POLOTSKY.
FOR a few moments I stood regarding the wretch in silence. He was a
picture of abject and villainous misery; knowing that he was in the
hands of his most determined enemies, he fancied a fate as hideous as
his own crimes. A man who has been hard and brutal to others is, in
his hour of reckoning, the most abject coward on earth. Pierrot had
fastened him securely in his chair, and he lay there writhing in his
bonds, his face livid, and the cold sweat standing in beads on his
brow. To me he was simply repulsive; I felt no pity then, and he saw
it, and groaned aloud in his despair.
“Be brief, fellow,” I said coldly; “I have already waited five minutes.
Delay will avail you nothing. If you do not confess to me, there are
others to find a shorter means to wag your tongue.”
He shuddered, and clenched the chair with his hands.
“Save me,” he gasped, “and I will tell you all I know! Save me from
those men!”
“I will make no conditions,” I retorted calmly. “If you confess, I will
not have you tortured here; if you do not, I will turn you over to your
old master, and he may do as he pleases with you.”
The wretch stared at me wildly, without speaking, and I began to
suspect that he was inventing some fable.
“Speak!” I said sharply; “you cannot have a moment longer. Where is
Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky?”
“Ah, that is just what I cannot tell, and you will kill me!” he wailed
so abjectly that I began to believe that he really could not enlighten
me. “I only know that the Boyar Vladimir had her taken away from Dr.
von Gaden’s house.”
“Taken whither?” I demanded fiercely; “a lie will not save you.”
“I know no more,” he protested wildly; “if you torture me, you can
learn no more.”
I looked at him coldly. “Perhaps,” I said, “you can tell me more about
the mode in which Vladimir Sergheievitch learned that mademoiselle, his
niece, was at Von Gaden’s house at all.”
He shrank back, and looked at me like a hunted beast.
“You dogged my footsteps,” I went on harshly; “you tracked mademoiselle
and her companion to the doctor’s house and betrayed them, and now you
ask mercy of me with a lie in your mouth!”
“It is not a lie!” he cried, thoroughly cowed. “It is the truth, by our
Lady of Kazan! I do not know--but I can tell you of one who does,” he
added, a gleam of hope showing in his eyes as he realized that he had
not yet played his last card and lost.
“Tell me the name at once,” I said sternly; “every minute’s delay will
cost you dear!”
“Be merciful to me, and I will tell you the truth; I can do no more!”
he protested pitifully.
“Be quick!” I cried angrily.
“My master and Viatscheslav Naryshkin were obliged to be in attendance
at the palace,” Polotsky said, “and a dwarf whom they trust--”
“Homyak!” I exclaimed at once.
“Yes, Homyak,” he admitted. “He was intrusted with the mission; he was
to get Zénaïde Feodorovna and her governess out of the house and take
them to some place where yonder boyar--” he pointed to the door which
separated us from Feodor Ramodanofsky, “could not find her.”
“Where is that place?” I demanded fiercely, glancing at the poker as it
lay amid the coals. His eyes followed mine, and I saw him cringe.
“Master, I do not know!” he protested wildly. “But Homyak can tell you
all; catch him.”
And he adhered to this, although I pressed him close, until I was
satisfied that he had really told all he knew. Then, going out, I
closed the door and bade Pierrot guard the prisoner strictly; I was
determined that he should not be tortured to death in my house, and
I saw Michael lurking in the hall like a wild beast robbed of his
prey. Joining Ramodanofsky and Von Gaden, I told them of Polotsky’s
confession, and my conviction that he was telling all the truth. The
Jew believed it; but I saw that the boyar was dissatisfied, although he
had the courtesy to accept my statement as final. A brief consultation
followed, all our minds concentrating on the one object,--to liberate
Zénaïde.
“Homyak was at the palace this morning,” I said, “and we must get hold
of him at once, and compel him to guide us to the house.”
“That is impossible,” rejoined Von Gaden, quietly. “I know that Homyak
was despatched by the Czarina Natalia herself on an errand that will
carry him to Troïtsa. In the mean time, Zénaïde will be forced to wed
Viatscheslav.”
