MADEMOISELLE’S GLOVE.
SHE had just come out of the Cathedral of the Assumption, and was
standing beside the proud old boyar, whom I supposed to be her father.
Her veil had slipped aside, and once more I saw her features plainly,
though this time she was oblivious of my presence. She was beautiful.
There was no longer any doubt; before, I had thought that it might be
half my fancy, half the dim light within the cathedral; but now, in
the broad sunlight, I saw the regularity of her small features, the
exquisite fairness of her complexion, the beautiful blue of her eyes.
I saw too that she had been weeping, and was pale. My heart throbbed
with a sudden mad impulse to offer her my sword, as her knight-errant.
Fortunately, prudence and the common conventionalities of life kept me
still, but I eagerly watched her every movement. Her hand rested half
reluctantly, I thought, upon the arm of her escort, and she seemed to
shrink away from the noise and rush of the crowd that was streaming
past the cathedral, roaring and bellowing upon the way. The old boyar,
her protector, glanced at them with complacent condescension, and
from that moment I never doubted his adherence to the Naryshkins. I
could see that he was measuring the extent of their success, gloating,
perhaps, over the defeat of their opponents; there was something in
the man’s face that suggested a keen relish for such a triumph. He was
the personification of the old-time Russian boyar, the adherent of
Precedence, the tyrant of the serf, the aggressive autocrat. He stood
there, in the shadow of the cathedral, and viewed the Moscow rabble
with the reflection of the patriarch’s triumph on his face. Such men
as these would never make the Czarevitch Peter’s cause popular with
the masses, never pacify the wounded sensibilities of the Dissenters,
or heal the troubles of the Streltsi. The old noble was the picture of
combativeness and aggression, and there was, too, a sinister expression
in his eyes. His brows were intensely black in contrast to his gray
hair, and instead of curving with the socket of the eye, they pointed
suddenly up at the ends, like two horns, giving at once a Satanic
aspect to the Tartar face, with its olive skin and its thin, pale lips.
Nothing could have been more complete than the contrast between the
two, the old man and the girl: a hawk and a dove. So intent was he upon
the scene before them, that he seemed to forget her, and she shrank
back in the shelter of his large figure and gazed timidly about. It
was then that I had the satisfaction to find that I was remembered. I
moved a little nearer to them, and as I did so, she turned, and our
eyes met. There was a flash of recognition, and, I dared to think,
almost of pleasure in her glance, but she instantly turned her head and
gazed in the opposite direction; still, I rejoiced to see a beautiful
blush creep slowly up to her brow, and suffuse her face, until even her
delicate ear was scarlet. She remembered me, then, but did she resent
my audacity? I was never a man to be easily dashed, but I knew that
Russian etiquette was even more rigid than our own, and caution was a
necessity. A bolder man would have hesitated to encounter that proud
old boyar!
She stood there with averted face, pulling nervously at her gloves,
and presently she had one off, and I saw a small and beautiful hand.
Suddenly she adjusted her veil more closely, and I feared that my
persistent gaze had given offense, until I discovered the cause of her
movement. An acquaintance of the boyar’s had approached, and I was
startled at recognizing no less a person than Viatscheslav Naryshkin,
a cousin of the Czarina Natalia, and a man whom I had learned to
despise as a court profligate, full of intrigue and malice of a common
kind, and holding his place only because of his illustrious relative;
yet managing to exert considerable influence in that inner circle
which constituted the strength of the czarina’s party, which to-day’s
election would elevate to a dizzy eminence, if they were equal to
discerning and grasping their opportunities.
The boyar welcomed Naryshkin with effusion, but I saw that his fair
companion seemed to shrink yet farther into the background, and I
rejoiced at the maiden’s discernment. It is said that every woman is
endowed with an instinct that warns her against such men, and in this
case it seemed true. Naryshkin, however, was nothing dashed by her
manner, probably attributing it to maiden coyness, and forced himself
upon her notice in a way which made me grind my teeth; but I was
compelled to swallow my displeasure and play the _rôle_ of a bystander
at the little drama. It did not take me long to draw some natural
conclusions, especially as I saw that the boyar evidently favored the
would-be suitor, and was as eager to welcome his advances as the young
girl was to repulse them. I was more than ever determined to learn
something about the identity of the two, and the probable fate in store
for the possessor of that beautiful face. When they moved away through
the crowd I followed, as I had followed before, and saw them assisted
into their carriage by Naryshkin. As she stepped into it she turned and
looked back, and it seemed to me that, even through her veil, I saw
her eyes; something fell from her hand and fluttered to the ground,
unnoticed by her ill-favored suitor. As the carriage drove slowly off,
I pressed forward and found a glove. Her glove! A man was standing near
me and I questioned him. Yes, he knew whose carriage it was. That old
gentleman was the Boyar Vladimir Ramodanofsky, and I gathered from the
fellow’s manner that the name was not popular with the masses. I had
gained something; knowing his name, I could soon learn more of him;
already I knew a little, by reputation, of the stern old nobleman who
had once commanded the insubordinate Streltsi.
Meanwhile, her glove lay in the palm of my hand. Such a little glove;
of the kind worn by the ladies in Paris, and it seemed to retain yet
the round shape of her small hand, to be a part of her personality.
