_BAPTISM._
The carriage stopped at the house of the Commander-in-Chief Galitzin.
The prince was informed of the arrival of the priest, and ordered
him to be brought to his bedroom, where he was awaiting him in his
dressing-gown.
“_Mille pardons_, Batiushka,” said the prince, hurriedly dressing.
“Most important affair; by orders of the highest authority. You must
first give me your oath that you will be silent for ever on everything
heard and seen this night. Do you swear?”
“As one offering up a bloodless sacrifice,” answered Father Peter, “I
will be faithful to my Sovereign, without any oaths.”
Galitzin was a little embarrassed at first, but he did not insist. He
related to the priest a few of the circumstances concerning the captive.
“Did you ever hear anything of her before?” he asked the priest.
“Yes! a few rumours did reach me.…”
“Have you heard that she is now in Petersburg?”
“I hear it for the first time.”
Galitzin told him of the anxiety of the empress, of the several foreign
inimical parties, and of the false wills.
“The doctor has quite given her up,” added the field-marshal. “Not only
her days, but her hours are numbered.”
Father Peter crossed himself.
“She wishes to be prepared,” continued the prince, as if choosing his
words. “It is not for me to teach you what to do. Most probably, like
a good shepherd, you will lead her to a full Confession and Repentance
as to who she is, and if she has taken a name not belonging to her, and
who incited her to do it?… Will you do this?”
The priest lingered with his answer.
“Give your word that you will help justice.”
“I know my duty and my obligations as minister of God,” answered Father
Peter, drily, coughing.
“You may go,” said the prince, bowing. “You will be conducted where you
are needed. As to me, I hope you will excuse the trouble I have given
you at such a late hour.”
The carriage, with the priest and Oushakoff, took the road to the
fortress. At the door of the commandant’s they noticed another carriage.
The priest was led into a special room, where he saw the Général
Procureur, Prince Viazimski. Near the prince stood the tall, manly,
ruddy-faced commandant of the fortress, Tchernishoff, and, near the
latter, his still young-looking and smartly dressed wife.
“Is everything ready?” asked Viazimski, looking round.
“Everything is ready,” answered the _Commandantsha_,[47] trembling and
bowing in her rustling farthingale.
“Be so good as …” said the Prince Viazimski to the priest.
They all went into the next room, where candles in the tall silver
candlesticks had already been lighted. Between them stood a font, and
near it a woman, commonly dressed, and holding in her arms something
wrapped in white.
“Begin, Holy Father,” said Viazimski, pointing to the font and to what
the woman held.
Father Peter put on his vestments, took the censer from the hands of
Tchernishoff, opened the Prayer-Book, and began the ceremony.
The sponsors were the finely dressed, affected wife of the commandant,
and the général procureur himself.
They gave the newly christened babe the name of Alexander. The ceremony
was finished; the _commandantsha_, with the babe in her arms, continued
turning and twisting about, trying with her airs and graces to attract
the attention of the général procureur to herself and her rustling silk
dress.
“Whose child?” asked the priest, lowering his voice, and respectfully
inclining the cross towards the godfather, who drew near.
Viazimski looked at him, quite taken aback.
“Under what name must I inscribe him in the register?” asked Father
Peter. “Who are the parents?”
“But is that absolutely necessary?” asked the général procureur, in a
displeased voice.
“As you may order.… By right, the ceremony requires it. Who knows what
may happen in the future?… We are bound.…”
“Right,” said Viazimski. “Alexander Alexéef, son of Chesmenski.”
The priest silently, with a trembling hand, inscribed the name in the
baptismal register.
“Now another Sacrament.… Here is your guide,” said the Prince Viazimski
sighing, pointing to the smart commandant, who was standing drawn up to
his full height. “I hope that everything will be fulfilled according to
orders.”
With these words, he left the room and drove home.
Father Peter, holding the chalice to his breast, followed Tchernishoff.
His heart beat faster when, having crossed the little bridge in the
interior, they entered a special yard, surrounded by a high wall. He at
once understood that they had entered the fatal Ravelin of Alexéef.…
The priest and his guide, mounting a few steps, entered a long, dimly
lighted corridor, and stopped before a low door.
“She is here,” whispered the priest to himself. The door led into a
rather low but very comfortable room. There were no sentinels now. The
candle near the bed shed a feeble light on the other part of the room,
through a purposely arranged silk curtain. The room was close, and a
faint odour of medicine and incense pervaded it. The priest glanced
around, and silently stepped behind the screen.
The sick girl lay motionless on her bed, but was quite conscious.
She slowly raised her eyes to the visitor, and recognising that it was
the priest by his dress, gently sighed, and held out her hand.
“I am very, very glad, Holy Father,” she whispered in French. “Perhaps
you would prefer German?”
“_Oui! Oui, comme il vous plaît_,” stammered Father Peter, shivering
involuntarily at the sound of that deep, broken contralto.
“I am ready; ask,” stammered the captive. “Pray for me.”