Kitabı oku: «Marie Tarnowska», sayfa 8

XXIV

Although Tioka and I both recovered, this alarming incident had its consequences on my life. It caused me to leave my old home, and from the moment of that departure I never saw my dear mother again.

With the passing of her mild and tender presence all that still was pure and holy vanished out of my life.

I was already on the brink of perdition. Freed from the restraint of that gentle hand, whose light touch even from afar had still controlled my heart, I plunged forward to destruction.

The inheritance was divided, and my share was dissipated I know not how. I returned to Moscow, and found myself ever more and more in need of money.

I lived luxuriously, I dressed gorgeously, and traveled from one place to another—yet I had nothing of my own except an income of four thousand rubles a year, which were scarcely paid to me before they were swallowed up in the gulf of my debts. I asked Prilukoff for money, and he gave it to me.

But there came a day when, on my asking him for five thousand rubles, he turned upon me abruptly.

“I have not got them,” he said. “At least,” he added, “not unless I steal them.”

“How dreadful,” I exclaimed in terror. “How can you say such a thing?” Then I laughed, feeling sure that he had spoken in jest.

“Get them from Kamarowsky,” said Prilukoff, curtly.

I started with indignation. From Kamarowsky! Never, never, as long as I lived. I had seen him frequently during the last few days; he and his charming little son, Grania, still in their deep mourning and with pale, sad faces, used to come and see me, and talk to me with many tears about their dear one who was gone. It would have been horrible, it would have been indecorous, to ask Kamarowsky for money.

“I did not say you were to ask him for it,” retorted Prilukoff.

“What then?”

“Telephone and invite him to dine with you to-morrow.”

“Well? And then?”

“Then we shall see.”

As he insisted I complied reluctantly.

Kamarowsky accepted the invitation with touching gratitude, and a large basket of roses preceded his arrival.

Prilukoff, who was still hanging about in my boudoir, but declared that he would not stay to dinner, sniffed the roses with a cynical smile:

“Flowers! Flowers! Nothing but flowers! Nous allons changer tout cela.”

The door bell rang, announcing the arrival of my visitor.

“What am I to do with him now he is here?” I asked Prilukoff uneasily. “What shall I say?”

“Do nothing and say nothing. And mind you don't open any letter in his presence.”

“Any letter?” I asked, in bewilderment. “What letter?”

“I tell you not to open any. That is enough.” With this obscure injunction Prilukoff urged me towards the drawing-room, and I went in to receive my guest.

Count Kamarowsky, while inspiring me with the deepest pity, frequently irritated and annoyed me. His grief for his lost Emilia was doubtless deep and sincere; but sometimes when I tried to console him I seemed to read in his tear-filled eyes an emotion that was not all sorrow, and in the clasp of his hand I perceived a fervor that spoke of something more than gratitude. I felt hurt for the sake of my poor friend, Lily, so lately laid to her rest; and I shrank from him with feelings akin to anger and aversion.

Yet, when I saw him moving away, pale in his deep mourning, leading his sad little child by the hand, my heart was touched and I would call them back to me and try to comfort them both. The child clung to me with passionate affection, while his father seemed loth ever to leave my side.

Conversation between us always soared in the highest regions of ethereal and spiritual things; our talk was all on abstract subjects, dwelling especially on the immortality of the soul, the abode of the departed, the probabilities of reunion in the world beyond. The commonplace everyday prose of life was so far removed from our intercourse that I felt shy of having asked him to dinner. To eat in the presence of so much sorrow seemed indecorous and out of keeping. Nevertheless, as I had invited him to dine I could not but seat myself opposite him at the flower-decked, fruit-laden table.

A man-servant, lent to me for the occasion by Prilukoff, handed the zakusta and the vodka; and soon in the mellow atmosphere of the little dining-room, under the gentle luster of the pink-shaded lamps, a rare smile blossomed timidly now and then out of the gloom of our melancholy conversation.

