“You were born a savage and you will die one,” said I.
My words stung him, for he broke into an oath, raising his whip as if he
would strike me.
“Silence, you crop-eared dog!” he cried. “Had I my way some of the
insolence would be frozen out of you before morning.” Mastering his
passion, he turned upon Sophie with what he meant to be a gallant
manner. “If you have a cellar with a good lock,” said he, “the fellow
may lie in it for the night, since you have done him the honour to take
an interest in his comfort. I must have his parole that he will not
attempt to play us any tricks, as I am answerable for him until I hand
him over to the Hetman Platoff to-morrow.”
His supercilious manner was more than I could endure.
He had evidently spoken French to the lady in order that I might
understand the humiliating way in which he referred to me.
“I will take no favour from you,” said I. “You may do what you like, but
I will never give you my parole.”
The Russian shrugged his great shoulders, and turned away as if the
matter were ended.
“Very well, my fine fellow, so much the worse for your fingers and toes.
We shall see how you are in the morning after a night in the snow.”
“One moment, Major Sergine,” cried Sophie. “You must not be so hard upon
this prisoner. There are some special reasons why he has a claim upon
our kindness and mercy.”
The Russian looked with suspicion upon his face from her to me.
“What are the special reasons? You certainly seem to take a remarkable
interest in this Frenchman,” said he.
“The chief reason is that he has this very morning of his own accord
released Captain Alexis Barakoff, of the Dragoons of Grodno.”
“It is true,” said Barakoff, who had come out of the house. “He captured
me this morning, and he released me upon parole rather than take me back
to the French army, where I should have been starved.”
“Since Colonel Gerard has acted so generously you will surely, now
that fortune has changed, allow us to offer him the poor shelter of our
cellar upon this bitter night,” said Sophie. “It is a small return for
his generosity.”
But the Dragoon was still in the sulks.
“Let him give me his parole first that he will not attempt to escape,”
said he. “Do you hear, sir? Do you give me your parole?”
“I give you nothing,” said I.
“Colonel Gerard,” cried Sophie, turning to me with a coaxing smile, “you
will give me your parole, will you not?”
“To you, mademoiselle, I can refuse nothing. I will give you my parole,
with pleasure.”
“There, Major Sergine,” cried Sophie, in triumph, “that is surely
sufficient. You have heard him say that he gives me his parole. I will
be answerable for his safety.”
In an ungracious fashion my Russian bear grunted his consent, and so I
was led into the house, followed by the scowling father and by the
big, black-bearded Dragoon. In the basement there was a large and roomy
chamber, where the winter logs were stored. Thither it was that I was
led, and I was given to understand that this was to be my lodging for
the night. One side of this bleak apartment was heaped up to the ceiling
with fagots of firewood. The rest of the room was stone-flagged and
bare-walled, with a single, deep-set window upon one side, which was
safely guarded with iron bars. For light I had a large stable lantern,
which swung from a beam of the low ceiling. Major Sergine smiled as he
took this down, and swung it round so as to throw its light into every
corner of that dreary chamber.
“How do you like our Russian hotels, monsieur?” he asked, with his
hateful sneer. “They are not very grand, but they are the best that we
can give you. Perhaps the next time that you Frenchmen take a fancy to
travel you will choose some other country where they will make you more
comfortable.” He stood laughing at me, his white teeth gleaming through
his beard. Then he left me, and I heard the great key creak in the lock.
For an hour of utter misery, chilled in body and soul, I sat upon a pile
of fagots, my face sunk upon my hands and my mind full of the saddest
thoughts. It was cold enough within those four walls, but I thought of
the sufferings of my poor troopers outside, and I sorrowed with their
sorrow. Then I paced up and down, and I clapped my hands together and
kicked my feet against the walls to keep them from being frozen. The
lamp gave out some warmth, but still it was bitterly cold, and I had had
no food since morning. It seemed to me that everyone had forgotten me,
but at last I heard the key turn in the lock, and who should enter but
my prisoner of the morning, Captain Alexis Barakoff. A bottle of wine
projected from under his arm, and he carried a great plate of hot stew
in front of him.
“Hush!” said he; “not a word! Keep up your heart! I cannot stop to
explain, for Sergine is still with us. Keep awake and ready!” With these
hurried words he laid down the welcome food and ran out of the room.
“Keep awake and ready!” The words rang in my ears. I ate my food and
I drank my wine, but it was neither food nor wine which had warmed the
heart within me. What could those words of Barakoff mean?
Why was I to remain awake? For what was I to be ready? Was it possible
that there was a chance yet of escape? I have never respected the man
who neglects his prayers at all other times and yet prays when he is in
peril. It is like a bad soldier who pays no respect to the colonel save
when he would demand a favour of him. And yet when I thought of the
salt-mines of Siberia on the one side and of my mother in France upon
the other, I could not help a prayer rising, not from my lips, but from
my heart, that the words of Barakoff might mean all that I hoped. But
hour after hour struck upon the village clock, and still I heard nothing
save the call of the Russian sentries in the street outside.
Then at last my heart leaped within me, for I heard a light step in the
passage. An instant later the key turned, the door opened, and Sophie
was in the room.
“Monsieur--” she cried.
“Etienne,” said I.
“Nothing will change you,” said she. “But is it possible that you do not
hate me? Have you forgiven me the trick which I played you?”
“What trick?” I asked.
“Good heavens! Is it possible that even now you have not understood it?
You have asked me to translate the despatch. I have told you that it
meant, 'If the French come to Minsk all is lost.'”
“What did it mean, then?”
“It means, 'Let the French come to Minsk. We are awaiting them.”'