IN THE FACE OF DEATH.
AT the first moment she did not know me, but shrank away from a
supposed rioter, her white face sharply outlined against the dark
background.
“At last I have found you,” I exclaimed, almost with joy, in spite of
our peril.
She recognized my voice, and clung to my hand like a child.
“Save me!” she cried faintly; “they will tear me to pieces, as they are
tearing him.”
“I will save you,” I murmured in a low tone; “only trust me and be
brave.”
I flung her mantle over her head, veiling her face, and opening the
other door of the carriage, sprang boldly out, lifting her to the
ground. The rioters were still busy dispatching Viatscheslav, who was
not quite dead, and they let us take two or three steps unmolested,
then, with a howl, surrounded us. Zénaïde shrank towards me, quivering
in every limb; I threw my left arm around her, and in the other hand I
held my naked sword.
“Here is some of the Naryshkin brood!” was the cry. “Cut them down,
there is no room here for traitors!”
“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a loud tone, and the habit of command
served me well, for there was a pause. “Give place here for the lady;
she is a ward of the Czarevna Sophia. Woe unto you if you harm a
Miloslavsky!”
“He lies!” exclaimed one of them, mockingly; “this woman was with
Naryshkin. Who is this traitor? One of their minions?”
There was a howl of fury from the outer edge of the crowd, but I kept
the foremost back by my undaunted front.
“I am the envoy of the King of France,” I said calmly, “and if a hair
of my head is injured, Russia will have to answer for it. Stand aside!
I must take this lady to the czarevna.”
A mob is like a wild beast, curbed by the steadiest nerve, and I saw
that I might hold these furies at bay just as long as I kept my head.
Zénaïde was bravely silent, but I felt her shiver as she leaned against
me. The worst aspect of it was that the throng was becoming larger, and
at any moment might be beyond my control; one of the ringleaders too
was disposed to have my blood.
“How do we know that the fellow is speaking the truth?” he exclaimed.
“Who knows that he is the envoy of the King of France?”
“He looks a squire of dames,” a voice cried in the crowd, and there was
a shout of derision.
Another second, and I could not control them. I ran my eye despairingly
along the ring of ferocious faces. Suddenly I saw the head of Michael,
Ramodanofsky’s man, craned over the others. I hailed the sight with joy.
“There is one of your own men who knows me,” I exclaimed, pointing at
him.
He evidently divined the situation, if he did not recognize Zénaïde,
and pushed forward, whispering something to the ringleaders that damped
their impetuosity. But, even then, we were in great peril, until a
sudden diversion released us.
“There goes Peter Naryshkin!” rose a shriek to the left, and the
ring around us dissolved, and they were off, full cry, after the
unfortunate, whom they brutally murdered, although he proved to be not
a Naryshkin, but the son of a boyar, Feodor Soltykof.
At the moment of the break, I hurried Zénaïde away. The rioters had
occupied the Red Staircase and were swarming into the palace, so that
it was impossible to gain access there, and it was necessary to hide
her at once from the sight of the mob. The only refuge that occurred to
me was one of the cathedrals, and with a common impulse, we hastened
in the direction of the Church of the Resurrection. On every side the
work of death was going on, and the ground was slippery with blood. I
turned out of my path that Zénaïde might not see a hideous corpse which
I recognized, by the dress alone, as that of the Chancellor Matveief.
She displayed unusual courage, walking with a firm step amid scenes of
such horror that they sickened me--a man and a soldier. I had hoped
that Michael might join us, but he had been pushed away by the furious
pursuit of Peter Naryshkin, and I had to depend on my own sword and my
own wits to bring her safe through. Pushed hither and thither by the
surging crowd, we finally reached the rear of the cathedral. Here it
was comparatively quiet, and I paused to look about for a way to enter
without going to the front, that we might escape the rioters.
“There is a postern to the left,” Zénaïde said, rousing herself, and
speaking in a quiet voice.
She guided me along the wall until we came to a low door, and here she
knocked gently. They were probably watching for fugitives, for it was
opened almost at once by a white-haired priest, who let us in silently
and barred the door behind us. But even as we entered, there was a
sound of a fierce tumult from the front of the building which arrested
our movements.
“What is it?” cried Zénaïde, her voice breaking a little with terror,
for it was like the roar of wild beasts. The priest stood listening,
his face pale.
“Alas!” he exclaimed, as we heard the outer doors crash in, “some one
must have betrayed him. Athanasius Naryshkin is hidden under the altar.
If they find him, nothing can save him.”
