The fencing master, p.26
THE FENCING MASTER, page 26
The Countess seized the man’s hand and kissed it. The girls ran to their brother.
“Listen,” said the Sergeant, “since we must wait at least half-an-hour for fresh horses, and you cannot go inside the cottage where the other convicts will see you, nor can you wait all the time in the road, jump all four of you into your carriage and pull down the blinds, and as no one will see you, there may be a chance that my foolish act may never be known.”
“Thanks, Sergeant,” said Alexis, now also in tears; “but at any rate take the purse.”
“Take it yourself, Lieutenant,” answered Ivan in a low tone, instinctively addressing the young man by a title he no longer possessed; “take it out there, you will have more need of it than I.”
“But when I get there, I shall be searched.”
“Very well; I will take it out and give it back to you afterwards.”
“My friend--”
“Hush! hush! I hear a horse galloping, get into your carriage, and look sharp by all that’s holy; it is one of my soldiers returning from the village because he cannot find any horses. I will send him to another. Get in! get in!”
Thereupon the Sergeant pushed Vaninkov into the carriage where he was followed by his mother and sisters, then he shut the door upon them.
They stayed there for an hour, an hour full of joy and sorrow, smiles and sobs, a supreme hour like that of death, for they believed that on parting with him they would never see him again.
During the conversation Vaninkov’s mother and sisters related how they had heard of the commutation of his sentence twelve hours earlier, and of his departure from St. Petersburg a whole day sooner, and that it was owing to Louise that they had been able to see him once more. Vaninkov raised his eyes to heaven, murmuring her name as if he had been addressing a saint.
At the end of the hour which had sped by like a second, the Sergeant came and opened the door.
“Horses are now coming up in all directions,” said he, “you must separate.”
“Oh! a few minutes longer,” said the women in one breath, while Alexis, too proud to ask a favour of an inferior, remained dumb, “Not a second, or I shall be lost,” said Ivan.
“Good-bye, good-bye!” and then the voices were smothered n kisses.
“Listen,” said the Sergeant, affected in spite of himself, “would you like to meet once more?”
“Oh! yes, yes!”
“Go on ahead and wait at the next stage; it is now quite dark, no one will see you and you can have another hour. I shall not be punished more severely for two lapses of duty than for one.”
“Oh! you cannot possibly be punished,’’ cried the three, “on the contrary, God will reward you.”
“Well, well!” answered the Sergeant, somewhat doubtfully, while he could hardly force himself to drag his prisoner out of the carriage, and the latter made some slight resistance. But the next moment hearing the horses approaching, Alexis immediately parted from his mother and went and sat down outside the cottage on a stone, and there his companions supposed he had been resting all the time he was absent.
The Countess’s carriage now that the horses had rested, started off like a flash and did not pull up till it had reached a little isolated cottage like the former one, between Iroslav and Kostroma, whence the new comers watched the departure of the detachment next in advance to Alex’s. The horses were taken out and the coachman sent to procure fresh ones at any price. The ladies themselves, supported by the expectation of again seeing their son and brother, remained alone on the high road and waited.
This waiting was terrible. In her impatience the Countess had imagined that she would be hastening the meeting with her son by urging on her horses, whereas she was now more than an hour in advance of the sleighs. This hour seemed a century; a thousand different ideas, a thousand terrors tormented the unfortunate woman. At last they were beginning to suspect that the Sergeant had repented of his rash promise and had gone by a different route, when they heard the rattling of sleighs and the cracking of whips. They put their heads out of the window and saw the convoy approaching from out of the darkness. Their hearts, which had felt as though gripped in a vice of iron, were relieved of the terrible pressure.
Everything turned out as luckily at this stage as at the other. Having no expectation of meeting again except in Heaven, they spent another three quarters of an hour together as if by a miracle. During these three quarters of an hour, the unhappy family arranged as well as they could under the circumstances a system of mutual correspondence; then as a last souvenir the Countess gave her son a ring which she took from her finger. Brother and sisters, son and mother, embraced for the last time, as the night was too far advanced for the Sergeant to allow them to attempt a third interview. Besides another attempt might be so dangerous, that it would be mean to demand it. Alexis got into the sleigh, which was to bear him away to the ends of the earth, beyond the Ural Mountains, and away to the shores of Lake Tchany; then the whole gloomy procession passed the carriage where mother and sisters were weeping, and was soon swallowed up in the darkness.
The Countess found Gregory at Moscow where she had told him to await her. She handed him a letter for Louise which Vaninkov had written in pencil in his sister’s pocket book. It consisted of a few lines:
“I was not mistaken; you are an angel. All I can do for you in this world is to love you as a woman and to adore you as a saint. I commend our child to your care.
“Farewell.
“ALEXIS.”
Vaninkov’s mother appended a note to this letter inviting Louise to come and stay with her at Moscow, where she would look after her as a mother cares for her daughter.
Louise kissed the letter from Alexis; but shook her head as she read the mother’s note:
“No,” said she, smiling with the sad smile characteristic of her, “I am not going to Moscow, my place is elsewhere.”
