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CHAPTER XXIX

Michel Prevost met D'Estreville by appointment at a café. "There is no one I can talk to about certain matters so readily as yourself," the Baron had said, and Michel replied, laughing, "Oh, if you are going to sigh and mourn over this little Dupré I think I will leave you to lament alone!"

Nevertheless D'Estreville begged him to come, and he went.

The attitude of old Dupré had put Louise into a doubly awkward position. "What shall I do, Marie—help me!" Louise had entreated her sister. "Henri must be told that I am alive, that is certain; yet when he learns that my father deceived him he will be so angry with my father that I do not know what may happen."

"Bah!" said Marie, "he will be so happy to learn that you are alive, that he will forget everything else. Moreover, he is not so foolish that he would take my father seriously."

"But father takes himself so seriously; he is determined to quarrel. Moreover, when Henri learns that I am alive he must also learn that I have masqueraded as a man, among men, and that is what I dare not tell him. It is an impasse."

"As you have put it, it is an impasse. But why dare you not tell him?"

"I am ashamed. There was a tale told in Moscow of a young Russian woman who had taken part in every battle in the campaign, her name was Nadejda Doorova. The soldiers in my regiment said horrible things about her. It is not likely that Henri would think well of my performance. It is not every one who is like my father and yourself, who have his blood in your veins."

"Bah! he will, as I say, be so thankful to find you alive that he will forget all this. Shall I go to him, sister, and tell him your story?"

"Heaven forbid, do nothing; no one shall tell him my tale but I myself."

"Tell him of this Russian girl and see what he says to the story," Marie suggested.

"But what if he disapproved of it and said something so cruel about her that I dare not tell him afterwards of my own escapade? I wish now I had not done it, Marie, indeed I do, except that your Karl was left to you instead of being carried off to the war."

"If he loves you he will forgive ten times more," said Marie. "Go to him boldly, sister, go as Michel Prevost; say, 'Here, mourn no more for me, my friend, I am Louise and my old father is not to blame for the deception, for obviously no person can be two persons at the same time, and while I was Michel there could be no Louise. Now Michel has finished and Louise steps once more into being.'"

Louise laughed. "It sounds very foolish," she said, "but something of the kind must be done."

But when Michel Prevost found Henri d'Estreville at the rendezvous appointed she had evolved no clear plan for his enlightenment.

Henri began to speak of his trouble almost immediately. The more he thought about the matter, he said, the more amazed he was that a little love affair should have so transformed him that he could think of nothing else. "It is unlike me, therefore the experience is obviously a peculiar one: ergo, I conclude that I was for once seriously in love; which being so, what an atrocious trick fortune has played me. It is the last time, my friend, that I shall look at a woman!"

Michel contrived to direct the subject of conversation to the career of Nadejda Doorova, the Russian girl who had fought throughout the war as a Cossack soldier. Henri had not heard of her and displayed but little interest in her adventures.

"Bah!" he said, "she is an eccentric. It is the kind of thing old Pierre Dupré would have liked his daughters to do; old Pierre is mad. A woman must be wanting in modesty to unsex herself thus."

"Oh!" exclaimed Michel involuntarily; his heart sank. "Let us be just to her," he murmured; "who knows, she may have had some good reason of which we know nothing, this Nadejda; her lover, maybe, went to the war and she could not bear to be parted."

"That would perhaps excuse her to a certain extent," said Henri wearily. He was not in the least interested in the conversation.

In despair, Louise tried another tack. She had determined to come to an understanding this day, nothing could be done without risk.

"D'Estreville—will you promise not to be angry if I make a communication to you—it is about Louise Dupré?"

Henri was all attention in a moment.

"About Louise?" he repeated. "What can you have to say about her—and why should I be angry? I wish you to talk of her."

"It may be different this time. I shall hope that you will not be angry. You may have observed, my friend, that when you told me your story a few days since I was greatly astounded to hear of her death, Louise Dupré's death."

"Naturally, I hope you were shocked, if only for the sake of your friend, who loved her."

"Monsieur, prepare yourself for a surprise greater than my own. You have been deceived."

"Deceived?" Henri started from his chair. "How deceived, by whom?"

"Be calm, dear friend, and sit down. It is about Louise. I have come this day to tell you the truth; Louise did not die as you were told." Henri sat down suddenly; his face paled, then flushed.

"Stop—she did not die—is she then still alive? for God's sake speak plainly, Michel."

"She is not dead."

