, and this
time I saw a dimple come and go in her cheek.
I urged my horse closer, and had my hand on her bridle when the
prince’s runners came panting up to us, and the three horses were
halted before us. He had recognised his daughter and beckoned to her.
Every vestige of colour and of life faded out of her face, a moment
before rosy and inscrutable, and she would have obeyed, but I rode
forward instead, and halting beside his excellency’s carriage, I
uncovered and greeted him with the courtesy I would show my equals
in France. I told him that I had brought his daughter to him, and
he eyed me coldly from head to foot. He was a handsome, dignified
man, with white hair and a ruddy skin and clear blue eyes. Nothing,
however, could exceed his hauteur; he could have matched the Grand
Monarque himself in manner, and, in his own domain, he was as great
an autocrat. His whole glance at me said, more plainly than words,
“and who are you?” but he acknowledged my information with a stately
gesture, at once dignified and courteous. Then he spoke a word in Russ
to the slave at his feet, who rose and, opening a long bag, or pouch,
began to gather up a handful of roubles, I looking on in some amazement
while the slave counted them. Then Voronin spoke again, and this time
audibly.
“Nay, twenty roubles more, Vasali,” he said; “would you stint the pay
of a man who rescued my daughter?”
Saint Denis! did he take me for a lackey? My wrath well-nigh choked me.
“You mistake, M. le Prince,” I said, in a low voice, that the serfs in
attendance might not hear; “I have brought back your daughter--as my
wife!”
The slave at his feet, who heard me, dropped the bag of gold and fell
on his knees gaping, while the prince merely stared at me, as if he
thought me mad. Very briefly, therefore, I told him the story of Sophia
and the painted gallery and the marriage, and as I did so, the Princess
Daria rode up and drew rein beside me. Many emotions had played across
the prince’s strong face as I spoke, but at the end it was inscrutable.
He turned his stern eyes on his daughter.
“Is this true?” he asked, in a deep voice.
“It is true,” she replied, very low, “and he saved my life!”
I held up my hand. “Nay,” I said, “there is no virtue in that plea; I
do not make it. I am your husband, madame!”
She gave me a strange look.
The prince turned to her again. “You have ever spoken the truth,” he
said, in a hard voice. “I acquit you of fault in this; but has he
guarded you, and treated you as becomes a princess, and my daughter?”
His tone was terrible.
“I have been safe as with you, my father,” she replied, and her voice
broke a little.
The prince called a serf. “Take the horse of the princess and lead her
ahead of me back to Troïtsa,” he said, and then to me: “Sir, if she had
testified against you, I would have had you hanged!”
“M. le Prince,” I replied coldly, “I am a Frenchman and a man of
honour. Try me not too far, monsieur; even though you are her father,
there are some things you may not say to me. Neither can you compel her
to leave her husband--unless she wills it.”
He looked at me with disdain and laughed.
“Her husband!” he repeated. “As little her husband, Sir Frenchman, as
that moujik in the field yonder,” and he signalled to his serfs to turn
back to Troïtsa.
But I rode beside the carriage and looked into his face, and proud as
he was, I saw him colour darkly.
“M. le Prince,” I said, “I am not the man to be thus lightly dealt
with. If she wishes to be free--I will free her. No woman is my wife
against her will; but if she chooses me of her free will, mine she is,
and shall be, against the world.”
“And think you that the Princess Daria will choose you?” he asked
contemptuously.
I returned his glance with equal pride. “And why not, monsieur?” I said
quietly. “I am her husband.”
He laughed at that, as I have seen men laugh before they engage a
deadly enemy.
“There are such things as divorces,” he said suavely, “and other--ways
of removal.”
“Assassination, M. le Prince,” I suggested. “It has been tried. In
France I am accounted wise enough to save my head.”
“It is well, sir,” he said; “I would advise you to use that wisdom
now.” He pointed southward. “The road to Moscow lies there,” he added
courteously, “and fifty roubles for your expenses--as a profit for the
rescue of the princess.”
“You insult me, sir,” I said scornfully; “yonder is my wife, and yonder
will I go,” and I rode forward, in defiance, to her side.
All this while we had been progressing slowly on the road to Troïtsa,
and as I went forward the whole procession quickened its pace. As my
horse came alongside of hers, the princess turned a pale face toward me.
“Monsieur, I pray you be advised,” she said, very low, “and anger
him not. He seems a smooth man and courteous, but he has a violent
spirit, and look you--you are one against all these, his slaves. ’Tis
useless--’tis worse than useless!”
“And you?” I said, “and you--obey him through fear?”
Her lips quivered, she averted her eyes.
“Half an hour ago, you were not thus,” I murmured, “tell me if----”
She looked up and her eyes were full of pain.
“Hush!” she cried, “hush! I will not listen. Yonder is the gate--and I
go to my cousin--I will obey my father, I----”
“Do you--will you repudiate your husband?” I asked firmly.
Her hands shook; she gave me an imploring look. “If you love me,
monsieur,” she faltered, “I beseech you--retire now and leave us.
To-morrow you can speak to him--the mad mood will pass if you----”
I leaned over and touched her hand.