Had she dropped it purposely? I dared not think so; but I thrust it
into my bosom and walked on swiftly in the track of the carriage. I
was resolved this time to know more about her. The crowd was thinning
out, and I made my way easily to the Gate of the Redeemer, keeping
the carriage in view, for it was moving slowly. I was congratulating
myself on having escaped my strange acquaintance and being at liberty
to pursue my own inclination, but I was destined to meet with
another obstacle to the accomplishment of my errand. Just as I was
about to leave the Kremlin, I encountered Dr. Daniel von Gaden, the
Jewish physician of the late Czar Feodor. He stopped me to ask some
particulars of the occurrences in the Grand Square. He was a learned
man, and had, too, a thorough knowledge of the intrigues at court. His
face to-day was pale and grave.
“These are troublous times,” he said thoughtfully, “and an honest man
scarcely knows to which strong arm to look for shelter. It is an evil
hour to place a child on the throne. The czarina’s party is not strong
enough without the adherence of the Streltsi, and that is a difficult
matter. Besides, there is no leader there but Matveief, and he--they
accuse him of witchcraft!” Von Gaden laughed. “It is not well to study
algebra in Russia.”
“No,” I said, “learning is at a discount. I marvel, monsieur, that they
do not accuse you of the black arts.”
“They do worse in their hearts, M. le Vicomte,” he answered gravely;
“they accuse me of poisoning the late czar.”
I started. The announcement, made with such composure, astonished me.
For the moment I forgot the carriage and my interrupted adventure. He
saw my amazement, and smiled sadly.
“Not openly,” he said; “the accusations are whispered where an honest
man may not refute them; but you know such whispering sent the
chancellor to a remote corner of Archangel, and what may be the fate of
an obscure Jewish doctor?”
He looked at me with an expression of gloomy interrogation. I have
often thought since that his awful fate was already casting its black
shadow over his soul; that he was gifted with prescience.
“Natalia is your friend, is she not?” I ventured mildly, feeling that
any remark was worse than useless.
“Ay,” he said at once; “the gracious czarina is my friend, but what
power has she here?”
His eye swept over the Kremlin, and I knew that his mind was conjuring
up a thousand pictures of the dark deeds that made up its secret
annals. Before he spoke again, I looked at the gate and saw a hideous
little figure rushing towards us, whirling its arms above its large
head, and uttering a shrill sound between a squeal and a whistle. Von
Gaden, awaking from his revery, eyed the new-comer with little favor.
“It is Homyak, one of the court dwarfs,” he remarked calmly, “and he is
evidently badly frightened.”
The little creature threw himself upon the doctor, grasping his mantle
in his talon-like fingers and raising a white drawn face.
“I have seen the dead!” he moaned, cowering down until he was the
picture of abject terror. “I have seen the dead!”
Von Gaden shook his mantle free with an impatient gesture.
“You are evidently troubled with a bad conscience, Homyak,” he said
cynically, “therefore your graveyard visitants are frequent!”
The dwarf covered his wizened face with his hands, and rocked to and
fro in an ecstasy of fear. I could not help a feeling of pity as well
as disgust as I beheld him.
“What was your vision this time?” the Jew asked, with relentless
contempt.
The dwarf stopped his exhibition of terror, and going close to the
physician, tried to raise his hideous face to his interrogator’s.
“It was he!” he whispered in a tone just audible to me. “He, whom you
tried to save on the Red Staircase, and who lay dying that night on the
stone pavement of his own courtyard!”
Von Gaden started. “’Tis strange!” he muttered; “I was thinking of him
a moment since. Her young face brought back the memory of that awful
scene. And you have seen him, fellow?”
He regarded the dwarf with a look of fierce interrogation, as if to
read his very soul; but Homyak showed no desire to conceal anything; he
was shaking with genuine terror.
“I saw his spirit,” he said, his teeth chattering, “and there was the
scar--the wound you sewed up. I saw him, and he mocked me!”
“Where was he?” asked the physician, while I marveled at his patience
with the dwarf’s vagaries.
“He came from this direction,” said Homyak, wildly, “and he was gaunt
and thin, and his hair was white.”
Von Gaden laughed. “You dream, Homyak,” he said; “ghosts do not age.”
I was growing impatient, and made a movement to leave them; but Von
Gaden laid his hand on my arm.
“A moment, M. de Brousson,” he said; and then he took the dwarf
aside, and speaking to him sternly and briefly, despatched him in the
direction of the palace. When he rejoined me I saw that the gloom on
his face had deepened rather than disappeared.
“If you can walk home with me, M. le Vicomte,” he said gravely, “I
would gladly talk a little with you. These are uncertain times, and a
man must needs keep his house in order and his affairs ready, lest he
be unexpectedly taken away. There is a matter that has often weighed
upon my mind that I would gladly confide to a disinterested man who
could bear witness in the hour of need.”
Now, I was on the horns of a dilemma. The doctor had been more than
obliging to me when I lay sore smitten with fever, and I could not
easily deny him, yet I was fretting to be off on my errand. However, I
resigned myself to the circumstances, and with some reluctance turned
to accompany him. Then a sudden thought prompted me to question my
companion.
“Can you tell me anything,” I said, “of the Boyar Vladimir
Ramodanofsky?”
Von Gaden started and looked at me sharply.
“Verily,” he said, beneath his breath, “Homyak is right; the dead
walk!”