He rushed towards the curtained alcove behind the altar, through
which he could enter the chancel, and leaving Zénaïde for a moment,
I followed him. It was too late to do anything to rescue Naryshkin;
not even the priests could save him by appealing to the sanctity of
the house of God. It was a horrid scene; the outer doors had been
forced, and the church was crowded with a frantic mob. The light in the
cathedral was dim, but those terrible blood-stained faces stood out
against the gloomy background with awful distinctness, and the blood
dripped from their spears upon the floor. On the altar steps stood a
figure which I recognized with righteous indignation, and regret that I
had not slain him. It was the diminutive apelike form of Homyak, and it
was he who had directed the movements of the searching party, his the
first yell of triumph as they dragged the czarina’s unfortunate brother
from under the altar. The sight of the defenseless man in the hands of
these wretches fired my blood, and I sprang forward; but a young priest
caught me in his arms and pressed me back towards the alcove.
“Fool!” he whispered in my ear; “there are eight hundred men in the
nave, you cannot save him. It is death to go down the steps.”
I realized that he had rescued me, but it frenzied me to hear
Naryshkin’s death-cry. Already a dozen spears had been struck into his
quivering flesh, and he writhed, dying, on the floor of the cathedral.
The thought of Zénaïde recalled me to my senses, and I hurried back to
her.
“Come,” I said, “the church is in the hands of the mob, and we cannot
hide here.”
I unfastened the door, and we emerged upon a quiet scene, for the
rioters were all at the front of the building or within it. While I
hesitated upon my next step, Zénaïde came nearer to me and grasped my
sleeve.
“M. le Vicomte,” she said, “have you seen Mademoiselle Eudoxie? Do you
know where she is?”
I started; I had entirely forgotten the good woman.
“She is in the Ramodanofsky house,” I replied; I had been on the point
of saying “your father’s house,” but recollected in time not to shock
her with the sudden revelation.
“Holy Virgin!” she cried, “they are murdering the boyars; they will go
there and kill her. We must save her.”
The truth of what she said had already dawned upon me, but I could not
help mademoiselle while Zénaïde was in such peril.
“As soon as you are safe,” I said, “I will go and protect Mademoiselle
Eudoxie.”
But she was animated by the spirit of her race, and her womanly fears
had subsided at the thought of another’s danger.
“I will go now, M. de Brousson,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with
a determined fire. “We can get out; the crowd has been drawn away from
yonder gate. We cannot go back. Hear them howl about the palace! What
is it that they are shouting now?”
I bent my head and listened. Distinctly I heard Von Gaden’s name
coupled with cries of “traitor” and “poison.”
“They want the physician’s life,” Zénaïde said; “I heard them, before
you came, crying for him, saying that he had murdered the Czar Feodor.
But come, M. le Vicomte, we have not a moment to lose.”
“Mademoiselle,” I cried in a fever of anxiety, “you cannot go, you must
not go! It is dangerous--perhaps certain death--”
She stopped, and turned to look at me; her mantle had fallen back so
that I could see plainly the pale, beautiful face, the brilliant light
in the blue eyes.
“M. de Brousson,” she said, in a low tone, “I am wrong to imperil your
life. Leave me; I must go and save her, but it is too much to ask of
you.”
“Mademoiselle,” I remonstrated, “do not imagine that I would fail to
do my duty because of any personal risk. If I have ever served you,
forbear such a taunt as that.”
“Pardon me,” she murmured faintly; “I spoke in haste, but--”
I had drawn her arm through mine.
“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, and hurried her on, without another word,
towards the gate nearest us, all the while listening to the yells of
rage and triumph behind. They were dragging the hideously mutilated
bodies of their victims, Matveief, the Naryshkins, and many more,
across the square with the spears still sticking in them, and I could
hear the cries: “Here goes the Boyar Artemon Sergheievitch Matveief!”
“Here goes a privy-councillor!” Zénaïde heard and understood, for she
shuddered; but nothing stayed our course. Every moment was precious,
and we moved along as rapidly as we dared. To run would have been a
fatal way of attracting attention, for even here there were groups
of rioters apparently searching for victims; and as we neared the
gate, a howl to the left made us both turn, only to see them strike
down a white-haired councillor. If I had been without Zénaïde, the
old man would not have fallen without a blow in his defense; but her
helplessness tied my hands, although my blood boiled at the sight. The
rabble was frenzied with the taste of slaughter, and burning with the
thirst for vengeance for many bitter wrongs. Never, for a moment, did
I doubt the justice of most of the complaints of the Streltsi. They
had suffered, in common with all of the lower classes of Russia, and
now that they could strike a blow in revenge, it was very sweet to
them. The murder of the aged official was fortunate for us, drawing all
attention to that spot, and so permitting us to escape. Once out of the
Kremlin, we breathed more freely. At that time the riot was confined
within the walls of the fortress, and the streets were comparatively
quiet; it was not for some hours that they broke loose, pursuing their
enemies into the city, and even searching the houses of the foreigners.