We had scarcely finished taking our coffee when, to my astonishment, Prilukoff was announced. He entered with rapid step, holding a large sealed envelope in his hand. For a moment he seemed disconcerted at finding that I was not alone, and looked as if he would hide the letter behind his back. Then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if acquiescing in the unavoidable presence of a stranger, he handed me the envelope with a deep bow.

“What is it?” I asked in surprise.

Prilukoff glanced somewhat uneasily at my guest, then he bent forward and said in a low voice—yet not so low that the other could not hear what he said:

“This morning, Countess, you did me the honor of confiding to me the fact that you needed ten thousand rubles. I shall be most grateful and honored if you will accept that sum from me.” So saying, he placed the envelope in my hand. Then with a brief salutation to Count Kamarowsky and another profound bow to me, he pleaded haste and withdrew.

A flush had mounted to the Count's temples.

“Who was that?” he asked in a harsh voice.

I mentioned Prilukoff's name, and Kamarowsky with knitted eyebrows exclaimed: “You must have very confidential relations with him, if he permits himself to give you ten thousand rubles.”

“Oh, no—no,” I stammered. “He is—he is only lending them to me. I shall pay them back, of course—”

Kamarowsky had risen from his chair. He took both my hands and pressed them to his breast.

“How wrong of you! How wrong! Why did you not ask me? Have you no confidence in me? How can you accept assistance from a stranger when I am here—I, who am so devoted to you?”

I know not why I burst into tears. A sense of shame and degradation overcame me. In a moment his arms were round me.

“Dearest, sweetest, do not cry. I know you must feel humiliated at accepting money from that man, who may afterwards make all kinds of claims upon you. Return the money to him, I implore you, and accept it from me.”

I could not answer for my tears.

“Promise me that you will give it back,” Kamarowsky went on, clasping me closer to him. “If you refuse me this favor I shall go away and you shall never see me again. For the sake of our Emilia—for the sake of little Grania—accept it from me. And let me be your friend from now on and forever.”

It took a long time to reconcile me to the sense of my own debasement.

He wrote out a check to me for ten thousand rubles and put it into my hands. He closed my fingers forcibly over it, pressing them closely and thanking me in a moved voice.

Then he went away, and I was left alone with the check and Prilukoff's sealed envelope.

I had wanted five thousand rubles and here I was with twenty thousand before me!

Poor, good Kamarowsky! And poor, dear, kind Prilukoff!

“I do not see why I should really return this to Prilukoff!” I said to myself.

I broke the seals and opened the envelope that he had presented to me with so much solemnity. Petrified with astonishment I gazed at its contents. Then I laughed softly.

“On the whole, I think I will return it,” I said, and laid the envelope aside.

It was full of old newspaper cuttings!

XXV

Facilis descensus Averni.

My downfall was rapid and irretrievable.

I soon became familiar with expedients and intrigues, I trod the tortuous paths that lead down into the valley of dishonor. For the outside world I might still appear a person of distinction, I might still call myself the Countess Tarnowska, but I had ceased to be that simple, ordinary, peerless being—an honest woman. I seemed to be surrounded by that peculiar atmosphere which envelops the adventuress as in an invisible mist—that imperceptible emanation by which persons of repute are instinctively repelled, and which draws within its ambit the idler and adventurer, the depredator and outcast of society.

I had accepted money to which I had no claim. From this want of dignity to the want of rectitude how brief is the step! Between indiscretion and transgression how uncertain is the boundary! And suddenly there comes a day when one awakes to find oneself—a criminal!

Ah, then we stop short in horror. We look back and see the abyss, the impassable gulf that henceforward separates us from the distant, candid summits of innocence. How has it been possible for us to travel along that vertiginous road which knows no return? What evil spirits have bandaged our eyes, have placed for our feet bridges and stepping stones so that almost without noticing it we have crossed ravines and precipices which never in this life we may traverse again? We can but go forward and downward: we can turn back no more.

