On the red staircase

Zénaïde came and stood beside me, and we watched those blue wreaths increase until the foot of the staircase was clouded, and we had to draw back for a breath of air.

“Let us go to the window, Philippe,” she said in that quiet tone which seemed to voice her despair. “It is horrible, but perhaps it is better than to perish by their hands or our own.”

“Alas, my love!” I exclaimed hoarsely, “it is but a choice of evils, and how bitter it is to die at such a time! If it were not for you, I think I could face it cheerfully—I—”

She put her hand on my arm and looked up with a wonderful tenderness in her face.

“Remember your own words, Philippe,” she said softly; “we can die together.”

I clasped her in my arms, and we stood listening to the tumult below; the mob was loose, and the house was being searched. Their cries of rage and triumph came up to us, and all the while the smoke increased. How long could it last? And which would find us first? A sudden noise at the other end of the hall startled us; doors were opened and closed, and an uneven step came rushing on. They were coming. We looked into each other’s eyes. “Now, Philippe!” she whispered, touching my weapon.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” I cried, “how can I do it?”

“It is better,” she said, her white face quivering; “you swore it, Philippe. Oh, my love, adieu!”

She kissed me of her own accord and then stepped back. “Be quick, Philippe!” she cried.

The footsteps were near at hand. Even in my agony, I listened; there was but one man. If she must die, her life should cost them dear. I made a sign to her, and kept my eyes upon the door; my pistol was ready cocked. The first rioter who crossed that threshold would be a dead man. At that instant I heard a voice, a familiar voice:—

“M. de Brousson! M. le Vicomte!” it called almost at the door; and in a moment Pierrot stood before us,—Pierrot, covered with dust and blood, but stolidly respectful still.

“The saints be praised!” he cried; “we had given you up for lost.”

The relief was so great that at the first I had no words to utter. At the sound of a friendly French voice Zénaïde had broken down, and stood there quivering from head to foot.

“How came you here?” I exclaimed, at last.

“With the Boyar Ramodanofsky,” Pierrot replied. “And we have not a moment to lose, M. le Vicomte; the house is burning in the kitchen wing. Come down as quickly as you can.”

“The rioters!” gasped Zénaïde, looking at him in amazement.

“The boyar can get us through,” Pierrot said; and then, to my astonishment, I noticed that he wore the full uniform of the Streltsi.

Some one else was coming along the hall, and he stood aside to let the new-comer enter—Zénaïde saw him before I did, and from her eyes I knew who it was. Feodor Sergheievitch came in as easily as if such scenes were his daily experiences. But at the sight of his daughter, he paused, looking at her strangely; and for the first time, I realized that he had not seen her since she was a child.

“It is your father, Zénaïde,” I exclaimed.

“The image of her mother,” he said, as if to himself. Then, without another word, he lifted her in his arms. “Follow me, M. de Brousson,” he said calmly; “the fire will cut off the stairs in five minutes.”

And he went out with his daughter in his arms, Zénaïde looking over his shoulder at me with imploring eyes. He carried her as easily as he would have carried an infant, and led the way, Pierrot and I following closely. The hall was thick with smoke, and I saw why he had wasted no time in words. It was life or death, and I could not but admire his iron composure, even while I fretted that the task of protecting Zénaïde had been taken from me by one who had a better right. He took us towards the other side of the house and descended the stairs by the rooms that had been mademoiselle’s. Every step brought us nearer to the howling demons below, and I saw Zénaïde’s hands clutch his shoulders as if she doubted his ability to face the mob; but he never paused; down, down we went. Pierrot and I had drawn our swords, but both Feodor’s arms were about his daughter, and his stern face set with a resolution that no peril could shake. We could hear the rioters breaking furniture and smashing glass, and now and then their voices rose in fierce profane contention over some coveted spoil. They were crowding into this wing, for the fire was eating its way through the rest of the house, and even here the smoke was crawling in. Another turn, and we could see below. It was a wild scene. The contents of the rooms, smashed and heaped together, were being thrown into the hall, and a group of rioters were dragging out a cask of liquor from the cellar. Two or three brawny fellows were coming in at the door as the boyar advanced towards it. I tightened my grip on my sword, expecting that we should have to cut our way through; but Ramodanofsky swept on without hesitation, and they stood perplexed, not knowing what to do.

