III
THE VIRGIN WITH THE LAMP
Whatever Marie Zerkovitch's feelings might be, Fate had its hand on herand turned her to its uses. It was she who had directed Sophy's steps tothe old house ten doors down the Street of the Fountain from St.Michael's Square. It was no more than half a mile from her own villa onthe south boulevard (from which the Street ran to the Square), and shehad long known the decent old couple--German Jews--who lived and carriedon their trade in the house over whose front hung the sign of the SilverCock. The face of the building was covered with carved timbers of greatage; the door of the shop stood far back within a black and ancientporch. Behind the shop were a couple of rooms where Meyerstein and hiswife lived; above it one large room, with a window which jutted far outover the narrow street. In this room, which was reached by a separatedoor in the left side of the porch and a crazy flight of a dozen windingstairs, lived Sophy, and thence she sallied out daily to give herlessons to her two pupils.
By the window she sat on the night of the King's name-day, on a lowchair. The heavy figure of a girl carrying a lamp--a specimen of herlandlord's superfluous stock--stood unemployed on the window-sill. Theroom was dark, for the path of light from the illuminations, which madethe roadway below white, threw hardly a gleam on to its sombre walls;but Sophy had no need of a lamp and every need to save her money. Shesat in the gloom, busy in thought, the fresh evening air breathing softand cool on her brow from the open window.
Swift to build on slenderest foundations, avid to pile imagination onimagination till the unsubstantial structure reached the skies, her mindwas at work to-night. The life and stir, the heat and tumult, of thecity, were fuel to her dreams. Chances and happenings were all abouther; they seemed to lie, like the water for Tantalus, just beyond thereach of her finger-tips; her eyes pierced to the vision of them throughthe dusky blackness of the ancient room. In response to the confused yetclamorous cry of the life around her, her spirit awoke. Dead were thedear dead; but Sophy was alive. But to be a starving French mistress atSlavna--was that a chance? Yes, a better than being cook-maid atMorpingham; and even in the kitchen at Morpingham Fortune had found herand played with her awhile. For such frolics and such favor, howeverfickle, however hazardous, Sophy Grouch of Morpingham was ever ready.Dunstanbury had come to Morpingham--and Lady Meg. Paris had brought thesweet hours and the gracious memory of Casimir de Savres. Should Slavnalag behind? Who would come now? Ever the highest for Sophy Grouch! Thevision of the royal escort and its pale young leader flashed in thedarkness before her eagerly attendant eyes.
Suddenly she raised her head. There was a wild, quick volley ofcheering; it came from the Golden Lion, whose lights across the Square asideways craning of her neck enabled her to see. Then there was silencefor minutes. Again the sound broke forth, and with it confused shoutingsof a name she could not make out. Yes--what was it? Mistitch--Mistitch!That was her first hearing of the name.
Silence fell again, and she sank back into her chair. The lights, thestir, the revelry were not for her, nor the cheers nor the shouts. Amoment of reaction and lassitude came on her, a moment when the present,the actual, lapped her round with its dim, muddy flood of vulgarnecessity and sordid needs. With a sob she bowed her head to meet herhands--a sob that moaned a famine of life, of light, of love. "Go backto your scullery, Sophy Grouch!" What voice had said that? She sprang toher feet with fists clinched, and whispered to the darkness: "No!"
In the street below, Mistitch slapped his thigh.
Sophy pushed her hair back from her heated forehead and looked out ofthe window. To the right, some twenty yards away and just at the end ofthe street, she saw the figures of three men. In the middle was one whobulked like a young Falstaff--Falstaff with his paunch not grown; he wasflanked by two lean fellows who looked small beside him. She could notsee the faces plainly, since the light from the Square was behind them.They seemed to be standing there and looking past the sign of the SilverCock along the street.
A measured, military footfall sounded on her left. Turning her head, shesaw a young man walking with head bent down and arms behind him. Theline of light struck full on him, he was plain to see as by broadestday. He wore a costume strange to her eyes--a black sheepskin cap, asheepskin tunic, leather breeches, and high, unpolished boots--a rough,plain dress; yet a broad, red ribbon crossed it, and a star glittered onthe breast; the only weapon was a short, curved scimitar. It was theancient costume of the Bailiff of Volseni, the head of that clan ofshepherds who pastured their flocks on the uplands. The Prince of Slavnaheld the venerable office, and had been to Court in the dressappropriate to it. He had refused to use his carriage, sending hisaides-de-camp home in it, and walked now through the streets of the citywhich he had in charge. It was constantly his habit thus to walk; hisfriends praised his vigilance; his foes reviled his prowling, spyingtricks; of neither blame nor praise did he take heed.
Sophy did not know the dress, but the face she knew; it had been butlately before her dreaming eyes; she had seen it in the flesh thatmorning from the terrace of the Hotel de Paris.
The three came on from her right, one of the lean men hanging back,lurking a little behind. They were under her window now. The Prince wasbut a few yards away. Suddenly he looked up with a start--he had becomeaware of their approach. But before he saw them the three had melted toone. With a shrill cry of consternation--of uneasy courage oozingout--Rastatz turned and fled back to the Square, heading at his topspeed for the Golden Lion. In the end he was unequal to the encounter.Sterkoff, too, disappeared; but Sophy knew the meaning of that; he hadslipped into the shelter of the porch. Her faculties were alert now; shewould not forget where Sterkoff was! Mistitch stood alone in the centreof the narrow street, his huge frame barely leaving room for a man topass on either side.
For a moment the Prince stood still, looking at the giant. Incredulityhad seemed to show first in his eyes; it changed now to a cold anger ashe recognized the Captain. He stepped briskly forward, and Sophy heardhis clear, incisive tones cut the air:
"What extraordinary emergency has compelled you to disobey my orders,Captain Mistitch?"
