Part 12 (1/2)
”In the train, last night, with this man.”
”You say she is an anarchist?”
”We have known it for some time, sir.”
The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself with a difficult effort.
”You heard?” he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart, detached. ”Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar?
Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike you if it is true.”
The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. ”It is true,” she said, ”I am an anarchist.”
The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came nearer.
”You fired the shot?” he cried, ”You! Answer me, on your soul--the truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?”
The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked at him and signed an a.s.sent.
”You--you shot the Grand-Duke?”
Her lips moved and she bowed her head.
The General stood paralyzed with horror. He was like one on the verge of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move. Then he drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger and pa.s.sion growing in his eyes.
”You are no daughter of mine!” he cried stammering, ”You are a murderess, a criminal! You have killed the Grand-Duke--in his own house you have killed him!”
”Father!--Father!”
He gasped and put his hand to his throat. ”Be still! I am not your father. You are no child of mine. I curse you--with my last breath I curse you.--Do with her as you like.”
He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting. ”Take her away--Take her out of my sight. Send her to Siberia, to the Mines--anywhere! Let her pay the uttermost penalty! Let her die! She is nothing to me!--Curse her!--Curse her!--Curse her!”
The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on either side of the girl. She shrank back.
”Father!” she cried.
”Chort vozmi, I am not your father! Take her away, I tell you.” With a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from the room.
Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin. He was s.h.i.+vering as though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words, the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife. He dropped his violin on the litter of papers.
”By heaven!” he cried, ”What a terrible thing! What brutes you all are! She is my wife--mine! No matter what she has done, she is my wife. Let go of her you savages!--Kaya! Help her, some of you--don't let them take her! They are dragging her away!--Kaya! Stop them--stop them!”
He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron, they held him in a vice. The Chief sprang forward. They held him, and the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows.
She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense look, gazed deep into Velasco's. They were dark and blue, full of anguish. Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they were thanking him, they were saying goodbye. He struggled towards her.
A moment--and she was gone.