“For your sake,” I said, and drew aside and let the cortège pass me and
enter the domain of Troïtsa.
And yet, twelve hours later, I counted this act of gallantry as one of
arrant folly, but who can lift the veil of destiny unless it be the
astrologer?
_XXXI: VASSALISSA_
WHEN the Princess Daria rode out of my sight that day she vanished
so completely that I could neither see her nor communicate with her
again. Prince Voronin understood the art of concealing his women-folk
even more thoroughly than the other Muscovites, and he was determined
to disregard the marriage of his daughter with a foreigner. He told
me so himself, standing on the great steps of the monastery, with old
Piotr bearing his sword behind him, and two slaves preceding him with
torches. For it was that same night that I met him face to face on the
steps, and demanded an interview in which the matter of my marriage
should be fully discussed. The man was naturally above the average
in height and bore himself with a dignity that was at once fine and
disdainful. I thought him then--with the torchlight upon him, in his
magnificent dress of dark green and crimson, with his snow-white hair
and his falcon eye--one of the handsomest and the proudest men that I
had ever seen, and I saw too, that--finding that he could neither buy
me nor intimidate me--he hated me cordially, yet he was a smooth man
and rarely violent in speech.
I had told him very briefly, but circumstantially, the story of the
marriage, and he knew as well as I that it was legal, but not the
quiver of an eyelash betrayed the least emotion.
“It rests with the Princess Daria,” I said; “she is my wife--and she
must choose. If she is still unwilling--I will not force my claim upon
her; but if she respects the bond between us, there is no power on
earth that can take her from me.”
The prince was so far unmoved that he smiled.
“In Russia it is the father, and not the daughter, who chooses, sir,”
he said coolly, “and so little does her will rule it that I tell you
plainly that, if I chose, I would give her to a moujik to-morrow--and
she should not disobey me.”
“She is your daughter,” I replied steadily, “but she is also my
wife, and you will not separate us, Prince Voronin. I demand to see
her--there is no law, in any land, that can keep a husband from seeing
his own wife.”
He eyed me coolly, but I saw the throbbing at the temples that comes
in anger, and the torchlight falling full on his face stained it with
crimson.
“There is no law, sir,” he replied suavely, “but there is my will.”
“Do you intend to prevent an interview?” I demanded sternly; “to take a
wife from her husband by force?”
“My dear sir,” he said pleasantly, “I would as lief fling you in the
Moskva, as not. Think you that I intend to permit Sophia Alexeievna to
marry my daughter at her will--to whom she will? Pshaw, sir, you are a
meddlesome foreigner! If Kurakin had married her, I would have flung
him from the top of Ivan Veliki; there was no need of your interference
to save the daughter of Prince Voronin.”
Looking in his eye, no one could doubt that he would be as good as his
word, but my blood was up, and but for the absolute folly of such a
course, on the steps of the monastery, I would have engaged him then
and there, and forgotten that he was my father-in-law, but as it was I
kept my hand off my sword, lest I should yield to temptation, for my
fingers itched to draw it.
“You are pleased to threaten me, monsieur,” I said coolly, “but you
mistake your opponent. I care naught for your threats or your power.
I have married the Princess Daria, and, by Saint Denis, she alone can
choose! I will give her up to none, and I will see her, monsieur,
if you and fifty of your slaves bar the way with drawn swords. _Au
revoir_, M. le Prince, I will delay you no longer; we understand each
other, as I think.”
He smiled fiercely, fingering his dagger.
“We do, sir, and we will,” he said, and bowed formally in reply to my
grave salute.
Then he went down, the torches streaming fire before him, and the great
figure of Piotr walking solemnly behind, and I stood on the steps,
gnawing my lips with suppressed fury, and watching them proceed to a
small chapel where they were singing mass.
After that I set about finding the princess. Somewhere, under the wing
of these cloisters, the high-born women were sheltered, but where? I
knew not, and again and again regretted my stupidity in not bringing
Maluta. Either the prince had corrupted the people of the monastery
with bribes, or they were reticent to foreigners, for, though I spent
the greater part of the night in making inquiries and offering money,
I heard nothing, and morning found me as ignorant as ever of Daria’s
fate. That she was still there, I could not doubt; the place was full
of fugitives from Moscow as well as the usual army of pilgrims, and
the country was not in a state for travellers unless in large parties,
and the prince’s serfs were still in force at Troïtsa, for I saw his
liveries everywhere. Morning found me watching the processions of
the devout, going from shrine to shrine with many genuflexions and
prostrations, the sinner and the unabsolved penitent kneeling in the
porticos. Among these numerous worshippers were many women, and I
searched each group eagerly for one figure and searched in vain, and
once or twice I thought I was followed, which would not have surprised
me, knowing Voronin’s bitter enmity. Yet I could not be certain, though
once I came upon two men who were watching me, by the corner of the
chapel. Two burly fellows, wearing the dress of well-to-do merchants,
but looking the part of ruffians to the life, and one had a deep purple
mark upon his forehead that seemed to me familiar. But it was just
after this chance encounter that something occurred that put the pair
entirely out of my mind. I had left their neighbourhood and was walking
in a quiet angle of the great cloister, listening to the sweet chime
of the bells, when I heard my name called softly, and wheeling about,
saw a veiled female figure standing in the shadow of the wall. For one
wild moment I thought it the princess, and then I saw that the figure
was shorter and rounder, and even before she partly lifted her _fata_ I
recognised Vassalissa, and blessed my good fortune. I was so overjoyed
to see her that I could have embraced her, but she was poised lightly
as a bird, ready to fly and in breathless haste.
