LOVE AND FIRE.
THE postern was also fastened, and Zénaïde knocked repeatedly without
effect.
“The house is deserted,” she said, turning a frightened look upon me;
“where can mademoiselle be? What has happened?”
I was puzzled myself, and at loss to answer her.
“There must be some way to get in,” I said, examining the windows.
One to the right of the door was not securely shuttered, and I got it
open with but little difficulty, and climbed in. I found the postern
securely barred, and opening it, admitted Zénaïde. Together we went up
the stairs to mademoiselle’s room, only to find it vacant. The whole
house seemed as silent as the grave. Hurriedly we searched the place,
opening door after door, only to discover silence and solitude. Not a
sound greeted our ears, not a sign remained of habitation other than
the furniture, already lightly coated with the dust which had been
gathering since the night of Zénaïde’s flight. Going into the main
building, our search was equally fruitless; descending to the kitchen
and even the cellar, we found no trace of either mademoiselle or the
boyar. Yet there was no indication of violence, the house had not been
attacked; it was as quiet and undisturbed as it was desolate. We had
scarcely spoken to each other; but now, as we returned a second time to
mademoiselle’s room, Zénaïde broke the silence.
“I cannot understand it,” she said thoughtfully; “there was no safer
place for mademoiselle, and it could not be that she went out on such a
day, for they must have known of the riot here before the mob reached
the Kremlin.”
“She must be safe,” I replied reassuringly; “this house has not been
disturbed, and she must have left it voluntarily.”
“I do not think she can have gone to seek me; mademoiselle is far too
timid,” she said musingly. “I have brought you on a fool’s errand, M.
le Vicomte; but, at least, we are out of danger.”
“Mademoiselle, you are unkind,” I retorted quickly, thinking of her
rebuke to my caution in the Kremlin.
She started, and the blood rushed over her fair face.
“I beg a thousand pardons, M. le Vicomte,” she faltered. “I never
intended an attack upon your courage; I owe it far too much. I can
never thank you enough for my deliverance.”
“It came from higher hands than mine, mademoiselle,” I replied gravely,
watching the color flushing her downcast face. “Vengeance was taken out
of the reach of my sword, and now you will be safe in a father’s care.”
I added this to note the effect, and saw anxiety cloud her expression.
This unknown father was another source of perplexity. We were both
absorbed in our own thoughts and emotions, and had not heeded the
sounds which must have been approaching, for we were now startled by
the roar of a mob. I sprang to the window and looked out, at first
seeing nothing; but the noise was only too near, the rabble was
evidently in the street in front and in the lane behind the house, for,
on every side, rose the shouts and screams of the angry populace.
“What can have brought them this way?” Zénaïde cried, coming to the
window; but I pulled her back out of sight, for I had seen the foremost
of the rioters crowding into the court. Without a word, I ran down and
saw that the postern and lower windows were secure, and then returned.
Zénaïde was standing out of sight, but where she could look from the
window upon the court, which was filling fast.
“What can they want?” she whispered, as if afraid that they would hear
her voice.
I thought I knew, remembering that Vladimir’s death was not known, nor
Feodor’s identity. I knew that the dead boyar had been bitterly hated
by the lower classes, that he had been intimate with one or more of the
colonels of the Streltsi who had been scourged. He had been identified
with the Naryshkins, and this, with the fact that he was a perfect
type of the arrogant boyar, was enough to excite the fury of the mob,
whose taste for blood had only been excited, and not slaked, by the
carnival of murder at the Kremlin. What evil fate had induced me to
linger a moment in this house? I saw my folly too late, and looked at
Zénaïde with the keenest apprehension and self-reproach. How could I
save her? I was reflecting upon some means of rescuing her. They had
already begun to clamor for admittance, and no door could resist them
long. I must find some way to delay their entrance, to give the Boyar
Ramodanofsky time to come to our relief, for I felt sure that he had
some influence with the rioters. The house was completely surrounded,
and I could think of no way of getting Zénaïde out with any chance of
escape. Meanwhile, I heard the resounding blows upon the main entrance
replied to with similar ones on the postern and the kitchen door. No
time could be lost.
“Stay here, mademoiselle,” I said; “I must speak to those in front, and
so draw off the _canaille_ from the other entrances.”
“You are mad, M. le Vicomte,” she exclaimed; “your presence will merely
excite the mob. If we must die, let it be by our own hands; I cannot
fall into theirs alive.”
She stood in the center of the room, her face white and composed, and
her blue eyes gleaming with the fire of her race. I saw that, in the
extremity, she would meet death with the resolution of a soldier’s
daughter. I had never loved her more than at that moment, when I saw
her stand there, facing death, and a peril worse than death, with the
unfaltering courage of a noble soul. I took her hand in mine and kissed
it.
