THE PRISONER.
I DETERMINED to search the house, and assure myself that Zénaïde was
not incarcerated in any part of it. All possibility of obtaining
information from Ramodanofsky was at an end forever, but I had now the
opportunity to examine the premises. Passing through the anterooms, I
entered a large apartment which had evidently been his bedroom, and
which showed signs of recent occupation. On a small table beside the
bed lay a bunch of keys, and these I appropriated. Opening a small door
behind the high bedstead, I found myself in a long corridor, which
seemed to lead in the direction of the kitchen, with several doors
opening upon it. I was impressed by the silence of the place; not a
sound reached my ears. I walked along, trying the doors; two opened
into a large banqueting-room, and a third upon a short passage which
I knew must lead towards the wing. I mended my pace now, and going
down this hall, came into the rooms below Zénaïde’s, already familiar
to me; they were all vacant, and I ascended the stairs, not without
a thought of that first night when I had stumbled up those steps and
found Zénaïde. But this time her rooms were deserted and dreary. I
searched every corner of this wing, even the place where I had formerly
been confined, but without result; it looked the same in every spot as
it had on the evening on which I had taken the two women away,--only,
as it had proved, to lead them into further disaster. Satisfied that
there was no clew here, I came slowly down the stairs; near the foot a
sound in the hall roused me, and I looked about just in time to see a
man trying to avoid me. He was one of the serfs, and I spoke to him in
Russian; he stopped in a startled way, and stared at me as if uncertain
what to do. I was determined to carry things with a high hand.
“Your master wishes me to see Mademoiselle Zénaïde,” I said sharply,
“and you can conduct me to her.”
The fellow stared at me more stupidly than before.
“Do you hear me, sirrah?” I exclaimed impatiently. “It will not be well
for you to delay obedience to a Ramodanofsky.”
He evidently knew this, for he roused himself.
“I will go willingly, master,” he said humbly, “when the boyar tells me
the way. I do not know where the young lady is.”
His sincerity was too obvious to doubt, and I saw at once that I was
face to face with a new difficulty. I determined, however, to probe him.
“If you do not know where Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky is,” I said
sharply, “perhaps you can take me to Mademoiselle Eudoxie.”
His face brightened at once.
“Oh, yes, your excellency, I can do that!” he exclaimed in a relieved
tone.
It was my turn to be surprised now, but I followed up my advantage at
once.
“Take me to her, then!” I cried harshly.
“Follow me, master,” he said quietly, and to my surprise turned back
into the main part of the house.
The thought that he might be trying to entrap me made me draw and
cock my pistol as I followed close at his heels. He conducted me past
the boyar’s rooms to a dark, narrow stone stair, leading down, as I
concluded, to the cellars. I did not like the appearance of it, but
reflected that my archenemy was stiff and stark, and this man seemed
nothing more than an ignorant servant. He did not stop to see if I
followed, and was already half-way down the steps when I began the
descent, feeling my way cautiously, and keeping my weapon ready as I
went. Having reached the lower floor, he led me through a tortuous
passage in the dark and damp cellars, pausing at last before a heavy
door.
“She is here,” he said, pointing at it with his finger.
“Open it, you knave!” I said sharply.
“Where is the key?” he retorted sullenly.
For the moment I could almost have laughed in the bitterness of my
chagrin at my own folly, and then thinking of the boyar’s keys, I drew
out the bunch and began to fumble with them.
“That is the key,” he said, indicating a large one; and as I loosened
it from the others he put it in the lock, and in a moment the heavy
door stood open, revealing a small room dimly lighted by the lantern
swinging from a chain in the center of the ceiling.
Taking the precaution to remove the key from the lock, I walked in
without ceremony. For a moment I thought that I had been duped, for
the cell was empty; then I saw that it had another door, which stood
ajar, and I struck the hilt of my sword upon it with a blow that made
an echo in the gloomy place. Instantly there was a sound in the inner
room, and Mademoiselle Eudoxie’s startled face appeared at the door. At
the sight of me, she uttered a plaintive shriek and fell fainting in my
arms. Cursing my luck and her folly, I carried her into the other cell
and laid her on the rough couch there. Finding some water, I dashed it
liberally in her face, and was relieved to see signs of recovery. My
conscience reproached me for my anger, too, when I saw how white and
miserable she looked, like a woman who had endured much; even her wiry
little curls hung limp and dishevelled. She recovered almost as quickly
as she had fainted, and when fully conscious, clung to my hand with
feverish energy.