“Stand aside!” he thundered.

“Why so fast, master?” one of them exclaimed insolently.

“Hush!” cried another, plucking at his sleeve, “it is Lykof.”

“Stand aside, in the name of the Czar Ivan Alexeivitch!” exclaimed the disguised boyar; and to my surprise, they let us pass, although they stared angrily at me, as if uncertain of their recognition.

There were only a few stragglers in the court, and keeping close together, we followed Ramodanofsky to a low gate behind the wing that I had never seen. It was already unfastened, and we passed out into a narrow and deserted alley. As soon as we were safely beyond the gate, the boyar placed Zénaïde on her feet and spoke a few words to her, which I did not hear; but I saw her glance up into his eyes with a look of awakening feeling. He drew her hand through his arm and walked on more slowly. Meanwhile, I had been reflecting upon the situation, and quickening my steps, I joined them.

“Have you a refuge selected, M. Ramodanofsky?” I asked.

“It is my intention, if possible, to reach the Kremlin, and place Zénaïde under the protection of the Czarevna Sophia,” he replied with some hesitation.

“That is hardly possible now,” I said at once. “Come to my quarters, monsieur; I think that they will scarcely be molested.”

After a moment’s thought, he assented.

“I believe you are right, M. le Vicomte,” he said slowly, “although I think it possible to reach the Kremlin, the risk with Zénaïde with me is double, and it is hard to tell to what lengths they will go. My daughter and I will therefore gladly accept your invitation, M. de Brousson,” he added, glancing at me with keenly observant eyes, and the shadow of a smile about his lips.

“No more welcome guests will ever cross my threshold, monsieur,” I said warmly, feeling the blood rise on my cheek at his tone, and noticing, too, Zénaïde’s embarrassed eyes.

We were walking rapidly, for there was no time to loiter, and we went by the lanes and alleys, making a détour to avoid a party of rioters. On the way, Ramodanofsky questioned Zénaïde about the cause of our return to his house. I helped her to explain the circumstances of the escape, and our search for Mademoiselle Eudoxie.

“She is safe,” Ramodanofsky said. “I found how matters were turning, and sent her to the Kremlin; she is under the protection of Sophia.”

After a moment, he turned to me with more emotion in his face than I had ever seen there before.

“It is to you, then, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “that I owe my daughter’s life, as well as my own. I will not forget the debt.”

Zénaïde was on his other side, but she glanced across at me, and, for the first time on that terrible day, a smile shone in her eyes. I think that he saw the look and read it, for he was a keen observer; and I saw his expression change to one of deep gravity. Walking rapidly, it was not long before we reached my own door, and Pierrot, taking the lead, ushered us in. I conducted Zénaïde and her father to my sitting-room, and then went to order some food, for I was hungry myself, and felt sure that Zénaïde must be in need of some refreshment, if she could eat at all after our dreadful experience. Going to the lower hall, I called Pierrot, and gave him my orders to serve us as dainty a meal as he could with the means at hand. After concluding my instructions, I turned to go back to my guests; but seeing the closed door at the end of the hall, suddenly remembered Polotsky. It occurred to me in a flash that the man must be suffering if he had been forgotten there, and I went rapidly down the hall. My hand was on the latch, when Pierrot overtook me and plucked my sleeve.

“Do not go in there, M. le Vicomte!” he exclaimed, in a strange voice.

I looked around at him angrily; he did not attempt such interference as a rule. The fellow’s honest face was pale, and as full of horror as if he had seen a specter.

“What is the matter with you, knave?” I asked, half angry, half amused, for there was something in the frightened look on his usually stolid face which was absurd. “Have you attended to the wretch in here, or have you forgotten, and don’t want me to know it?”

