Part 27 (1/2)

Krizsanowski had just ended his report of the St. Petersburg conference--to which a pale lady had lent most careful attention--when the duenna, keeping guard, entered hurriedly, and whispered, ”Araktseieff has come.” Then as quickly retreated.

”Oh, heavens!” sighed the pale lady, pressing her hands convulsively to her bosom.

”Now be strong as a man,” whispered Krizsanowski. ”The decisive moment is at hand!”

”Can it be that that brings him?” she asked, tremblingly.

”Not a doubt of it. Look well to your women, for he brings an arch spy with him. Handsome and dangerous with the s.e.x.”

Just then the sound of carriage-wheels was audible in the courtyard below, amid much noise and the harsh tones of a man's voice.

”Make haste away! The Grand Duke is coming!” the pale lady whispered to Krizsanowski.

He, rising, took her hand in his.

Again the duenna appeared, this time rus.h.i.+ng in, and saying, breathlessly:

”The Grand Duke is back from the manuvres. Just as they drove in at the gate one of the horses stumbled, the outrider was thrown, and the Grand Duke's pipe was so jolted that it broke one of his front teeth. He is wild with rage.”

”Alas!” exclaimed the lady, and was hastening out. Krizsanowski held her back.

”You would do well just now to keep out of his way.”

”On the contrary, it is just now that I must hurry to him,” she answered, freeing herself from Krizsanowski's hold. ”But you hasten away from here, that no one sees you.”

”Well, then, be strong as a woman,” he murmured, and disappeared.

Yet it was so difficult to disappear. Krizsanowski was in the palace of Belvedere, in the royal park of Lazienka, the residence of the Polish Viceroy, outside Warsaw. The park was surrounded by a great wall, guarded on all sides by armed soldiers. The castle itself a fortress, with high bastions and intrenchments, a deep moat round it, and drawbridge; every outlet was protected by an embrasure, there was no evading the sentries. Within cannon-range the n.o.ble forest-trees had been cleared away, and turf laid down adorned with tulip-beds. It is humanly impossible to go or come unperceived. And yet Krizsanowski did succeed in getting away, although Grand Duke Constantine had had the Belvedere built to his own plan, and had watched its construction with his own eyes. It was impossible that there should be any secret pa.s.sage unknown to him--and yet, supposing one did exist? The architect had been a Pole. He was capable of constructing a secret pa.s.sage by night, and so building it up again that the Grand Duke had no notion of its existence.

And so it really was. Constantine might have been surprised in his bed any night were not a.s.sa.s.sination detestable to a Pole.

His wife hurried out to meet him.

The tyrant met her in the armory hall. He was exactly as his contemporaries have described. Imagination had not run riot.

The Grand Duke had reason enough to be wroth with his brothers. They had all inherited their mother's beauty and n.o.ble presence. He alone possessed his father's repulsive features and person. Czar Paul was the impersonation of ugliness, so hideous in appearance that he would allow no coin bearing his effigy to be struck throughout the whole course of his reign. And Constantine was a faithful counterpart of his father. His enormous horn-shaped nose stood out from his face as if it had no connection with his forehead; his little sea-green eyes were scarce visible under his thick, s.h.a.ggy eyebrows and blinking, almost shut, eyelids. His hair, beard, eyebrows, and eyelashes were the color of hemp, his face red as Russia leather. But the most remarkable thing about him was that the one half of his face was unlike the other, as though Nature had intended to crown her master-work of ugliness by joining together two different caricatures. One corner of the mouth was turned up, the other down; the scars of small-pox, wrinkles, warts, so completed the disfigurement that the painter who would have perpetuated the face could only have attempted it in profile. In fact, the artist who would have painted him full-face would have been guilty of high-treason. So he is described by contemporary writers.

His exterior was the true picture of his inner man; his features were the slaves of his pa.s.sions. To look at him was to make one shudder or deride. As was his face, so was his disposition--violent, pa.s.sionate, cruel to a degree. He carried a stick always in his hand, and laid it about him freely. If it be true that his brother, the Czar, spent two thousand rubles a year in quill pens, it may be guessed what amount Constantine's yearly budget showed for smashed walking-sticks. The stick he now held in his hand was broken and split all the way up. No doubt he had been again laying it impartially about the shoulders of the several commandants of division. Their morning prayers were blows.

And there must needs come this accident. And through the confounded horse stumbling, and the postilions being thrown, the pipe, which was never out of the Grand Duke's mouth, had hurt his gum and broken him a tooth. He uttered the most horrible oaths, spitting out blood the while.

”Cursed hound! As soon as he comes to himself throw him into the water to rouse him! Bring him here. Miserable rascal! I'll break all his bones for him!” Just then he became aware of a gentleman advancing towards him. ”Who is that? Chevalier Galban? No, you fools--that hound, I mean; not this gentleman! What does he want? Araktseieff has come? The devil take--Humph! It's the barber I want, and not a minister. Can't he see I've got a broken tooth? Why are you hanging about, Chevalier Galban?”

At that moment a lady, coming hurriedly up, pushed the Chevalier aside.

”For Heaven's sake, what has happened to you?” she cried, throwing herself on Constantine's breast. ”My life, my dearest, are you wounded?

What is it?” And she kissed his bleeding lips.

Over the monster's face dawned a sudden smile--a smile joyous as the aurora borealis, sad as the depths it was, but it transformed the Grand Duke's hideous face. It chased away his violence. The wild, rugged features became more harmonious; the brutal mouth endeavored to a.s.sume a gentle expression.

”Nothing, nothing, my love!” he replied, in the voice of a lion caressing its mate. ”Now, now, do not cry. Don't be frightened!”--his voice growing lower and lower. ”There is nothing the matter.”