“How did you find me?” she moaned. “I had given up all hope, and
expected to die here in the cellar, if that awful man did not kill me
outright. And oh, tell me! where is Zénaïde?”
“That is the question that I was about to put to you, mademoiselle,”
I replied gloomily; “I hoped devoutly that you could tell me where to
find her.”
“Alas!” she cried, looking at me with new anxiety, “I have not seen
her since we were so roughly parted, and I have constantly hoped that
she escaped.”
She was quivering all over with nervous excitement, and I saw that I
must be patient with her. I sat down beside her.
“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, as gently as if she had been a child,
“tell me as clearly as you can all that happened after I left you at
Von Gaden’s house. Only in this way can you help me to save Zénaïde.”
Thus adjured, she tried to collect her thoughts. “I have been through
so much, Monsieur Philippe,” she said, pressing her hands over her
eyes, “it seems as if I could hardly think. Madame von Gaden was very
kind to us, and gave us three rooms opening into each other; and in
the corner of the farther one was a curtained alcove. Zénaïde is very
quick, and she noticed this at once, and examining it, told me that
there must be a secret door there. It was an evil hour when she found
it, for she never rests until she finds out all about her surroundings;
she worked at it until, in some way, she found the spring and opened
it. I was terribly frightened, and did not want to stay, for I began
to distrust the Von Gadens, but she laughed; she has such faith in
you, Philippe, that she would not believe that you would put us in
a dangerous place. And after a while we went to sleep, and were not
disturbed. It was not until after breakfast, the next morning, that
anything happened; and then, while she and I were talking, we were
startled by a tap on the secret door. Zénaïde rose to answer it;
she was always fearless, and would not listen to my remonstrance.
She went to the panel and asked who was there. Immediately a voice
said, ‘A private message from the Vicomte de Brousson to Mademoiselle
Ramodanofsky.’ ‘How shall we know that you come from the Vicomte?’
asked Zénaïde, promptly, although I clung to her, and begged to be
allowed to call Madame von Gaden. ‘I have M. de Brousson’s signet,
mademoiselle,’ replied the voice behind the panel--”
“My signet!” I exclaimed, interrupting her.
“Yes, Monsieur Philippe,” she replied tearfully, “your signet! And the
knave had it, too, for I recognized it myself.”
“Fool that I was!” I exclaimed. “It is partly my fault, then, for I
ought to have told you that my signet was stolen on the night in which
I was dragged here and imprisoned. But go on, mademoiselle; tell me
all.”
“At that announcement Zénaïde would no longer listen to reason, but
opened the panel. There stood a slight young fellow, not much more than
a lad; and sure enough, in his hand lay your signet. He could speak
nothing but Russian, but could say ‘mademoiselle’ and ‘monsieur le
vicomte;’ and that, with your signet, made me think that he had been
about your person, for these Russian youths know nothing but their own
tongue. He told a straight story; he said that he brought a verbal
message, because you were afraid to write anything, thinking he might
be captured. He represented that you had just discovered that the Von
Gadens were treacherous, and dared not leave us in that house an hour
longer. You had been summoned by the Czarevna Sophia, he said, and
could not come, but had sent him to conduct us to your lodgings, there
to wait until you could take us to the Kremlin, the czarevna having
expressed her willingness to protect us. Zénaïde drew me aside, and
we discussed the situation; we both thought the message genuine. I
recognized the signet, and his perfect acquaintance with your affairs
disarmed our natural suspicions. Zénaïde questioned him about his
discovery of the secret stair, but he said that you knew of it; and
knowing that you had been intimate with the Von Gadens, we concluded
that the message was true. Our decision was hastened by the messenger;
he informed us that Von Gaden had left the house, and it was thought
that he was communicating with Viatscheslav Naryshkin; therefore we had
not a moment to lose. ‘Alas!’ cried mademoiselle, interrupting herself
and wringing her hands, ‘if we had only delayed!’” And the good woman
stopped to wipe away her tears.