Not at this period did I realize the irrevocable character of the fate I had chosen. Rather did I seem to perceive a new life opening out before me, leading me back once more to rectitude and honor, a return to that peaceful, conventional existence so often scorned by those who lead it, so bitterly regretted and desired by those who have forfeited and forsaken it.

Prilukoff still held me bound to him by the triple bonds of gratitude, of affection and of complicity. But Count Kamarowsky was swaying me towards a brighter and securer future. My marriage with Vassili, so long merely an empty and nominal tie, was about to be dissolved by a decree from the Holy Synod, and Kamarowsky implored me to marry him. His sadness and the loneliness of his little son moved me deeply; the thought of bringing light and joy into their lives was unspeakably sweet to me, while for my part I rejoiced to think that by the side of a worthy and honorable man I might take my place in the world once more, rehabilitated and redeemed. With Prilukoff, as I could see, downfall and ruin were imminent. He had left Moscow for a few days; but he would return, and alas! he would resume his dominion over me. I knew that with him the ultimate plunge into dishonor was inevitable.

And so with bitter tears of repentance, clasping the two fair heads of Tioka and Grania to my breast, I vowed to Heaven that I would be to them both a tender and a faithful mother, worthy of the lofty duty that by Divine grace was to be once more assigned to me.

Count Kamarowsky's gratitude and joy were boundless.

“You are giving back life to me,” he said, his kind eyes shining with emotion. “I do not feel worthy of so much happiness.”

“Don't, don't!” I said, turning away my face and flushing deeply at the thought of my recent unprincipled life. “It is I, I who am unworthy—”

But Kamarowsky interrupted me.

“Hush, Marie, hush. I know that you have suffered much and that you have been led astray. But let the dead past bury the past. All I ask of you is the pure white page of the future.”

“You are generous, you are kind,” I said, and tears burned in my eyes. “But let me tell you, let me tell you all—”

“Mura,” he said, calling me by the tender pet-name of my childhood, “do not raise impassable barriers between us. What I have no knowledge of does not exist so far as I am concerned. The unknown is but a shadow; and I am not afraid of shadows. But if to that shadow you give a living shape and a name, it will rise between you and me, and I shall not be able to clasp you in my arms until I have destroyed it. Speak if you must. But, for our happiness, it were far better for you to keep silence—and to forget.”

“Ah, you are right! Let there be no more sorrow, no more tragedies around me. Take me away from Moscow, away from all who know me. I will keep silence, and forget.”

Our departure from Moscow was like a flight. I left a letter for Prilukoff, entreating him to forgive and forget me, begging him not to debar me from taking my way again towards safety and rehabilitation. I expressed to him my sympathy, my gratitude and regret; and I implored him in the name of all that he still held dear or sacred to return to his family and to his career, to the lofty and straightforward course of honor from which I, unhappy creature that I was, had unwittingly, unwillingly turned him aside.

Kamarowsky took us to the Riviera—from the snows of the north to the fragrant orange-groves of Nice and Hyères. The tinkling of sleighs gliding through the blue-cold streets of Moscow still seemed to ring in my ears when, lo! the lazy, sun-warm silence of the south enwrapped my senses in its languorous sweetness. The two children, dazed with the heat and the blueness around them, stood in amazement, with hands clasped and mouths open, at the sight of the golden oranges and the huge foliage of cacti and aloes, thinking that by some wonder-working charm they had been carried into fairyland.

The distant sails, aslant on the radiant indigo of the sea, looked like white butterflies poised on a stupendous flower of lapis lazuli....

For three brief days I thought that fate had not overtaken me, and that my sins would not find me out.

My sins! As in the old German fable the children are led into the depths of a forest, and left there to be lost and forgotten—even so did I think that my sins would be lost and forgotten, even so did I think that they would never issue again from the shade in which I had hidden them.