The quiet which seemed to prevail without encouraged the hope that we
might reach Ramodanofsky’s house and get Mademoiselle Eudoxie away
unmolested. We had been walking very fast, and I noticed that Zénaïde
looked exhausted, and slackened my pace.
“Not so fast, mademoiselle,” I said; “it is not now so imperative, and
I do not believe that Mademoiselle Eudoxie is in peril as yet. We shall
be there in good time.”
“I cannot bear to linger a moment, M. le Vicomte,” she replied, in
a tone of anxiety; “I have seen too much of horror to risk poor
mademoiselle; and besides my uncle--”
She paused, as if unwilling to finish the sentence, and I was almost
startled; I had forgotten that she did not know of Vladimir’s death,
and I saw that I must prepare her for the coming revelation, for the
Boyar Feodor might be in his own house, although I doubted it.
“Your uncle will never trouble you again, mademoiselle,” I remarked
quietly.
She started and stared at me with a sudden revulsion of feeling; I knew
that she fancied him among the mutilated bodies in the Kremlin.
“Did you see it?” she exclaimed faintly.
“You misunderstand, mademoiselle,” I replied; “he was not murdered
yonder. He died--by--by accident in his own house yesterday. I
witnessed the end. There was none of the violence you feared.”
She looked at me wonderingly, evidently unable to grasp the change that
had taken place so suddenly: her uncle and her detested betrothed both
removed so swiftly from her path.
“You witnessed his death, M. de Brousson?” she said slowly; “I do not
understand.”
Then I told her, as gently as I could, of my search for her, and the
visit to Ramodanofsky, and of the fatal cup of _vodka_.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I knew that he kept deadly poisons--eastern
poisons--in that cabinet. It is strange how swiftly come the
retributions. And the mirror which saved you, I love it so well. It
was my mother’s; she brought it with her from France. How little she
dreamed that it would save a Frenchman’s life!”
And avenge her, I thought, wondering not a little how much Zénaïde
recollected of the tragedy of the past.
“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “can you recall your childhood? Do you
remember your mother--or your father?”
“I cannot tell,” she replied thoughtfully; “my mind is confused about
it. I cannot separate what I may remember from what the old servants
may have told me. I was so young when my mother died, I could not
remember, of course, and I was not so much older at my father’s death.”
“At your father’s death,” I repeated slowly; “is your father really
dead, then?”
She glanced at me in wide-eyed amazement. “Did you not know it,
monsieur?”
“I knew that your uncle said that he was dead,” I replied quietly,
watching her agitated face.
She stood still, gazing at me strangely.
“Tell me all, M. le Vicomte!” she exclaimed, her breath coming quickly;
“you know something--what is it?”
“Mademoiselle,” I replied gently, “you know what the Boyar Vladimir
was; can you not imagine that he would easily wrong even his own
brother?”
Her face was very pale. “Yes,” she returned slowly; “but I never
dreamed that he had wronged my father. Did--did he have anything to do
with his death?”
I took both her hands in mine.
“Zénaïde Feodorovna,” I said tenderly, “your father is not dead; he
lives, and is in Moscow.”
I had feared that she might faint, but I had forgotten that to her
“father” was but a name. She was deeply moved, but she commanded
herself, and in a few moments was walking on beside me.
“Where is he now?” she asked after a while, her voice shaken with a new
and deep emotion.
“He was at his own home, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but now I cannot
tell, except that he must be safe, for he is of the Miloslavsky party,
and has great influence, I believe, with the Streltsi.”
Zénaïde did not reply; I think that it flashed upon her that if the
brothers were cast in similar mold, her father might be engaged in the
bloody work at the Kremlin,--a thought that had occurred to me since I
had seen Michael in the mob. We walked on in silence, approaching the
house at last without having met one of the rioters. To my surprise,
the gates were open, and we entered the empty court. It occurred to us
both that this silence and desertion was strange; and Zénaïde, running
on ahead of me, tried the great doors, and finding them fastened, we
passed around to the postern in the wing.