“Continue, mademoiselle,” I said, with some impatience; “regret is of
no avail now; we must only try to mend the evil.”
“The rest is soon told,” she said sorrowfully. “Zénaïde’s impetuosity
and my folly carried the day; I ought to have known that you would come
yourself. We gathered up our wraps, and veiling ourselves, followed our
young guide down a narrow flight of stairs which led into a kind of
cellar--”
“I know, mademoiselle,” I interrupted. “I have examined them but a few
hours since. You went out by the trap-door?”
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “I never knew how we were taken out. You know
how dark it is there? The boy had guided us with a light, but when we
reached the cellar, he suddenly extinguished it, and I heard Zénaïde
spring back towards the stairs; she had evidently divined our peril
before I did. There was a struggle in the darkness, and I shrieked; the
next instant I was seized and gagged, and then came the hardest blow;
I did not know what they did to my poor girl. I was dragged off to the
Ramodanofsky carriage, which stood in the lane, and that fiend Polotsky
brought me here and locked me up. And I have been in agony of mind
about Zénaïde, and expecting to be killed every moment. What shall we
do now, Monsieur Philippe?”
I was pacing the cell. One thing relieved me: Ramodanofsky’s servants
had captured them, and therefore it was not probable that Zénaïde had
suffered any injury at their hands. I had hoped to learn much more from
mademoiselle, but her story had been slow in telling and barren of any
clue to Zénaïde’s fate.
“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, “we must go at once to Dr. von Gaden’s.
Every hour counts.”
She rose gladly enough, and then stood looking at me. “Where is the
boyar?” she exclaimed suddenly. “How did you come here?”
“The Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch is dead,” I replied quietly, “and the
Boyar Feodor is alive again.”
She stared at me as if I had lost my senses. Even at that moment, I
could not forbear to smile. There was something about mademoiselle
that could be amusing even in the midst of tragedy.
“Vladimir died by his own act,” I said, and told her briefly of his
attempt to poison me, frustrated only by the telltale mirror.
“And the Boyar Feodor, Zénaïde’s father, what of him?” she exclaimed,
as if she could no longer trust her ears.
“He lives,” I replied; “but it will take too long to tell you all here,
mademoiselle; we must go away.”
“Gladly, Monsieur Philippe,” she replied. “I looked upon this as a
living tomb; I had said my prayers, and was composing my mind to die
when you came.”
While she spoke, we had reached the outer room, and I led the way to
the door. It was closed. My heart misgave me at once, but I tried to
open it with all my strength, refusing to believe in so wretched a
calamity; but it did not yield an inch: it had been fastened on the
outside. It was too solid to shake, and though I beat it, and shouted
for the knave who let me in, and tried the key in the lock, it was
all to no purpose. We were caught like rats in a trap, through my own
stupidity. I was ashamed to face mademoiselle, but when I turned
despairingly from the door, I saw that she had accepted the inevitable
with more resignation. She was kneeling on the floor telling her beads;
but I was too anxious to submit to her religion as a consolation.
“Is there no other door?” I asked sharply. “We must get out.”
She shook her head. “There is no other door, Philippe; and now that the
boyar is dead, Polotsky will starve us to death.”
“Polotsky!” I exclaimed, with more impatience than courtesy, “Polotsky
is safe enough at my house, watched by Pierrot. They must find us here
before long; but meanwhile, Zénaïde! Every minute tells! Fool that I
was!”
She was more calm than I. Her previous experience had schooled her, and
she looked at me sadly.
“Never trust one of these people,” she said quietly. “Vladimir
Sergheievitch never had an honest servant in all the years that I have
lived here teaching my poor Zénaïde. They are all thieves and rogues. A
rogue never had an honest man to serve him.”
And with this, she returned to her beads, and I walked the room in a
fever of anxiety and anger; exasperated rather than comforted by her
evidently despairing resignation.