Vera heard a banging at the front door--a sound which might have
startled and even frightened her at another moment, but she was so
full of her new grief that she scarcely noticed it; she felt as though
nothing mattered; that she did not care what happened.
Then old Michael, one of the two servants who had remained in the house
when the rest left Moscow, knocked at her door and put his head into the
room.
"_Golôobushka moyá_," he said, "do not be frightened, a disaster
has happened; the young Graf Maximof----" he paused; Vera laughed
hysterically.
"Yes, yes, go on; he has been shot--he is dead--they have brought his
body; you may tell me all, Michael."
"Oh, _liubeemaya_, not so bad as that; but he is hurt."
"What do you say--he is not dead?" cried Vera; she sprang from the bed
upon which she lay. "Is he dying, is he mortally wounded, tell me
quickly, has Stepan gone for a doctor?"
"But I did not say matters were so bad as that!" exclaimed old Michael,
startled by her agitation. "The Count has, I think, been fighting--there
is a rag bound round his wrist which is covered with blood and he is
pale and faint, but----"
"But is he not shot--I thought--stop, Michael--go down and say that
I will come immediately--I am not quite ready--I think I have been
dreaming--do not tell the Count what I have said."
Old Michael went downstairs muttering and crossing himself. His beloved
mistress could not be well if she dreamed in this fashion by daylight;
what did it mean?
Vera dashed water upon her eyes and smoothed her ruffled hair; she stood
a moment before her ikon and prayed; her eyes were bright and her cheeks
flushed; the expression of utter misery had left her face.
She found Sasha sitting dejected and pale, his arm bound up with a cloth
which, as Michael said, was soaked in blood.
"What has happened--what is the matter? Are you hurt, Sasha?" she asked,
assuming her usual air of composure, though her heart beat wildly with
a variety of emotions.
"Vera, I am disgraced--doubly disgraced. We failed in our attempt--all
my poor companions are dead--shot--I almost wish I had died with them--I
feel dishonoured--shamed; see, I cannot look you in the face."
Vera leaned over and kissed his forehead; he looked up gratefully but
said nothing.
"I am sure you are not dishonoured," she murmured softly; "let me first
attend to your arm, and then you shall tell me all."
"I will tell you as you bind me," he said, and began at once.
"We carried out the first part of our scheme successfully; we got into
the stables and set fire to straw and rubbish, but the smoke frightened
the horses and there was a great commotion. We were found and dragged
out by soldiers. Several young officers, quartered in the Kremlin,
ran up and we were all pulled about and insulted. Among the officers
were two of those who came to this house. 'Look here,' said one, on
recognising me, 'look, Paul, here is your acquaintance of the other
evening;' whereupon the impertinent one whom you interviewed alone
that day saw me also. He called up half a dozen fellows and bade them
take me to his quarters. Of course I struggled, but I soon saw it was
useless and went with them. Afterwards I heard that the Emperor suddenly
appeared upon the scene and asked what had happened and who were these
men, meaning my late companions. When he was told he frowned and twisted
his nose and called them canaille and bade the soldiers shoot them down,
then and there, for which butchery I trust he may be tortured in eternal
fires.
"As for me, I was taken to a house in the Kremlin in which your friend
is quartered, and thither he came, presently, and found me awaiting his
pleasure, which, it seemed, was to answer to him at the sword's point
for my presumption in posing as your protector in Moscow; at any rate,
I could learn no other reason for his particular animosity against me.
You may believe that I was charmed to meet his wishes even though he had
not assured me, which he did many times, that I might thank my stars
I had not been left by him with my fellow conspirators; for it seems
Napoleon had himself condemned them to instant death, giving the order,
so your French friend said, carelessly over his left shoulder as though
the talk were of drowning so many rats. Well, we fought, and there is
my disgrace, for though I thought I could fence, the fellow had me at
his mercy with many French tricks which I had never seen. Doubtless he
could have ended me several times over, but he forbore. I am ashamed and
disgraced, Vera, I have come home beaten like a dog that slinks into his
kennel after a thrashing. There is excuse for me, but I do not claim
it--strange, foreign swords to fight with, the shock of my companions'
deaths, the uncertainty whether, if I fell savagely upon the man and
bore him down by sheer stress, I should not injure a dear heart at home
which perhaps held his life as a precious thing."
Vera laughed hysterically.
"Who knows," she cried, "perhaps the same generous consideration held
his hand also!"