Ramodanofsky clenched his hands.
“Never!” he ejaculated fiercely; “I will go at once to Vladimir and
force him to surrender her to her father.”
Von Gaden plucked his robe. “You cannot do it, boyar,” he said calmly;
“it will ruin every well-laid plan to move now. The czarina will
support Viatscheslav, and this is the hour when Sophia Alexeievna can
do least for you. If you go to Vladimir’s house, you will risk your
own life, and then the wretched fate of your daughter will be assured.
Listen to reason, my old friend; we must find some other way.”
I had stood a little aside to let them talk; but now I turned to the
boyar and found his stern eyes already on my face.
“M. Ramodanofsky,” I said quietly, “permit me to undertake this service
for you. I will go direct to the boyar’s house, and he will scarcely
refuse admittance. I can demand, in your name, to be informed of your
daughter’s fate, and if it is not told voluntarily, mayhap I can force
it from him.”
Feodor Sergheievitch did not immediately reply; but I saw that Von
Gaden approved my proposal.
“It is the plan most likely to succeed,” he said thoughtfully, “and in
any case, you will probably learn something.”
“M. le Vicomte,” the boyar said, turning to me with a dignity which
became him well, “I am beholden to you, and it seems that it is best to
accept your services. You understand the risk you take for a stranger?”
he added, his keen eye searching my face.
I felt the blood burn on my cheek, but I spoke plainly; it was well
to have an understanding between us. “M. Ramodanofsky,” I said
deliberately, “while I am glad to be of service to you in your hour of
need, it is for the sake of Mademoiselle Zénaïde that I assume this
peril, and I am willing to abide by the consequences.”
For a moment he was startled by the candor of my reply, and then I saw
something like a smile in his cold eyes.
“She will perhaps be able to thank you more effectively than I can,”
he said quietly; “but remember, M. le Vicomte, that very soon I shall
declare myself, and she will be no longer considered as the heiress
of the wealthy Vladimir, but the daughter of a prisoner and an exile,
without title or dowry--all forfeited to the crown.”
I made an obeisance. “M. Ramodanofsky,” I said, “Mademoiselle Zénaïde
will ever remain the same, and were she the daughter of the poorest
convict in Russia, she would still hold the same place in the regard of
Philippe de Brousson.”
The cloud lifted from his face, and he held out his hand with a gesture
that revealed the courtly grace which must have been his before the
years of exile dwarfed and thwarted every natural impulse.
“I thank you, M. le Vicomte,” he said, with a grand air; “Zénaïde has
at least one friend in her extremity.”
As our hands met, I felt a warmer regard for the man than ever before.
The fact that he was Zénaïde’s father was borne in upon me, and I
carried away with me the memory of that strange illumination of the
stern face. We left him at my quarters to await my return, Von Gaden
walking with me towards Vladimir’s house.
“So, M. le Docteur,” I said, “you knew the Boyar Feodor on that night
when we rescued him from Polotsky’s midnight assault.”
Von Gaden smiled. “I recognized him at once,” he replied; “his face
has changed, but I should have known him anywhere; those eyes and that
mouth cannot be forgotten; moreover, I knew the scar.”
“From the blow dealt by his brother, I suppose,” I said quietly.
“Yes; it is an ugly cut, and it has disfigured a face once handsome,
even in its rugged strength. I knew him, but he warned me by a glance
to be silent, and since then he has been maturing his own schemes, and
has not, it seems to me, been deeply concerned about Zénaïde until this
last emergency.”
“Perhaps he has not a deep paternal feeling,” I remarked; “his years of
absence and of suffering might easily make a difference.”
“Undoubtedly they have,” Von Gaden replied. “Zénaïde is a stranger to
him, and, at his best, Ramodanofsky was a man of iron mold; there is
not much room for tenderness in a soul like his. But he is roused now,
and resents fiercely his brother’s effort to thwart him by marrying his
daughter to one of his bitter foes.”