"Then to what end was I deceived? For whose sake was I to be kept in ignorance? Is it for yours, Michel? I remember that you said there was no woman worth breaking one's heart over, if she should prove false or die. What have you done, Michel—what have you done?"

"You rave, D'Estreville," said Louise, growing a little frightened.

"No, I am sane; I know what I say; did you not tell me you believed that I was dead? Believing this you delivered my message to Louise and that was the beginning. Since then the false wench has learned to prefer Michel living to Henri dead—is it not so? Come, confess, Michel."

"You are very swift to find fault with the woman you profess to love, Monsieur le Baron," said Louise, somewhat alarmed at the turn the conversation had taken, yet indignant withal.

"Ah, you prevaricate! I have guessed rightly. So this is your friendship for me, Monsieur Michel Prevost—a worthy friend in truth and indeed!"

"Monsieur le Baron jumps to conclusions," said Louise. "Moreover, seeing that the message was to be delivered to the lady in case of your death, and seeing that you were believed to be dead, should I be to blame even though it were so as you have said?"

"Ha! you assured yourself very quickly of my decease; and she, too, by all the Saints she has wasted no time!"

"Monsieur le Baron is so angry that he will not listen to reason. It is easy for him to see this lady."

"Not I!" cried Henri; "I will see her no more."

"But what if you suspect her unjustly?"

"Then why was I deceived and told that she was dead? She was 'dead to me,' that is the explanation. She is not dead to others—to you, for instance, her new lover—oh Lord, Michel, a pretty messenger thou hast been!"

"A worse than the Baron supposes," Michel laughed nervously, "for his message was never delivered."

"What! though you believed me dead? Then indeed, my friend, you have been little better than a traitor."

"It seems you are determined to quarrel with me, say what I will; if I delivered the message it was in order to found a courtship of my own upon it; if I did not I am a traitor. Nevertheless I will not quarrel, my friend. It was not I that deceived you, remember, but I that undeceived you. Was it not Monsieur Dupré who declared that his daughter was dead? Then why am I to be quarrelled with?"

"Because, my friend, I believe you to have been a party to the deception, for a certain end of your own which I have indicated."

"Then your wrath is expended upon wind, for I swear to you that though, I confess, this lady is more to me than any woman in the world–"

"Aha! listen to him!" Henri raved.

"And though I am well aware that she is not wholly indifferent to my virtues–"

"By Heaven, Michel, you are a bold man!" cried Henri, fingering his sword hilt; "finish your sentence; I will judge whether our rapiers shall settle this matter."

"Yet I would not marry the girl for all the wealth of India, nor she me. Moreover, I promise that Louise shall confirm my words. Henri, my friend, it is as her messenger I come this day. 'Bid him come to me'—that is her message."

"If it be so, Michel," began the Baron, his face instantly relaxing, "you shall bid me do penance for my suspicions; but if–"

"Nay, I weary of arguing, my friend; come to her quickly."

CHAPTER XXX

Henri d'Estreville lost no time in complying with the request conveyed in the message which Michel Prevost had brought him. He hastened to present himself at old Dupré's establishment, where he knocked—in his eagerness—with unnecessary vigour, rousing old Dupré from a nap as he lay in bed, still a victim to the stiffness of his joints, brought about by his practice with the foils in preparation for an imaginary duel.

Marie opened the door.

"Mon Dieu! it is Monsieur le Baron!" she exclaimed, flushing.

"Yes, it is I," replied Henri; "I have found that on my last visit, Madame, I was disgracefully deceived as to the pretended death of your sister; I have come to see Mademoiselle Louise, and also to receive an explanation of the deception to which I was made a victim."

"Monsieur, I will fetch Louise, let her explain," Marie murmured; "there are circumstances which Louise will explain better than I; Monsieur will understand and forgive."

"Good; I will see Louise—fetch her quickly."

Henri waited in the salon. He was strangely agitated. He did not half comprehend all that Michel had said; for Michel's connection with Louise seemed mysterious and incomprehensible; he professed to love Louise, yet, he had declared, he did not desire to marry her. "Either the fellow is mad," Henri reflected, "or he has discovered that Louise already loves me, in which case she might have chosen another messenger! Soon I shall know whether Louise indeed loves me. Mon Dieu, if she does not, after all this, I know not what shall happen." Henri strode up and down the room, scarcely able to contain his excitement, it was most inconsiderate of Louise to keep him waiting so long—what did it mean?

"She adorns herself; that is what it means!" Henri reflected; "it is only natural that she should desire to look her best; it is only what every woman would do."

In this conjecture Henri was not far wrong.