"I wanted a breath of fresh air," Mistitch answered, in an easy,insolent tone.
The Prince looked again; he seemed even more disgusted than angry now.He thought Mistitch drunk--more drunk than in truth he was.
"Return to barracks at once and report yourself under stringent arrest.I will deal with you to-morrow."
"And not to-night, Sergius Stefanovitch?" At least he was being as goodas his word, he was acting up to the vaunts he had thrown out so boldlyin the great hall of the Golden Lion.
"To-morrow we shall both be cooler." He was almost up to Mistitch now."Stand out of my way, sir."
Mistitch did not budge. "There's room for you to pass by," he said. "Iwon't hurt you. But the middle of the road belongs to me to-night."
His voice seemed to grow clearer with every word; the critical encounterwas sobering him. Yet with sobriety came no diminution of defiance.Doubtless he saw that he was in for the worst now, that forward was theword, and retreat impossible. Probably from this moment he did notintend the Prince to pass alive. Well, what he intended was the wish ofmany; he would not lack shelter, friends, or partisans if he dared thedesperate venture. Be it said for him that there were few things he didnot dare. He dared now, growing sober, to stand by what the fumes ofwine had fired his tongue to.
For a moment after the big man's taunt the Prince stood motionless. Thenhe drew his scimitar. It looked a poor, weak weapon against the swordwhich sprang in answer from Mistitch's scabbard.
"A duel between gentlemen!" the Captain cried.
The Prince gave a short laugh. "You shall have no such plea at thecourt-martial," he said. "Gentlemen don't waylay one another in thestreets. Stand aside!"
Mistitch laughed, and in an instant the Prince sprang at him. Sophyheard the blades meet. Strong as death was the fascination for hereyes--ay, for her ears, too, for she heard the quick-moving feet and
thequicker breathing of a mortal combat. But she would not look--she triednot even to listen. Her eyes were for a man she could not see, her earsfor a man she could not hear. She remembered the lean fellow hidden inthe porch, straight under her window. She dared not call to warn thePrince of him; a turn of the head, a moment of inattention, would costeither combatant his life. She took the man in the porch for her ownadversary, his undoing for her share in the fight.
Very cautiously, making no sound, she took the heavy lamp--the massivebronze figure of the girl--raised it painfully in both her hands, andpoised it half-way over the window-sill. Then she turned her eyes downagain to watch the mouth of the porch. Her rat was in that hole! Yetsuddenly the Prince came into her view; he circled half-way roundMistitch, then sank on one knee; she heard him guard the Captain'slunges with lightning-quick movements of his nimble scimitar. He wastrying the old trick they had practised for hundreds of years atVolseni--to follow his parry with an upward-ripping stroke under theadversary's sword, to strike the inner side of his forearm and cut thetendons of the wrist. This trick big Captain Mistitch, a man of theplains, did not know.
A jangle--a slither--a bellow of pain, of rage! The Prince had made hisstroke, the hill-men of Volseni were justified of their pupil.Mistitch's big sword clattered on the flags. Facing his enemy, with hisback to the porch, the Prince crouched motionless on his knee; but itwas death to Mistitch to try to reach the sword with his unmaimed hand.
It was Sophy's minute; the message that it had come ran fierce throughall her veins. Straining to the weight, she raised the figure in herhands and leaned out of the window. Yes, a lean hand with a long knife,a narrow head, a spare, long back, crept out of the darkness of theporch--crept silently. The body drew itself together for a fatal springon the unconscious Prince, for a fatal thrust. It would be death--and toMistitch salvation torn from the jaws of ruin.
"Surrender yourself, Captain Mistitch," said the Prince.
Mistitch's eyes went by his conqueror and saw a shadow on the pathbeside the porch.
"I surrender, sir," he said.
"Then walk before me to the barracks." Mistitch did not turn. "At once,sir!"
"Now!" Mistitch roared.
The crouching figure sprang--and with a hideous cry fell stricken on theflags. Just below the neck, full on the spine, had crashed the Virginwith the lamp. Sterkoff lay very still, save that his fingers scratchedthe flags. Turning, the Prince saw a bronze figure at his feet, a bronzefigure holding a broken lamp. Looking up, he saw dimly a woman's whiteface at a window.
Then the street was on a sudden full of men. Rastatz had burst into theGolden Lion, all undone--nerves, courage, almost senses gone. He couldstammer no more than: "They'll fight!" and could not say who. But he hadgone out with Mistitch--and whom had they gone to meet?
A dozen officers were round him in an instant, crying: "Where? Where?"He broke into frightened sobs, hiding his face in his hands. It was Maxvon Hollbrandt who made him speak. Forgetting his pretty friend, hesprang in among the officers, caught Rastatz by the throat, and put arevolver to his head. "Where? In ten seconds--where?" Terror beatterror. "The Street of the Fountain--by the Silver Cock!" the curstammered, and fell to his blubbering again.
The dozen officers, and more, were across the Square almost before hehad finished; Max von Hollbrandt, with half the now lessened company inthe inn, was hot on their heels.
For that night all was at an end. Sterkoff was picked up, unconsciousnow. Sullen, but never cringing, Mistitch was marched off to theguard-room and the surgeon's ministrations. Every soldier was ordered tohis quarters, the townsfolk slunk off to their homes. The street grewempty, the glare of the illuminations was quenched. But of all thisSophy saw nothing. She had sunk down in her chair by the window, and laythere, save for her tumultuous breathing, still as death.
The Commandant had no fear, and would have his way. He stood alone nowin the street, looking from the dark splash of Mistitch's blood to theVirgin with her broken lamp, and up to the window of the Silver Cock,whence had come salvation.