“Hush--yes, monsieur, it is I,” she whispered, laughing, and retreating
a little at my eagerness; “I am away from the dragon--but, in an
instant, I must go back--she is at the chapel--no, no, not Daria!” She
laughed at my excitement. “Only old Yekaterina.”
“But where is the Princess Daria?” I demanded; “has she hidden herself
from me--or is it the prince’s doing?”
“A little of both, monsieur,” replied the girl roguishly; “she is
afraid of you, I believe; you know husbands so often beat their wives
and----”
“_Sapristi!_” I exclaimed; “do you imagine--does she dream that I would
strike a woman?”
Lissa’s blue eyes opened wide. “Would you not?” she asked blankly. “Do
not your men beat their wives?”
“The saints forbid!” I said piously. “A French gentleman beat his wife?
Nay, mademoiselle, never!”
She looked at me with curiosity, and then clapped her hands gleefully.
“Look you, monsieur, I will marry a Frenchman!” she cried. “Why, my
uncle beat his wife six times a week--and thought it too little.”
I bit my lip. “Perhaps, he also beats his daughter,” I said furiously.
“He used to,” Vassalissa replied, and turned pale. “He is a dreadful
man, monsieur, when he is angry, but you know we women must obey.”
I choked down my anger. “Tell me no more,” I said harshly, “or I may
kill him--even if he is her father. But where is she? I must see my
wife!”
A roguish look came back into the child’s face.
“She is safe, monsieur,” she said, “and she may see you, if we can
manage it without his knowledge, but if he catches us,” she nodded her
head at me like a little bird, “he will kill us all--everyone!”
“I will risk it,” I said joyfully; “but where and when?”
She looked at me with her head on one side, as mischievous a little
vixen as ever lived.
“I will tell you next week,” she said wickedly.
I caught her round young arm and held her, in spite of her struggles.
“When, child, when?” I demanded savagely; “do not trifle!”
“To-morrow,” she drawled mischievously, “I will tell you.”
I gave her a little shake. “When?” I said, “and where? ’Tis no jest,
mademoiselle, but life and death!”
She looked up at me with wondering blue eyes.
“Do you really love her so?” she whispered.
“Better than life,” I answered solemnly.
She sighed deeply and smiled. “I think she----” The minx broke off,
looking at me sideways.
“Does she?” I cried in a fever, “does she love me?”
She slipped out of my hands and danced off, laughing gleefully.
“I do not know,” she cried, “she is a princess, sir, and no one knows
her mind.”
I could have shaken the provoking little witch.
“Ah, perhaps she loves Prince Galitsyn,” I suggested coldly; “he had
her miniature.”
The girl’s face sobered. “I gave it to him,” she said, “to plague
Daria; she did not mean to do it. We changed the pictures to tease
Sophia, and I gave it to Galitsyn; I was wrong, for all this ill came
of it, but”--she stopped and rubbed her shoulder comically--“I got a
beating for it!” she said, pouting.
“But when can I see her?” I cried passionately. “I will follow you and
find her.”
“No, no,” she retorted, like a flash, “you would not find her, but old
Yekaterina,” and she laughed like a chime of bells.
Then she listened and held up her finger.
“She calls and I must go,” she said, “and Daria will see you here,
monsieur, to-night--at sundown--if all goes well--adieu,” and she fled
from me, perhaps three yards, and then:
“Surely, I shall marry a Frenchman,” she cried to me, her blue eyes
shining; “they do not beat their wives,” and away she ran.
Strangely elated--not only by the thought that the princess had made an
appointment with me, but by her cousin’s manner, which seemed to imply
Daria’s friendliness also--I walked toward the straggling village,
where I could see knots of pilgrims gathered in conversation, and here
and there, on the road, one approached slowly, on his knees at every
five paces, to utter a penitential prayer.
It was broad noonday; the beautiful domes and minarets of the monastery
loomed against a sky as blue as turquoise; in the fields the moujiks
had left their ploughing and knelt, facing the cloister, for the bells
were ringing the call to prayers. A long line of bowed brown figures
trailed slowly up the road to the gate, and the chant of a psalm came
softly to me.
My heart was full of mingled emotions; the thought of her, of the cry
of joy in her cell in the palace, of her manner just before we met her
father, of a look I had surprised once when her eyes dwelt on me. All
these things, that lovers dwell upon and hug to their bosoms, filled
my mind and deafened my ears. I was far away from the pilgrims now and
the houses; I had turned into a path that led across the fields and was
walking slowly--the sunshine golden about me--when suddenly a stunning
blow fell on the back of my head and there was thick blackness before
my eyes, as I reeled and fell, face downwards, and knew no more.
_XXXII: THE MAN WITH THE PURPLE SCAR_