A FRIENDLY CUP.
I HAD repeated my summons twice before it was answered by a
solemn-looking servant, who hesitated before admitting me. But I
assumed an air of authority, and that, with my foreign title, seemed to
have weight, for he finally conducted me into the large room, through
the window of which I had witnessed Ramodanofsky’s consultation with
Viatscheslav; and I could scarcely forbear a smile when I thought of
the irregular manner in which I had first gained my knowledge of the
interior of this house. The apartment in which I stood was singularly
gloomy, although furnished with considerable luxury and refinement.
There were indications of the time when Zénaïde’s mother had been
brought home a bride. Here was a cabinet that I recognized at once as
French, and a clock, and especially a long, narrow mirror opposite,
which reflected the gloomy interior, the rich hangings, and the
polished table in the center of the room. Beside this table stood a
large carved chair, which was, I fancied, the boyar’s favorite seat. It
seemed as if not even a rare ray of Russian sunlight penetrated here;
somber, rich, forbidding, it was a spot that neither suggested nor
encouraged hospitality.
I had waited only a few moments, when a low door at the further end of
the room was opened, and Vladimir Sergheievitch advanced towards me. He
had a dignity and grace of bearing that suggested a painful contrast
to the more heroic brother; this man had profited by his life at court
and his stolen wealth. He had, too, a repose of manner that showed a
far greater amount of self-control than Feodor possessed. I saw also
a resemblance in the two faces, although Vladimir’s eyes were more
restless and uncertain, his lips thinner and more bloodless, and the
peculiarity of his black, pointed eyebrows did not mar the nobility
of the elder boyar’s wide forehead. Now, as he came towards me with a
scowl over his eyes, his black brows struck down sharply to the bridge
of his nose in two oblique lines. An evil face and a sinister eye! He
responded to my salutation easily, and asked me to be seated as calmly
as if he had never played a part in my imprisonment, and was not an
accessory to Viatscheslav’s insolence at the palace. I debated in my
mind whether it was best to begin the interview in a hostile manner or
not, and after a moment’s reflection, accepted the chair that he had
indicated. He opened the conversation with perfect composure.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, M. le Vicomte?” he
asked quietly, a gleam of sinister amusement showing in his eyes.
“I have a mission to perform, monsieur,” I replied, “otherwise--”
“You would not have come,” he interrupted with a sardonic smile. “I
assumed as much. However, we will waive all that, and proceed to
business.”
I bowed formally. “I should be glad,” I said, “to conclude it
as speedily as possible. I am commissioned by the Boyar Feodor
Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky to inquire of you the present residence of
his daughter.”
I paused to note the effect of my words, but there was absolutely none,
although I had no doubt that he was surprised that his brother had
thrown aside his disguise. He sat looking at me with an expression of
sinister amusement still on his face, and twirling his moustache with
his long, tapering fingers. I saw that I should be compelled to take
the aggressive.
“You are doubtless prepared, monsieur,” I said, “to furnish an account
of your guardianship of Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky to her father, and to
surrender the young lady to his protection.”
Vladimir smiled, measuring me with a glance which was peculiarly
exasperating.
“I am entirely unprepared for your visit, M. de Brousson,” he said
calmly; “singularly so, in fact, since the person from whom you say you
come has been dead fifteen years. It is the first time that I have ever
received an envoy from a ghost, and I find it, M. le Vicomte, rather
amusing.”
“This is idle, M. Ramodanofsky,” I exclaimed impatiently; “you have
more reason than any one to know that the boyar is not dead. It would
be more rational to meet me on the ground of common sense than to fence
with such an absurd declaration.”
“My view and yours are naturally different, M. le Vicomte,” he replied
with admirable composure. “As you remark, I have more reason than any
one to know that my half-brother is dead. You have been deceived by an
impostor; you will find it difficult, however, to convince any one
else that the official dead in Russia rise so quickly.”
I looked at his calmly sneering face with a sensation of baffled rage.
It was a simple matter for him to assume this position, and I did not
know how easily he might sustain it.
“Nevertheless, I believe that there is occasionally a chance of
reviving the official dead, and a train of unpleasant circumstances
also, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said deliberately, meeting his eyes.
“There is generally some personal risk about such resurrections, M. le
Vicomte,” he replied composedly; “and I might remark further, that this
is a specially unfavorable season for such operations.”
His manner was exasperating me to a point where I knew that I was
likely to allow my anger to get the better of my discretion. I rose
from my chair, and stood confronting him.
“All this is foreign to my mission, monsieur,” I said with what temper
I could command. “Feodor Sergheievitch is as much alive as you are, and
demands his daughter at your hands. It is a simple matter for you to
give me the desired information, and time presses.”
Vladimir laughed softly to himself, a laugh that did not show in his
eyes or relax the expression of his face.
“A very simple matter, M. le Vicomte,” he replied quietly; “but you
forget that Mademoiselle Zénaïde is betrothed to the cousin of the
czar, and it is possible that there may be a good deal to say about
surrendering her to an impostor. It is not probable that you really
believe that my brother, the saints rest his soul! is alive and in
Moscow?”