CHAPTER XIX
AS a matter of fact, from this moment Louise pursued indefatigably her project, which no doubt the reader has long ago guessed, of rejoining Alexis at Tobolsk.
I have already said that Louise was expecting to become a mother in about two months’ time, but as she was anxious to set out the moment she was convalescent, she did not lose a minute over her preparations.
They consisted in converting into cash everything she possessed, shop, furniture and jewels. As it was well known, that she was in want of money, her property realized hardly a third of its value; then having collected about thirty thousand roubles in this manner, she left her establishment on the Prospect and retired to some humble quarters on the Moika canal.
As usual, I had recourse to M. de Gorgoli, my unfailing supporter, and he promised me, that when the time arrived he would obtain permission from the Emperor for Louise to follow Alexis. Her project had been rumoured about St. Petersburg, and everyone admired the devotion of the young French woman; but all said that when the time came for a start, her courage would fail her. I was the only one who really knew Louise and I was convinced to the contrary.
Moreover I was her sole friend, or rather more than a friend, I was her brother; every moment that I could spare, I spent with her and while we were together we spoke of nothing but Alexis.
Sometimes I tried to make her give up the idea which I looked upon as madness. Then she would take my hands and looking at me with her sad smile say: “You know quite well, that if love did not compel me to go, duty would. Did not he join the conspiracy, because he was tired of life, because I did not answer his letters? If I had told him I loved him six months sooner, he would not have spoiled his career, and he would not now be in exile. You must acknowledge that we are both guilty and it is only right that I should suffer the same punishment.”
Then since I felt in my heart that I should act likewise, I answered: “Go then and God’s will be done.”
In the early days of September a son was born to Louise. I wanted to write to the Countess Vaninkov and acquaint her with the news, but Louise said to me: —
“In the eyes of society, my child has no name and therefore no position. If Vaninkov’s mother asks for him, I will give him to her, for I will not expose my child to such a journey at such a time; but I will certainly not offer him to her for she might refuse to take him.”
Then she called the nurse and embraced the infant and pointed out the likeness to his father.
What ought to happen, did happen. Vaninkov’s mother heard of the birth of the child and wrote to Louise that as soon as she could she was to come with her child. This letter removed all her doubts if she still hesitated; her child’s future had worried her; now she felt happy about him and her chief cause of anxiety was removed.
But, though Louise had an intense desire to start as soon as possible, the anxieties she had experienced during the last few months had told so much on her health that her convalescence was greatly prolonged. It is true she had risen from her bed some time but I was not going to be deceived by the appearance of strength. I consulted her doctor who told me that her strength depended entirely upon her will power, but that in reality she was too weak to undertake such a journey. This would by no means have prevented her from starting if she had had it in her power to leave St. Petersburg; but permission could only come through me and it was a good thing that she must do what I wanted.
One morning I heard a knock at my door and at the same time Louise’s voice calling me. I imagined that some fresh misfortune had befallen her. I hastily slipped on a pair of trousers and a dressing gown and opened the door; she threw herself into my arms, wreathed in smiles. “He is saved,” she said. “Saved, who?”
“Why, Alexis, of course.”
“What, saved, it is impossible.”
“Look I “said she.
And she handed me a letter in the Count’s handwriting, and as I looked at it in astonishment: —
“Read, read,” continued she, falling into an armchair overcome by the magnitude of her joy.
I read:
“MY DEAR LOUISE, “Trust in him who brings you this letter as you would in me, for he is more than a friend, he is a saviour.
“I have fallen ill worn out with the fatigue of the journey and am stopping at Perm, where as luck would have it, I have discovered that the gaoler’s brother was formerly a steward in my family. Owing to his entreaties the doctor has declared that I am too ill to continue the journey and has settled that I am to spend the winter in the Ostrog (a prison for politcial prisoners) at Perm. I am writing this letter there.
“Everything is ready for my escape; the gaoler and his brother will fly with me; but I must recoup them both for the situations they will lose for my sake and the risks they will run in accompanying me. Give the bearer not only every coin you can lay your hands on but in addition dispose of your jewels.
“As soon as I am in a place of safety I will write for you to rejoin me.
“COUNT VANINKOV.”
“Well?” said I, after reading the letter through twice.
“Well!” replied she, “don’t you understand it?”
“Yes, I understand the plan of escape.”
“Oh! he will succeed.”
“And what did you do?”
“You ask me that.”
“What!” I cried, “you have given a stranger...?”
“All I had. Did not Alexis tell me to trust in the stranger as I would in him?”
“But,” I asked, fixing my eyes upon her, and uttering each word deliberately, “are you quite sure the letter is from Alexis?”
Now it was her turn to gaze at me. “Whom could it be from? What wretch would be coward enough to make sport of my grief?”
“Suppose this man was... Wait, I dare not say it; I have a presentiment... I am afraid.”
“Speak,” said Louise, turning pale. “Suppose this man was a forger, who had imitated the Count’s handwriting?”
Louise uttered a cry and snatched the letter from my hand.