Upstairs in old Dupré's bedroom there had been scarcely less excitement than below in the salon.

"Well, who was it that knocked so loudly?" cried old Dupré, as Marie presently appeared after opening the front door to admit the visitor.

"Mon père, do not be agitated, it is the Baron d'Estreville," said Marie, hesitating.

"Ah—ah! I thought it! I knew it! and he has demanded satisfaction of me, and awaits me below, is it not so?" The old man struggled to get out of bed, but his daughters restrained him.

"Calm yourself, my father," said Marie; "he has not demanded satisfaction. He has, however, discovered that Louise is still alive and desires explanations of the deceit of which he was a victim."

"There! What said I? Was I not right? Let me rise—I will rise, I say, Marie; I am ready; the necessary explanations I shall give; he shall have them at the rapier's point. Out of my way—thanks be to the Seigneur that I shall yet fight another fight before I die!"

"My father, you cannot—you are stiff—it is impossible," Marie protested; but the irate old man shook her off and sprang out of bed. But the exertion gave him so agonising a twinge in all his muscles that he uttered a cry of pain and collapsed in a sitting position upon his bed.

"Morbleu!" he groaned, "it is anguish to move my limbs. What is to be done? He shall postpone the meeting until I can walk. One week will suffice. Go down—tell him so, Marie."

The old man almost wept for chagrin and disappointment.

"Nay, I dare not go," said Marie. "It is Louise that he would see, not me; I fear his anger if I should appear and not Louise."

"Alas, Marie, that I should be the parent of a coward," Dupré groaned. "Do you not see that it is inadvisable that Louise and this man should meet? Have you forgotten the foolishness that he uttered concerning your sister? Louise shall live to be a Marshal of France, yet this fool would persuade her, if he could, to waste the glory of a career in silly dreams of love—drag her down to the level of the sex from which, by her splendid achievement, she has emancipated herself! Speak, Louise—repudiate this folly—assert yourself!"

"Mon père, it may be that Louise, like myself, possesses the instincts of a woman," said Marie, fighting on her sister's behalf; "be not hard upon her; maybe–"

"Let me speak, Marie," said Louise. "Mon père, it is certain that this Baron d'Estreville must be very angry with us all, and wishes to fight. I have an idea. The Baron knows nothing of Michel Prevost, that he and I are one. He is determined, it seems, to see me. Send me with a message, that you will have no man but Prevost for a son-in-law, and that if the Baron would aspire to claim your daughter, he must fight this Michel Prevost for her. Now the Baron is but a poor fencer, and it is certain that I, as Michel, would soon better him in a set-to with our rapiers."

"Parbleu!" exclaimed old Dupré, "it is good—it is excellent! Sapristi, my daughter, you are a genius in diplomacy as well as in arms! Listen to her, Marie, and learn! And you would have set her down to become this wretched fellow's drudge. Mort de ma vie, Louise, I thank the Almighty that you are not as your sister would believe you to be! Yes, yes, go down, chérie, and arrange this matter—it is good! But stay, declare first that Marie has spoken nonsense—that you have forgotten your woman's instincts—that glory and the career come first in your estimation, that–"

"Father, at any rate I am not yet ready to be a woman; the time may come, soon or late, I will make no promises. At present let it be as I have said. The Baron is offended and would fight—volontiers! I am ready; he shall fight Michel for Louise!"

Louise laughed gaily and ran from the room. She hastened to her own chamber, where she quickly donned her own dress, the fencing costume of old days when she still acted as her father's assistant. All this occupied some time, and Henri's patience was almost exhausted when at last she opened the door and presented herself before him.

D'Estreville caught the girl in his arms and covered her face with kisses. Louise abandoned herself to his embraces, making no effort to resist, and conscious of no desire to do so. On the contrary, she felt in that precious moment that she wished for nothing better in this world, no greater happiness, no more perfect peace than to belong body and soul to this man. D'Estreville let her go presently.

"Thanks be to God, you love me then, after all," he murmured.

"Did you then doubt it?" she whispered.

"Louise, there have been doubts and mysteries; tell me, you are acquainted with one Michel Prevost?"

Louise flushed. "I know Michel very, very, very well," she replied, smiling.

"Come, explain—there is a mystery, but I think I have a clue! Confess, you have a brother or a near relation—now that I see you, I am impressed the more with the likeness between you and this good fellow! If I am wrong, then who—in Heaven's name—is this Prevost whom you know so well and who reminds me so strongly of you?"