Smiling, I moved forward to meet the future, exalted by the affection of an honorable man, purified by the love of two innocent children.

And I said in my heart: “Fate is pitiful and God has shown mercy. He has suspended His judgment and has allowed me one last chance. I shall not be found wanting; I shall be worthy of His clemency.”

Then lo! at a turning in my pathway, the forgotten avengers stand before me; my sins, like spectral furies, have found me out!

We were finishing dinner on the terrace of the Bellevue at Hyères, my betrothed and I. The children had said good night, had kissed and embraced us and run off, chattering and twittering with Elise, to their rooms. Kamarowsky had just lit a cigarette, and was leaning over to me with a word of tenderness, when I perceived immediately behind him at a neighboring table—a face, a grinning, fiendish face.

My heart bounded. It was the Scorpion!

Why was it that name that first rushed to my mind? Why was my primitive sense of fear and repulsion renewed at the sight of him?

Ah, that man staring and grimacing at me over Kamarowsky's shoulder was not the friend, the lover, the knight of the heroic Saga whom I had known and trusted in my days of desolation; no, he was the terrifying and truculent monster of the octopus story; he was the Scorpion who years ago had filled my soul with dread.

When had he come? How long had he been sitting at that table, watching my garrulous gladness, my timorous, reawakened happiness?

XXVI

I glanced at him apprehensively; I tried to greet him, but he made no return to my timid salute. He was smiling with a crooked mouth, his arms crossed before him on the table. He was mocking at Kamarowsky and at me, and my terror seemed greatly to amuse him.

I rose nervously, wishing to retire, but Kamarowsky detained me.

“What is troubling you, dearest?” he asked, noticing my frightened eyes. And he turned to see what was behind him.

I trembled in prevision of a stormy scene. But the Count did not recognize Prilukoff; he had only seen him once for a few moments that evening in my drawing-room when he had brought me the mysterious sealed envelope. Now Donat had his hat on his head; and besides, with that sinister smirk distorting his face I scarcely recognized him myself.

As soon as we rose from the table, Prilukoff did the same, and passing in front of us entered the hotel before we did. I trembled, while Kamarowsky with his arm in mine led me, talking placidly and affectionately, towards the entrance of the hotel. Doubtless he intended to accompany me to my sitting-room. But what if we found Prilukoff there?

It was Elise Perrier who saved me. As we stepped out of the lift I saw her coming quickly down the corridor to meet us.

“If you please, madame,” she stammered, “there is a lady—a visitor”—her lips were white as she uttered the falsehood—“who wishes to see madame. She is waiting here, in the sitting-room, and she would like to—to see your ladyship alone.”

“Who is it?” asked the Count.

“I think it is the—that relation of madame's”—Elise was going red and white by turns—“that relation from—from Otrada.”

“Ah, I know,” I stammered breathlessly. “Aunt Sonia, perhaps.” Then turning to Kamarowsky: “Will you wait for me downstairs in the reading-room?”

“Very well. Don't be long.” And Count Kamarowsky turned on his heel and left us.

I went rapidly on in front of Elise, who, humiliated by the falsehood she had told, hung her head in shame both for herself and for me; and I entered my sitting-room.

On the couch, smoking a cigarette, sat Prilukoff. He did not rise when I entered. He sat there smoking and looking at me with that curious crooked smile. A great fear clutched my heart.

“Donat,” I stammered, “why did you not let me know you had arrived?”

He made no answer; but he laughed loudly and coarsely, and my fear of him increased.

“Did you receive my letter? Are you cross with me?”

“Cross?” he shouted, leaping to his feet, his eyes glaring like those of a madman. “Cross? No, I am not cross.” I recoiled from him in terror, but he followed me, pushing his distorted face close to mine. “You ruin a man, you drive him to perdition, and then you inquire whether he is cross. You take an honorable man in your little talons, you turn and twist him round your fingers, you mold him and transform him and turn him into a coward, a rogue, and a thief; then you throw him aside like a dirty rag—and you ask him if he is cross! Ha, ha!” And he laughed in my face; he was ghastly to look at, livid in hue, with a swollen vein drawn like a cord across his forehead.