“Oh! no, no!” she cried speaking loudly as if to reassure herself, “oh! No. I know his writing too well. I could not be deceived.”
Yet, while reading the letter again, she became still paler.
“Have you any of his letters with you?”
“Yes,” said she, “here is his note written in pencil.”
The writing was exactly the same, as far as one could judge, and yet there was a suspicion of a shakiness in it, which denoted hesitation.
“Do you think the Count would have written such a letter to you?”
“Why not to me? Don’t I love him better than anyone in the world?”
“Yes, no doubt, if it was to ask for your love, or your devotion, he would have addressed it to you, but when asking for money he would write to his mother.”
“But all I have is his? everything I possess came from him?” replied Louise in a voice, which was rapidly changing its expression.
“Yes, no doubt, everything belonged to him; but either I do not know Count Vaninkov, or, I can only repeat it, he did not write that letter.
“Oh! my God, my God, why those thirty thousand roubles were my sole fortune, my only resource, my only hope.”
“How did he sign the letters which he used to write to you?” I asked.
“Always ‘Alexis,’ nothing else.”
“This one, you notice, is signed, Count Vaninkov.”
“That is true,” said Louise, utterly dejected.
“Don’t you know what has become of the man?”
“He told me that he arrived at St. Petersburg last night and that he was “on the point of returning to Perm.”
“We must inform the police. Oh! if only M. de Gorgoli were still in command.”
“The police.”
“Of course.”
“But if we arc mistaken,” said Louise, “suppose this man is not a swindler, suppose he is really trying to assist Alexis? Then owing to my doubts, for fear of losing a few thousand wretched roubles, I should prevent his escape, I should then be the cause of his lifelong exile a second time. As for me I will do what I can, don’t be uneasy about me. All I want to know is, if he is really at Perm.”
“Listen,” I said, “I have heard that the soldiers who formed an escort for the convicts have returned some days. I know a Lieutenant in the Gendarmerie; I will go and find him and get all the information I can from him. You wait for me here.”
“No, no, I will go with you.”
“No, stay where you are. In the first place you are not strong enough to go out yet and what you have already done is dreadfully imprudent, besides you might prevent me from finding out what I could probably ascertain without you.”
“Very well, go, but come back quickly; remember I am waiting for you and why I am waiting.”
I went into another room and finished dressing in haste and having sent for a drosky, I ran down stairs and ten minutes later I was with Lieutenant Soloviev of the Gendarmerie, who was one of my pupils.
I had not been mistaken, the escort had been back three days, and the lieutenant in command, from whom I could have acquired precise information had received six weeks leave and had gone off to his family at Moscow. Seeing how greatly I was disappointed at his absence, Soloviev offered his services on my behalf, with so much effusion, that I did not hesitate for a moment to confess the great desire I had for positive news of Vaninkov; he then said it was quite a simple matter, for the Sergeant who had charge of the detachment to which Vaninkov belonged, was in his company. He immediately sent his mujik to tell Sergeant Ivan he wished to speak to him.
Ten minutes later the Sergeant entered; he had one of those good-humoured, manly soldier’s faces, half serious, half jovial, which never quite laugh outright, but are ever on the smile. Though I was then in ignorance of what he had done for the Countess and her daughters I was at first sight predisposed in his favour; as soon as he appeared I went to him.
“Are you Sergeant Ivan?” I asked.
“At your service, your Excellency,” he replied.
“Were you in command of the sixth convoy?”
“Yes.”
“Did Count Vaninkov belong to your detachment?”
“H’m! h’m!” mumbled the Sergeant, not knowing what might be the result of such a question. I noticed his embarrassment.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, “you are talking to a friend who would give his life for him; tell me the truth I beg you.”
“What do you want to know?” asked the Sergeant still on the defensive.
“Was Count Vaninkov ill on the journey?”
“Never.”
“Did he stay at Perm?”
“Not even to change horses.”
“Then he continued the journey?”
“As far as Koslovo, where I hope he is at the present time in as good health as you or myself.”
“What is Koslovo?”
“A pretty little village situated on the Irtich, nearly twenty leagues beyond Tobolsk.”
“Are you quite sure.”
“Yes, absolutely; the Governor gave me a receipt, which I brought back, and on my arrival the day before yesterday, handed to his Excellency the Head of the Police.”
“Thus the account of his illness and sojourn at Perm is all a fable.”
There is not a word of truth in it.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Now that I was sure of my facts I went to M. de Gorgoli and told him all that had happened.
“You say,” said he, “that this young woman has made up her mind to join her lover in Siberia.”
“On my word, sir, yes.”
“Although she has lost all her money?”
“Although she has lost all her money.”
“Very well, go and tell her from me, that she shall go.”
I left the house and going home found Louise in my room.
“Well” she said, as soon as she saw me.
“I have both good news and bad news for you,” said I, “your thirty thousand roubles are gone, but the Count has not been ill; the prisoner is at Koslovo, whence there is not the least chance of escape, but you will be allowed to go and rejoin him there.”
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