He still held my sleeve, staring at the door as if he expected Satan to appear.

“It doesn’t matter, my lord,” he replied, in a low voice, “whether he is forgotten or not. He will never need any attention, except from the grave-digger.”

I made an attempt to open the door, but he still held me back.

“How did it happen?” I asked sharply. “Did he kill himself, or did—”

I stopped; I divined the truth,—Michael had wreaked his revenge, I saw it in my man’s face.

“You rogue, you!” I exclaimed. “I ordered you to keep the fellow safe.”

“M. le Vicomte,” Pierrot replied, “you remember that I went to find you, believing your life to be in peril; when you sent me back I was too late. That Russian devil had accomplished his revenge and gone. I have not seen him since. The man was quite dead when I returned. It is not worth while to look at him. It makes me sick.”

And the poor fellow turned away shuddering as I opened the door. The sight within turned my stomach. There was a beam across the room, a little below the ceiling; and from this hung the corpse of Polotsky, suspended by a rope about his neck. A glance sufficed to tell me what had happened. The fire had evidently been raked down to a bed of coals, and the poker lay near at hand. The feet of the corpse were blackened, and both eyes had been put out. He had been tortured into eternity. I went out and shut the door, as sickened as Pierrot. This was a Russian vengeance. How bitter must have been the wrongs that had roused such hatred as this! I walked up and down the hall for a while, blaming myself for having left the wretch bound and helpless in my house. I did not regret his death nor pity him, but I revolted at the barbaric brutality visited upon a human being, and under my roof. I thought of the boyar in the upper room, and wondered how he would regard it, reflecting, however, that he was a hard man and had tasted the bitter suffering of exile and imprisonment, meted out by his own brother and this dead man. It was not likely that he would feel either pity or remorse. I knew that the Tartar was close under the skin of that stern-faced man, and it seemed to me almost impossible that he could be Zénaïde’s father. Her uncle, with all his fierce and evil traits, had possessed a grace of manner entirely foreign to Feodor.

It was some time before I could recover my equanimity sufficiently to go up to my guests. The horror of that lower room was possessing me almost as strongly as it did Pierrot. I felt too that I ought to leave the strangely reunited father and daughter together, to give them an opportunity to realize their relation and understand each other. And it was not until supper was ready that I entered the room to summon them to join me.

I found them sitting side by side, the boyar holding his daughter’s hand and a new look on his rugged face, while in Zénaïde’s I saw the dawn of a beautiful affection, which stirred a feeling almost of jealousy in my breast. She told me afterwards that he had cast aside his stern manner, and told her briefly but tenderly the story of his short married life, and of her mother as a beautiful girl in France; of their love for each other, and their happiness in their little girl. He spoke with great feeling of his young wife’s death and his own hard fate, and touched lightly and with much reserve on his half-brother’s share in that past. In that hour of confidence Zénaïde forgot her first impression of the stern boyar, awaking to a new feeling of thankfulness that she was no longer an orphan.

I saw, as soon as I looked at them, that she did not now shrink from him as a stranger with perhaps all his brother’s evil characteristics. There was something almost solemn in the picture which they made, the scarred and weather-beaten father and the young daughter, whose beauty was peculiarly pure and delicate, like that of some unsoiled white flower. At my entrance, the boyar rose and thanked me again for rescuing his daughter, and there was a new and deep emotion in his voice, and his manner was much softened.

We were at supper, when I heard a voice at the door, and presently Pierrot returned with a troubled face. Fearing something that might alarm Zénaïde, I did not question him until afterwards, and then he told me that it was one of Von Gaden’s servants. The poor fellow had come to me for protection, after hiding all day. The rioters had returned a second time and searched the doctor’s house and his partner’s, and finding Madame von Gaden, dragged her away with them. Von Gaden himself had not yet been taken; but pursuit was hot, for they believed that he had poisoned the late czar, and nothing but his blood would satisfy them.