“You betrayed me!” I cried. “You lured me into this trap. It is to you
that I owe the death and capture of my men. Fool that I was to trust a
woman!”
“Do not be unjust, Colonel Gerard. I am a Russian woman, and my first
duty is to my country. Would you not wish a French girl to have acted as
I have done? Had I translated the message correctly you would not have
gone to Minsk and your squadron would have escaped. Tell me that you
forgive me!”
She looked bewitching as she stood pleading her cause in front of me.
And yet, as I thought of my dead men, I could not take the hand which
she held out to me.
“Very good,” said she, as she dropped it by her side.
“You feel for your own people and I feel for mine, and so we are equal.
But you have said one wise and kindly thing within these walls, Colonel
Gerard. You have said, 'One man more or less can make no difference in
a struggle between two great armies.' Your lesson of nobility is not
wasted. Behind those fagots is an unguarded door. Here is the key to it.
Go forth, Colonel Gerard, and I trust that we may never look upon each
other's faces again.”
I stood for an instant with the key in my hand and my head in a whirl.
Then I handed it back to her.
“I cannot do it,” I said.
“Why not?”
“I have given my parole.”
“To whom?” she asked.
“Why, to you.”
“And I release you from it.”
My heart bounded with joy. Of course, it was true what she said. I
had refused to give my parole to Sergine. I owed him no duty. If she
relieved me from my promise my honour was clear. I took the key from her
hand.
“You will find Captain Barakoff at the end of the village street,” said
she. “We of the North never forget either an injury or a kindness. He
has your mare and your sword waiting for you. Do not delay an instant,
for in two hours it will be dawn.”
So I passed out into the star-lit Russian night, and had that last
glimpse of Sophie as she peered after me through the open door. She
looked wistfully at me as if she expected something more than the cold
thanks which I gave her, but even the humblest man has his pride, and I
will not deny that mine was hurt by the deception which she had played
upon me. I could not have brought myself to kiss her hand, far less her
lips. The door led into a narrow alley, and at the end of it stood a
muffled figure, who held Violette by the bridle.
“You told me to be kind to the next French officer whom I found in
distress,” said he. “Good luck! Bon voyage!” he whispered, as I bounded
into the saddle.
“Remember, 'Poltava' is the watchword.”
It was well that he had given it to me, for twice I had to pass Cossack
pickets before I was clear of the lines.
I had just ridden past the last vedettes and hoped that I was a free man
again, when there was a soft thudding in the snow behind me, and a heavy
man upon a great black horse came swiftly after me. My first impulse was
to put spurs to Violette. My second, as I saw a long black beard against
a steel cuirass, was to halt and await him.
“I thought that it was you, you dog of a Frenchman,” he cried, shaking
his drawn sword at me. “So you have broken your parole, you rascal!”
“I gave no parole.”
“You lie, you hound!”
I looked around and no one was coming. The vedettes were motionless and
distant. We were all alone, with the moon above and the snow beneath.
Fortune has ever been my friend.
“I gave you no parole.”
“You gave it to the lady.”
“Then I will answer for it to the lady.”
“That would suit you better, no doubt. But, unfortunately, you will have
to answer for it to me.”
“I am ready.”
“Your sword, too! There is treason in this! Ah, I see it all! The woman
has helped you. She shall see Siberia for this night's work.”
The words were his death-warrant. For Sophie's sake I could not let him
go back alive. Our blades crossed, and an instant later mine was through
his black beard and deep in his throat. I was on the ground almost as
soon as he, but the one thrust was enough. He died, snapping his teeth
at my ankles like a savage wolf.
Two days later I had rejoined the army at Smolensk, and was a part once
more of that dreary procession which tramped onward through the snow,
leaving a long weal of blood to show the path which it had taken.
Enough, my friends; I would not re-awaken the memory of those days of
misery and death. They still come to haunt me in my dreams. When we
halted at last in Warsaw we had left behind us our guns, our transport,
and three-fourths of our comrades. But we did not leave behind us the
honour of Etienne Gerard. They have said that I broke my parole. Let
them beware how they say it to my face, for the story is as I tell it,
and old as I am my forefinger is not too weak to press a trigger when my
honour is in question.