“Vladimir is aware of his presence here,” I said, recollecting the
boyar’s face at the czar’s funeral, when he saw his brother in the
crowd.
“Ay, he prompted Polotsky’s attempt to murder Feodor; his is the master
hand; all these crimes are his, the other men are but his tools.”
“I could never understand Lykof, as he called himself,” I said
thoughtfully; “but tell me why he has identified himself with the
Streltsi, who hate the boyars?”
“Feodor Sergheievitch has suffered much at the hands of his own class,”
Von Gaden replied quietly. “He has a faithful follower in one of the
regiments of the Streltsi, and he has assumed that disguise for safety,
and also, I think, to gain a thorough knowledge of the schemes on
foot. He hopes much from the Miloslavskys,--more than I do. Prince
Galitsyn is his friend; but in these days, no man can feel his future a
certainty.”
“Right and justice are on his side,” I remarked, musingly.
Von Gaden smiled. “Right is on the side of the blind czarevitch, and
yet what would Russia do with such a ruler? She would be doomed to an
indefinite regency, to intrigues, strife, division. It is not always
right, M. le Vicomte, but might which conquers.”
“You are a Naryshkin partisan,” I said lightly; “Russia might do worse
than leave her destiny in the hands of a wise regent--”
“You mean the Czarevna Sophia,” interposed Von Gaden. He stopped short
and confronted me. We were in one of the narrow, tortuous streets; it
was mid-day, but all was quiet; the life and business of the city was
not in this quarter. The Jew’s thoughtful face was marked with unusual
emotion.
“M. de Brousson,” he said in a low voice, pointing his long finger at
the Kremlin, “it will avail nothing to advance that ambitious woman.
It will avail nothing to set aside the czarina dowager, to crush the
Naryshkins, to excite the Streltsi, and appeal to every passion of the
rabble. The future ruler of the empire is yonder: a boy now, little
considered and set aside, but the ruler born, and every inch a czar.
I know the lad, I can read destiny in his eye; unless the hand of an
assassin strike down that young life, this distracted country will see
in him the dawn of a new power. You have the grand monarch; but not
even your great Louis will be greater than Peter Alexeivitch.”
Looking back now, after forty years, upon that scene, I see again the
Jew’s face as he uttered his prophecy, received by me then as the
vagary of an excitable and dreamy man, but remembered in later years as
the first proclamation of Peter the Great. His outburst over, Von Gaden
walked beside me dreamily.
“The city is more quiet,” I remarked, “since the _pravezh_; the
Streltsi seem to be satisfied.”
He shook his head with an air of gloom which reminded me of Pierrot.
“It is the calm before the storm,” he replied. “Every one is calling
on Matveief and bringing him presents; but his son has said that it is
‘sweet money on a sharp knife,’ and that is the truth, although it is
unwise for him to say it, but young blood is hot.”
We were now approaching the Ramodanofsky house, and I looked at the
gloomy exterior with a new sensation; how soon would it receive its
true master? Von Gaden’s thoughts were now more practical.
“You must be cautious, M. le Vicomte,” he said; “although I feel
assured that Vladimir will not offer open violence on account of your
station, and the estimation in which you are held in high places.
Secret attacks are in his line, and Feodor tells me he has already
warned you. Vladimir will be aware that your coming is known, and will
scarcely take violent measures; but beware of him, he is a desperate
and a relentless man; more smooth and courtly than his brother, but the
deeper traitor.”
I touched my sword. “I have a friend with me,” I said quietly; “but
I anticipate no trouble, beyond the difficulty of obtaining any
satisfaction.”
“We cannot tell,” Von Gaden replied; “but for Zénaïde’s sake be
cautious. I do not myself believe that he will attempt to do anything
until he finds out what his brother intends to do, and I fear no injury
to the young girl; it would profit him nothing, and would bring down
the wrath of the czarina upon him. He is far too adroit and diplomatic
to ruin his own game. But be cautious, M. le Vicomte, be cautious!”
And with this warning in my ears, I left him, and passing on, entered
the courtyard gates and stood before the boyar’s door.