The rebellion of the Princess

WE went back very deliberately to Maître le Bastien’s house. It was not the chamberlain’s habit to walk rapidly, and I dragged purposely, not only to gain time, but to plan some way of ridding myself of my companion. Vasili Ivanovitch, as Sophia called him, but more commonly Chamberlain Kourbsky, was determined to keep me close under his eye, and I was equally determined to evade him. How, it yet remained to be seen. We walked along, therefore, in grim silence, each busy doubtless with his own plots, each watchful of the other. But slowly as we walked we got to the house at last, and by that time I had made my plan, but I know not whether he had his or not; if he had, it miscarried for the time.

We entered the lower hall and I called loudly for Michaud, but the varlet, taking advantage of his master’s absence, had gone out; neither could I find Maluta; only Advotia came to stare at us stupidly, so there was nothing left but to go on up the stairs with my friend the chamberlain. And on the way he was suddenly seized with a sense of his duty.

“You must haste, Master Goldsmith,” he said pompously; “the czarevna waits.”

“Precisely,” I replied, nodding my head and passing the door of the workshop; “you will follow me, sir.”

He stared a little, having halted at the shop, supposing that the miniature was somewhere there amidst the litter of Maître le Bastien’s work.

“It is not there,” I said, replying to his glance, “it is necessary to secure the valuables. Ascend, monsieur.”

He sighed and followed me up the second flight, narrower than the first, and we reached the terem. This part of the house, occupied now only by Advotia and a female scullion, was bare and poor enough, and I saw him stare about in astonishment, but I was not yet done with him.

“Higher, monsieur,” I said blandly, and led the way to the little stairs that went to the turret, which contained one small room with three narrow, slit-like windows.

He followed, obstinate as a bull, but I heard him pant as he laboured up. The stairs were steep and narrow, and at the turn he nearly stuck fast, and I heard him mumbling some incoherent ejaculations. Up I went and he followed, blowing now and puffing out his cheeks. I was well ahead, and slipped the key from the inside to the outside of the lock; then I went into the little chamber and waited for him. On one window-sill some pigeons sunned themselves, I could see the belfry of the great tower of Ivan Veliki. I heard Kourbsky come up, blowing now like a whale. There was a chest in the room, under one window, and, as he entered, I pretended to be trying the lid. He stood getting his breath, his face as red as blood, for he was very angry.

“The lid sticks,” I said. “Will monsieur take hold of the farther end? The miniature is here.”

He bent reluctantly, grasped the end of the lid, and commenced to pull with all his strength. As he did so I let it fly up and back, and he fell over backwards, sitting down on the floor with a crash, and the dust rose in a cloud about him. In a trice I was out of the room and had slammed the door, and locked and bolted it on the outside. I had caught my enemy, and for a moment I leaned on the stairs laughing, hearing him bellow all the while within.

Then I looked down and saw Michaud staring up at me, with a strange expression; he heard the chamberlain’s shouts and ejaculations as plainly as I. Indeed, the great man’s voice seemed to shake the house to its foundations, and his threats were blood-curdling. I went down the stairs and touched Michaud on the shoulder.

“Follow me,” I said.

He obeyed, curious enough to know the meaning of it.

“Where were you when I came in?” I asked sharply, when we reached the workshop.

“I came in a moment ago,” he answered sullenly.

I eyed him sharply; I had no time to waste upon him and saw no great reason to distrust him. I told him, therefore, of Maître le Bastien’s arrest, of his peril, of the necessity of keeping the chamberlain in the house until I could return, and I watched him narrowly, all the while, to see how he felt about it. That he was alarmed and sorry for Maître le Bastien, I could not doubt; he showed it plainly, and my first doubts of him began to slumber. Besides, he knew no Russ, and hated the Russians, and I had the key of the upper room in my pocket. I felt that I could trust him for an hour. I pledged him, therefore, on his honour, to guard the upper room, to keep Advotia away from it, and to let no one in at the front door in my absence.

“Remember that the master’s life may depend upon your faithfulness,” I said severely, as I went down to the lower floor, feverish to be off to the Princess Daria.