"Not a brother—a relative, yes; he loves me, Henri—nay, do not speak—he loves you also, mon ami; he would not have us parted," Louise laughed hysterically. "Do not fear, he shall never be dearer to me than now, and that is not so dear as you, not by—oh, oh! so many miles!"

"I see—I see! Good; I am content. They told me you were dead, my beloved—imagine my despair. Why was I deceived?"

"My father will have no son-in-law but this Michel."

"Peste! So I must be deceived and sent into the fires of the nether regions!"

"My Henri, be calm and listen. My father sent me to you with a suggestion; you are to fight for me with this Michel–" Henri interrupted with a roar of laughter.

"Oh, oh! poor Michel! he is doomed! I shall fight like a fiend from hell, if it is for you, ma mie; moreover, he is—you say—on our side! What a foolish fight will this be!"

"Michel is a good fencer, he has few equals. What if he should slay you, my beloved, for—if I remember rightly—you have not more than a passable hand with the rapier."

"Bah! in such a cause I would overthrow even Louise herself," Henri laughed; "but will Michel fight?"

"It—it shall be arranged; he shall slip and you shall disarm him—neither shall be hurt." Louise blushed and became agitated. "Go down, chérie, to the salon d'armes, you know it of old, and there Michel shall meet you. Adieu, until—until Michel is overthrown."

Henri laughed and embraced the girl. "Adieu, then," he said, "until then—bid Michel be quick!"

The salon d'armes was empty when Henri entered it. He busied himself in examining and testing the rapiers upon the walls. A sound presently attracted his attention and he looked round.

Louise stood in the arena, rapier in hand; she wore her fencing dress; her face was crimson with blushes; she seemed too agitated to speak.

"What is this, chérie, where is Michel Prevost?" asked Henri.

Louise replied, murmuring so softly that he could scarcely catch her words.

"Michel is here," she whispered. "Oh, my beloved, are you so blind? Michel is here, but his uniform he will never wear again; oh, Henri be kind to me for the love of Heaven, for I am ashamed."

CHAPTER XXXI

The terrible war of 1812 was over, and Russia had shaken herself free of the last Frenchman. Already the Tsar Alexander had taken in hand preparations for the terrible vengeance which was to be exacted from his arch-enemy. Moscow was being rapidly rebuilt; the Russian workman, equipped with axe alone, is able to do wonders in the matter of building up a structure of wooden beams. In front of the Senate house was already beginning to accumulate that immense collection of cannon captured from or abandoned by the Grand Army, which may still be seen by visitors to the Kremlin. Of these nearly 370 are French, 190 Austrian, 120 Prussian, 50 from the German States, over 100 Italian and some 35 to 40 Spanish, Dutch and Polish; over 800 items of evidence to the anguish of the great retreat.

The prevailing sense throughout Russia was that of profound devotional gratitude to the God of Battles, not unmingled with a feeling of jubilant pride in the nation's prowess, and of passionate affection for the Tsar Alexander himself, whose courage and wisdom had shown themselves pre-eminent qualities from first to last, and of respect and admiration for those of his Generals, and for Count Rostopchin, Governor of Moscow, who had distinguished themselves in the defence of their beloved country.

Alexander himself was undoubtedly the hero of the hour. At the annual reception of the cadet corps in St. Petersburg, a function to which the reader of this history has been introduced on a former occasion, his advent was awaited with the greatest excitement. A laurel crown was to be laid at his feet by a deputation of beautiful women, of whom Vera was one. "Bozhé Tsaryá Chranee," the National Anthem, was to be sung by cadets and guests, as it had never been sung before; all the world was on the tiptoe of expectation.

Vera moved across the room, supporting upon her arm a limping, decrepit-looking figure, one of many who limped among the august company present that day. Old Countess Maximof sat and watched them. She nudged her nearest neighbour, a motherly old person dressed in gorgeous attire.

"See them—are they not a lovely pair?" she said. "It has taken me some time to forgive Vera the impropriety of remaining in Moscow throughout the trouble, but she has been so good to my Sasha that who could have held out for ever?" The other gazed at Vera through her double eyeglasses.

"Hah! remaining in Moscow! Many unkind things were said of her upon that account, I remember. She had friends among the French officers—old acquaintances in Paris—that was the chief indictment. That will all be forgiven and forgotten. Yes, she is beautiful. Your son might have done worse!"

Vera and Sasha talked and laughed together, they appeared to be radiantly happy.

"It is only four years ago that we met here," Vera whispered, "and at that time you were still a victim to the follies of cadetdom—do you remember how–"

"Shall I never be forgiven that expression?" Sasha laughed.