I burst into tears. “Why—why do you say that?” I sobbed.

“Why do I say that?” stormed Prilukoff. “Why? Because I had a wife and I betrayed her for you; I had two children and I forsook them for you; I had a career and I lost it for you; I was a man of honor and I have turned thief for you.”

“Oh, no, no!” I stammered, terrified.

“What? No? No?” he exclaimed, and with trembling hands he searched his breast-pocket and drew from it a bulky roll of banknotes. “No? This I stole—and this—and this—and this—because you, vampire that you are, needed money.”

“But I never told you to steal—”

“No, indeed; you never told me to steal. And where was I to get the money from? Where? Where?” So saying, he flung the banknotes in my face and they fell all over and around me. “You did not tell me to steal, no. But you wanted money, money, money. And now you have got it. Take it, take it, take it!”

I sobbed despairingly. “Oh, no, no, Donat! Have pity!”

“I have had pity,” he shouted. “I have always had pity—nothing but pity. You were ill and miserable and alone, and I left my home in order to stay with you. You wept, and I comforted you. You had no money, and I stole it for you. How could I have more pity?” He was himself in tears. “And now, because I am degraded and a criminal on your account, you leave me, you fling me aside and you marry an honest man. And I may go to perdition or to penal servitude.”

“Do not speak like that, I implore you.”

“Ah, but Countess Tarnowska, if I go to penal servitude, so shall you. I swear it. I am a thief and may become a murderer; but if I go to prison, you go too.” He collapsed upon the sofa and hid his face in his hands.

As I stood looking down upon him I saw as in a vision the somber road to ruin that this man had traversed for my sake, and I fell on my knees at his feet.

“Donat! Donat! Do not despair. Forgive me, forgive me! Go back, and return the money you have taken; go back and become an honest man again!”

He raised a haggard face in which his wild, bloodshot eyes seemed almost phosphorescent.

“There is no going back. By this time all Moscow knows that I have absconded, and carried off with me the money that was confided to my care.”

“But if you go back at once and return it?”

“I am ruined all the same. I am utterly lost and undone. Who would ever place their trust in me again? Who would ever rely upon my honor? No, I am a criminal, and every one knows it. The brand of infamy is not to be cancelled by a flash of tardy remorse. I am done for. I am a thief, and that is all there is about it.”

A thief! I had never seen a thief. In my imagination thieves were all slouching, unkempt roughs, with caps on their heads, and colored handkerchiefs tied round their throats. And here was this gentleman in evening dress—this gentleman who had been introduced to me as a celebrated and impeccable lawyer, who had been my lover, and Tioka's friend, and Elise's Lohengrin—and he was a thief!

I could not believe it.

At that moment a voice was heard outside. It was one of the bell-boys of the hotel; he was passing through the corridor calling: “Forty-seven! Number forty-seven.”

Prilukoff started. “Forty-seven? That is the number of my room. Who can be asking for me? Who can know that I am here?”

In his eyes there was already the look of the fugitive, the startled flash of fear and defiance of the hunted quarry.

I looked round me at all the banknotes scattered on the carpet, and I felt myself turn cold. “Hide them, hide them,” I whispered, wringing my hands.

“Hide them yourself!” he answered scornfully.

I heard footsteps in the corridor. They drew near. They stopped. Some one knocked at the door. Terror choked my throat and made my knees totter.

I stooped in haste to pick up all the money while Prilukoff still looked at me without moving. I held it out to him in a great heap of crumpled paper. But still he did not stir.

Again the knocking was repeated. Who could it be? Kamarowsky? The police? I opened a desk and flung the bundle of banknotes into it.

Then I said, “Come in.”