“Mademoiselle,” I said in a low voice, “I swear to you that you shall
not fall into their hands alive.”
She did not withdraw her hand, and her blue eyes looked steadily into
mine.
“I thank you from my heart,” she said firmly; “I can die cheerfully, as
becomes a Ramodanofsky.”
Below, the blows upon the door seemed to shake the house itself. I
left her and went to the window over the door; opening the shutters,
I leaped upon the sill. In a moment some one saw me, and there was
a yell, followed by a hoarse roar from the mob gathering, as I had
anticipated, beneath the window to watch me. It was a large party
of rioters; the courtyard was crowded, and they overflowed into the
street. The foremost of the party had just secured a heavy beam, and
were preparing to use it as a battering-ram against the door beneath;
but at the sight of me overhead, they paused to stare and listen.
There were some of the Streltsi as ringleaders, but a large portion
was the off-scouring of the city, ripe for mischief and rapine; armed
with spears and hatchets and clubs, their faces perfect types of low
ferocity; arrested in their attack only for the moment, and furious at
the delay. It was a sight to freeze a man’s blood to face it alone, and
with the thought of the young girl behind me, it drove me mad. A lamb
at the mercy of hyenas! Before I could speak, they began to shout to
me to come down and unfasten the door.
“We have come to see the Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky!”
they cried mockingly; “and if we are not presently made welcome, he
will find our greeting warm.”
I made a gesture to them to listen, and there was a momentary pause,
more dreadful perhaps than their cries, and I could see their savage
faces and their bloody hands.
“The Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch is dead,” I said, in a loud voice;
“he died by his own hand yesterday, and there is no one here.”
A howl of baffled fury and derision greeted my announcement; I saw that
they did not believe me.
“Open the door, good fellow!” shrieked a leader, derisively, “so that
we can attend the funeral. The boyar loved the people; let the people
have his body.”
“I swear to you that the boyar is dead,” I shouted, “and his body is
not here. I know not where they have taken it.”
“We will find it! We will find it!” they howled, and I saw that I was
no longer holding them, but that some were breaking away and running to
either side of the house. Only the group in front remained, staring at
me and mocking me with hideous grimaces, made more horrid by the smears
of blood upon their grimy faces.
“Why do you listen to him?” shouted a voice on the outskirts. “This is
the same fellow who took the woman out of Naryshkin’s carriage.”
“Ramodanofsky’s niece!” they screamed, with sudden inspiration; “she
was betrothed to that devil Viatscheslav! The fellow has her here!”
That brought them howling under the window.
“Open the door!” they cried to me, “or we will tear you limb from limb
when we get in! No more lies for us! We will have them all!”
I shouted to them that they were mistaken; but my voice was drowned in
the tumult, and the stones began to rain like hail. I felt a pull at my
cloak, and turning, saw Zénaïde. She had followed me, and heard it all.
“It is useless,” she said, in a quiet voice; “kill me now, M. le
Vicomte.”
I looked below, and saw them placing the improvised battering-ram
against the door, and then I jumped down beside her.
“Not yet, Zénaïde!” I cried, with a break in my voice, for I could not
bear to look upon her pale and lovely face. “There may yet be a chance.
Take one of my pistols, and let us find a refuge if we can.”
I took her hand in mine and found that it did not even tremble,
although as cold as death. Leading her, I found an upper room, and
waited there to meet our fate. It was a moment of agony for both, and
she clung to my arm like a child.
“M. le Vicomte,” she faltered suddenly, while we waited in that quiet
spot, “I blame myself; I should not have led you here. It is awful to
die such a death.”
I drew her closer to me and looked down upon her face so near my own.
“But we shall die together,” I said softly, and our eyes meeting, I
read the truth in hers. “Zénaïde,” I whispered, “you know that I love
you?”
“Yes,” she murmured faintly, “I know it, Philippe; and still--we must
die.”
“Together, sweetheart,” I replied, kissing her; “united in life and
death.”
And thus our troth was plighted. And then a new terror smote us; a tiny
wreath of smoke came curling in at the open door.
“They have fired the house,” Zénaïde said quietly, raising her head
from my breast, and looking at me with horror growing in her eyes.
I went out at the door and looked down the hall. The odor of burning
was unmistakable. I could hear the crashing of the outer door and the
roar of the mob below. The fire was in the rear, and I knew that the
stragglers whom I had seen leaving the crowd in front had fired the
wings. I could hear the crackle of flames, even above the tumult, and
the blue smoke was creeping up in thin spiral waves.