“Sapristi!” he replied, “would I fail the good man now? Have no fear, monsieur.” He dragged a little on the word in a way I did not like, but I knew his temper and thought little of it; besides there was no time to lose.

I went at the top of my speed to the Voronin palace, pausing for no man, scarcely conscious of the passers in the streets, and once in the court-yard I knocked boldly at the door, where I had been so ridiculed on the occasion of my former visit. But I met no ridicule now; scarcely had I knocked before the door flew open, and old Piotr, grave and stern, stood on the threshold eyeing me in a forbidding fashion. But I did not heed it; instead, knowing that he could be trusted, I told him of the gravity of my errand and that I must see the Princess Daria without delay. At the mention of the czarevna and the visit of the two young girls to the workshop, his face clouded yet more deeply, and I thought that he was strongly agitated, though he answered me soberly enough.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “the princess is not at home; she is in the Kremlin.”

At this I started, deeply alarmed, and I saw my anxiety mirrored on his face.

“We have not a moment to lose,” I said, almost fiercely, “to the Kremlin, man, with me to find her.”

He shook his head, pointing inwards. “I dare not,” he replied, very low; “the prince is here.”

“But his daughter’s safety, man!” I cried impatiently, “let me in to tell him all.”

Old Piotr looked at me, much as he would have looked at a madman.

“Never tell him,” he said; “never betray her excellency—if you do!” he lowered his brows, he curled his lips back from his strong white teeth, like a wolf; “if you betray Daria Kirilovna, I—I, Piotr, will surely kill you, so help me Saint Nikolas of Mojaïsk,” and he lifted both hands over his head, swearing by the saint before whom all Russians pledge their fidelity.

The strong old man, his grey head lifted, his hands also—with the palms up—was a striking figure.

“I will never betray her,” I said heartily, and held out my hand.

He took it and pressed it lightly, not wholly trusting me. Then I left him, for I had no time to lose. To the Kremlin—that was my one thought as I sped. As luck would have it, at the very gate I stumbled on Maluta. The dwarf looked at me keenly and began to follow me, and I, impatient of him and not minded to be troubled with him, turned sharply.

“Be off, Maluta,” I said. “I have no time for you now—or use either.”

But he still followed. We were entering the Red Place and a second time I ordered him off, but he came on and plucked at my coat.

“You seek her,” he said, peering at me, white-faced and ferret-eyed; “you seek the Princess Daria?”

I started; was the thing unnatural in mind as well as body?

“Yes,” I said, “O astrologer, I seek the princess.”

“She is in the gardens of the Kremlin, serene excellency,” he said, bowing low.

I stared.

“Do you mean it, goblin?” I cried. “Is she really there? If this is a piece of your acting—of your trickery, you will pay dear for it!”

He laid his hands on his heart and then his forehead.

“Did not your excellency give me life?” he said. “By the great saint over the gate, by——”

“Yes, I know, by the Saint Nikolas,” I said. “Where is she?”

“Follow me, O excellency,” he said eagerly; “she is in the gardens, she and another, her cousin Vassalissa Feodorovna.”

“By Saint Denis!” I exclaimed, under my breath, “what absolutely gigantic luck! The little varlet is an angel in disguise. Lead on, O prophet!” I added; “lead and I follow.”

He smiled and, turning sharply on his heel, led me toward the gardens. We walked so rapidly that in a few moments we were following a path amidst the trees and shrubbery of the Kremlin pleasure-grounds. The green of the spring was here and the sunshine; I heard a bird singing overhead, I saw the splash and glimmer of a fountain. There was the faint sweetness of early flowers, delicate, thin in essence, the first breath of the northern summer. The place was very quiet, the turf green and soft under foot; there was a grove of slender young trees before us, their branches feathered with spring, their stems tall and sparsely grouped, framing a pathway where the sunshine made a mellow light. In it I saw two tall young figures in long cloaks, and each wearing the fata—a veil like a nun’s—to hide their faces, but I could not mistake the taller figure; the bearing, the very gait had been graven on my mind. It was the Princess Daria.