Fortunately, the answer that was on my lips was checked by the entrance
of a serf bringing the inevitable _vodka_ and caviare that were always
served to every guest in a Russian house, and the fact that I was an
unwelcome one did not prevent the usual courtesy being tendered to me.
The serf, placing the refreshments on the table and filling the cups,
withdrew. The boyar invited me to partake, but at the moment I had no
thought of accepting his hospitality.
“Of course I know that you are aware of your brother’s presence in
Moscow, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said haughtily, “and it seems to me wiser
for you to acknowledge his authority over his own daughter. You know
him well enough to understand that he will tolerate no interference
with his rights, and he demands that you surrender Mademoiselle
Ramodanofsky into his hands. Your steward Polotsky is in his custody,
and has confessed enough to make the rest easy.”
For the first time, I saw a change, sharp and sudden, in that
inscrutable face; whatever the steward knew, it was too much for the
master’s peace of mind. I could see the contending emotions in those
cruel, narrow eyes, the contraction of the bloodless lips. I waited,
seeing that he was hesitating over some new move. In a moment he rose,
and going to the French cabinet, fumbled at the drawers. I walked away
across the room and waited, willing to give him a little grace. There
was something about the man which held my interest, and stayed my
anger; was it the courage of despair? Without a word, he came back from
the cabinet with some papers in his hands and stood turning them over
by the table; what revelation did he contemplate? My curiosity being
roused, I watched him, feigning all the while to look out of the window
into the court; but from where I was, I could cast a sidelong glance
into the French mirror, and see him as he stood there in his dark,
rich dress with the lace ruffles at his throat and hands, the gold of
the Oriental embroidery on his robe making fantastic arabesques upon
the purple velvet, and his white face standing out against the somber
background; a forbidding picture, yet not without a certain majestic
dignity and power. While I watched, I saw him bend over the cups of
_vodka_, a swift movement followed by instant repose. Then he turned
his face towards me.
“Be seated, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “and we will talk this matter
over.”
I approached the table and inclined my head as he pushed the cup of
_vodka_ towards me.
“You have neglected to fasten your cabinet door, monsieur,” I said
carelessly, “and the papers are falling out.”
He turned his head quickly, and seeing the door pushed open by the
protruding papers, he stepped back and closed it. In that moment I
changed the cups. He heard the click and glanced around sharply, but I
was merely tapping the table with my finger.
“I am waiting your pleasure, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said, as he returned
to his place; “a word of explanation, and this interview is closed with
equal relief to both.”
“We will drink first, M. le Vicomte,” he replied with cold courtesy of
manner, raising his cup and watching me narrowly.
Without hesitation I raised mine and drank. He drained his, and setting
the cup aside, turned to me, his hand resting easily on the papers at
his side.
“M. de Brousson,” he said, with a sudden grace of manner, “I am not
ignorant of the cause of your interest in my ward. I was also of your
age once, and I understand it,” he added with a smile which struck
me as diabolical; “but you are making a mistake to waste time with
my brother; he is as good as dead, and the party in power will never
recognize him. Zénaïde is my ward; you should conciliate me.”
I watched him keenly; what new game was this? And what was the change
which was coming over his face? Always pale, it was livid now, and the
lips were purple. I saw his hands shaking like an old man’s, and he
began himself to stare at them, a kind of horror growing in his eyes
until his whole expression changed; the smiling mask dropped, and I
saw, instead, the face of a demon, every devilish passion contending
with the abject fear that I had seen in Polotsky’s, and the cords in
his throat stood out.
“I am ill!” he cried thickly; “call for help--or I shall choke--water!”
It was his last word; he fell down on his chair, his whole figure
writhing in the convulsion that choked his utterance. There was a small
pitcher of water at hand, and I dashed some on his face, and loosened
the collar that he was tearing with his fingers. I had seen death too
often not to recognize it; even while I knelt beside him, I saw his
eyes grow fixed and his jaw fall. He was dead in three minutes after
the first paroxysm, and I laid him on the floor and straightened his
limbs.
My impulse to call for help was checked by prudence, and by a sudden
inspiration too. Looking in the cup, I saw some dregs, and was not
slow to draw my own conclusions. For a few moments I stood looking at
the body; his face was still distorted, and there was no beauty of
repose about the features, and the dignity that had clothed his figure
in a false nobility was destroyed forever by that great leveller of
humanity. I shuddered, seeing the fate he had so quickly planned for
me. The horror of such a corpse made the place a nightmare to me.
I threw his handkerchief over his face, and locking the door into
the main hall to delay the discovery of the body, I went out by the
low door by which he had entered, and securing that, put the key in
my pocket, so constituting myself his jailer, as he had once been
mine, and shutting the secret from the world. Once out of the place,
I stopped an instant to reflect upon my next step. I found myself
in a small anteroom, silent and deserted, and through the open door
opposite, I saw another room beyond.