"Oh, droog moy, let us remember it to our everlasting gaiety; let us remember also how you had no leisure to be presented to your little fiancée; she was too young and too ugly, and Mademoiselle Kornilof was at the same time so fascinating; and oh, mon Dieu, the conceit of the good-looking cadet whom poor I was obliged to adore from afar!"

"Ah, you did not adore me, that is not true, dooshá moyá; come, confess that at that moment you detested me!"

"Perhaps I tried to think so; but there was a something deep down in my heart that was certainly not hatred. It has lurked there ever since. If you had shown a liking for me that day, it might never have existed, but when you gave me the cold shoulder it came and with it a kind of determination that you should repent in sackcloth and ashes; that you should sue–"

"Little tyrant! you exacted a terrible revenge! Oh, the hours of misery you have caused me, you and your French admirers."

"Ah! poor Paul!"

"Frankly, Vera, were you ever near to loving him?"

"Never so near as when he befriended you on the battlefield." Sasha's fingers closed tightly over his companion's arm. He had never thought it necessary to inform Vera that Paul had very nearly killed him before befriending him, nor did Vera ever learn that it was he who had dealt the blow which went so near to widowing her heart for ever.

Vera was much observed at this time. She was more beautiful than ever. Sorrow and suffering had added something to her loveliness. Her story was known to most of those present and rendered her an interesting personality, for the Russian dearly loves a romantic tale. This afternoon there were many lips that told of the baby-betrothal of these two, of Vera's Parisian experiences, of her patriotism, of her finding and nursing the Russian lover, her childhood's fiancé, and of his triumph over all rivals, French and otherwise.

Even the Tsar, when at last he made his triumphal entry into the hall and had received the laurel tribute prepared for him and listened to the splendid soulful rendering of the National Anthem, presently noticed the beautiful girl in constant attendance upon young Count Maximof, whom he knew.

"Who is she?" he asked—"she is beautifully dressed—one would say she was French—but her face is Russian, of our loveliest type."

"It is the daughter of Demidof, your Majesty's envoy at present at the Court of Sweden," the Tsar was informed.

"What, the beautiful Russian maiden who was said to have inflamed the hearts of half the youth of Paris?" the Tsar laughed. "Has she then decided, at last, in favour of a Russian admirer?"

"Not only so, Sire, but of one who was betrothed to her in childhood—perhaps your Majesty remembers the story. It was said that they had agreed to annihilate the contract entered into, perhaps, in a moment of conviviality by their respective fathers; but the end of the story is most romantic; the lady sought and found her lover upon the battlefield outside Moscow at the village of Pavlova; there she nursed him back to life, and—at his request, for he believed himself to be dying—actually married him as he lay gasping in a peasants hut."

"Chort Vosmee!" laughed the Tsar, "that is a good story; what, and they have not disagreed, since he recovered? That kind of marriage might prove a more serious matter than the foolish betrothal contract!"

"They seem good friends, Sire, if one may judge from appearances!" said the other.

Afterwards Vera, to her astonishment and delight, though perhaps also somewhat to her consternation, was informed by his aide-de-camp that the Tsar would dance with her.

She went through the ordeal of that stately quadrille excellently well, however, entertaining and delighting the Tsar with an account of how Sasha had stolen a march upon her by persuading her to marry him as he lay dying—which she did, she explained, to oblige a friend—afterwards recovering when he certainly had no right to do so.

"You are caught now, Madame," said the Tsar; "will the caged bird beat herself against the bars of her prison?"

"Your Majesty must ask me a year hence," Vera laughed; "at present I am a new toy, and my jailer is content to play with me!" The Tsar laughed again.

"By the Saints, Madame, if he should show signs of falling short in his appreciation of his good fortune, you shall tell me and he shall be sent to Siberia. Such a man would deserve his fate."

"It may be, your Majesty, that he married me out of patriotic motives in order to prevent my falling into French hands."

"Good—good! it was a worthy act and shall be rewarded," said the Tsar, smiling kindly. "Adieu, Madame; we shall meet again I trust."

On the following morning Vera received a beautiful present from his Majesty: an order, the collar of St. Anne, commonly known in Russia as "Annooshka na shay". The gold cross attached to the collar was inscribed "For Patriotism".

Sasha at the same time obtained, what was at the moment the object of every young Russian officer's ambition, a captain's commission in the new regiment of Imperial Guards lately organised by his Majesty. Not long after this Vera received a letter from Paris. It was brought by hand by a Russian prisoner returning to his native country. The packet contained a gilt-edged card, upon which was printed:—