"Ah, you mock me; well, beaten and disgraced I am, and it is useless to
conceal the truth. Yes, he withheld his hand, he could have given me the
point a dozen times while I never touched him, not once. There is worse
behind. He made me promise, under threat to send me back to his master
to share the fate of my fellows, that I would give you a detestable
message. Please do not blame me, Vera, I cannot help it, for the
promise was given. Before giving it I fell upon him furiously, and it
was thus I received this wound in my sword-arm, which incapacitated me.
I was to say that he returned to you a spoilt lover, but perhaps good
enough for one who could not tell a man from a moujik."
Vera's eyes flashed and her bosom heaved. "Is that all?" she asked.
"Not quite. I must say all he bade me tell you. Tell her, he said, that
next time man meets moujik matters will end less happily for the moujik;
she had better send him out of Moscow, there is less danger for him
without than within the walls."
"If you had killed him for that speech, I could not have blamed you, my
friend," answered Vera. "When I see him I will tell him something."
"I could then no longer even attempt to kill him," said Sasha, blushing
hotly, "for I was helpless; we had finished fighting, and I was worsted.
I thought it better to bear the disgrace of telling you this than to go
back to the Red Plain in order to be shot in cold blood by Napoleon's
men. I have not done with him. With God's help I will one day give
him _quid_ for his _quo_. Until I shall have done this I can enjoy no
self-respect. With my own sword I may do better, though he has the
devil's own skill." Vera considered a while, then she spoke.
"I think we will go out of Moscow; there is no longer any reason to stay
here. The smoke hangs over the city in every direction; already there is
more fire than all Napoleon's men can extinguish; within a fortnight the
rats must make their bolt."
"We have done something, certainly, but it is not yet time to go--not
for me; for you it is different; go, in God's name, Vera; I will do your
work and mine. In the face of this man's insult I cannot leave Moscow."
"Yes--that is true; you cannot; we will stay, then, Sasha; I do not
doubt that we shall find work to our hands. Do not search out this man,
however; leave your quarrel in God's hands. Promise me you will not be
rash, Sasha."
"Ah, I see you think that I have no chance against him; yet I am not a
fool with the rapier, Vera, my own weapon, mind you, not his. I shall
have a chance, though I admit he is very clever. If he were as clever as
the prince of all the devils I must meet him."
"He is the best fencer in Paris, _mon ami_. What matters is your safety;
oh, do not mistake me--do you think I shall esteem you less and him
more because he is a little cleverer than you with tricks of the sword?"
Vera laughed quite merrily. "Oh, what children men are to think so much
of so small a matter," she continued; "you are not disgraced in my eyes,
Sasha; I thank God for two things, the first that it occurred to Paul to
vent his spite upon both of us by pricking you with his sword instead
of allowing you to be shot down by the guard, and the second that his
conceit was so great that he preferred sending you back with a bombastic
message to giving you a fatal wound."
"Tell me truly, Vera, is this Paul he to whom you gave your heart in
Paris; for Gods sake, tell me truly?"
"I do not think I gave my heart in Paris. Perhaps I fancied that my
heart was in danger where no danger existed. He is the man who caused me
thus to search my feelings--well, I have searched them."
"And the result?" Sasha murmured.
"The result is that I can thank God I do not love a Frenchman, one of
Russia's enemies."
"Then I thank God also humbly and sincerely. You know well what I would
have of you, if I could. You treat me now as a brother, you are kindness
itself, but I hunger for more; I will wait more patiently now that I am
assured that at any rate your heart is free."
"When I love I promise that I will love a Russian," Vera smiled.
"Promise me in return that you will not run foolish risks in order to
prove to me how cleverly your hand and eye work together in sword play.
There are greater issues at stake for us Russians than the nursing of
private petty vanities. The noblest of men may yet be the clumsiest.
Russia requires all the manhood of all her sons, my friend. Come,
promise me!"
"Well, I promise then," muttered Sasha, "though your words are not
flattering to my vanity. I wish you could have added," he sighed, "that
you wanted me alive for your own sake, as well as for Russia's."
"Oh, I will say that," she laughed. "I certainly want you alive. Sasha,"
she added suddenly, her eyes softening wonderfully, though her voice was
full of laughter, "I see that you are still far from having eschewed the
follies of cadetdom; you are as vain as ever, _mon ami_, and as blind
to--to the true proportion of things."
Sasha Maximof looked puzzled and shook his head, failing to understand
the meaning of Vera's last utterance.