IV
THE MESSAGE OF THE NIGHT
The last of the transparencies died out; the dim and infrequentoil-lamps alone lit up the Street of the Fountain and St. Michael'sSquare. They revelled still down at the Hotel de Paris, whither Max vonHollbrandt and a dozen others had hurried with the news of the evening'sgreat event. But here, on the borders of the old north quarter, all grewstill--the Golden Lion empty, the townsmen to their beds, the soldiersto barracks, full of talk and fears and threats. Yet a light burnedstill in the round room in the keep of Suleiman's Tower, and theCommandant's servant still expected his royal master. Peter Vassip, asturdy son of Volseni, had no apprehensions--but he was very sleepy, andhe and the sentries were the only men awake. "One might as well be asoldier at once!" he grumbled--for the men of the hills did not esteemthe Regular Army so high as it rated itself.
The Commandant lingered in the Street of the Fountain. SergiusStefanovitch was half a Bourbon, but it was the intellectual half. Hehad the strong, concentrated, rather narrow mind of a Bourbon of beforethe family decadence; on it his training at Vienna had grafted amilitary precision, perhaps a pedantry, and no little added scorn ofwhat men called liberty and citizens called civil rights. What rightshad a man against his country? His country was in his King--and to theKing the Army was his supreme instrument. So ran his public creed, hisstatesman's instinct. But beside the Bourbon mother was the Kravonianfather, and behind him the long line of mingled and vacillating fortuneswhich drew descent from Stefan, Lord of Praslok, and famous reiver oflowland herds. In that stock the temperament was different: indolent toexcess sometimes, ardent to madness at others, moderate seldom. When theblood ran hot, it ran a veritable fire in the veins.
And for any young man the fight in the fantastically illuminated night,the Virgin with the broken lamp, a near touch of the scythe of death,and a girl's white face at the window? Behind the Commandant's sternwrath--nay, beside--and soon before it--for the moment dazzling hisangry eyes--came the bright gleams of romance.
He knew who lodged at the sign of the Silver Cock. Marie Zerkovitch washis friend, Zerkovitch his zealous follower. The journalist was back nowfrom the battle-fields of France and was writing articles for _ThePatriot_, a leading paper of Slavna. He was deep in the Prince'sconfidence, and his little house on the south boulevard often receivedthis distinguished guest. The Prince had been keen to hear fromZerkovitch of the battles, from Marie of the life in Paris; with Marie'stale came the name, and what she knew of the story, of Sophie de Gruche.Yet always, in spite of her praises of her friend, Marie had avoided anyopportunity of presenting her to the Prince. Excuse on excuse she made,for his curiosity ranged round Casimir de Savres's bereaved lover. "Oh,I shall meet her some day all the same," he had said, laughing; andMarie doubted whether her reluctance--a reluctance to herselfstrange--had not missed its mark, inflaming an interest which it hadmeant to balk. Why this strange reluctance? So far it was provedbaseless. His first encounter with the Lady of the Red Star--Casimir'spoetical sobriquet had passed Marie's lips--had been supremelyfortunate.
From the splash of blood to the broken Virgin, from the broken Virgin tothe open window and the dark room behind, his restless glances sped.Then came swift, impulsive decision. He caught up the bronze figure andentered the porch. He knew Meyerstein's shop, and that from it nostaircase led to the upper floor. The other door was his mark, and heknocked on it, raising first with a cautious touch, then moreresolutely, the old brass hand with hospitably beckoning finger whichserved for knocker. Then he listened for a footstep on the stairs. Ifshe came not, the venturesome night went ungraced by its crowningadventure. He must kiss the hand that saved him before he slept.
The door opened softly. In the deep shadow of the porch, on the winding,windowless staircase of the old house, it was pitch dark. He felt a handput in his and heard a low voice saying: "Come, Monseigneur." From firstto last, both in speech and in writing, she called him by that title andby none other. Without a word he followed her, picking his steps, tillthey reached her room. She led him to the chair by the window; thedarkness was somewhat less dense there. He stood by the chair.
"The lamp's broken--and there's only one match in the box!" said Sophy,with a low laugh. "Shall we use it now--or when you go, Monseigneur?"
"Light it now. My memory, rather than my imagination!"
She struck the match; her face came upon him white in the darkness, withthe mark on her cheek a dull red; but her eyes glittered. The matchflared and died down.
"It is enough. I shall remember."
"Did I kill him?"
"I don't know whether he's killed--he's badly hurt. This lady here ispretty heavy."
"Give her to me. I'll put her in her place." She took the figure and setit again on the window-sill. "And the big man who attacked you?"
"Mistitch? He'll be shot."
"Yes," she agreed with calm, unquestioning emphasis.
"You know what you did to-night?"
"I had the sense to think of the man in the porch."
"You saved my life."
Sophy gave a laugh of triumph. "What will Marie Zerkovitch say to that?"
"She's my friend, too, and she's told me all about you. But she didn'twant us to meet."
"She thinks I bring bad luck."
"She'll have to renounce that heresy now." He felt for the chair and satdown, Sophy leaning against the window-sill.
"Why did they attack you?"
He told her of the special grudge which Mistitch and his company hadagainst him, and added: "But they all hate me, except my own fellowsfrom Volseni. I have a hundred of them in Suleiman's Tower, and they'restanch enough."
"Why do they hate you?"
"Oh, I'm their school-master--and a very strict one, I suppose. Or, ifyou like, the pruning-knife--and that's not popular with the rottentwigs."
"There are many rotten twigs?"
She heard his hands fall on the wooden arms of the chair and picturedhis look of despair. "All--almost all. It's not their fault. What canyou expect? They're encouraged to laziness and to riot. They have nogood rifles. The city is left defenceless. I have no big guns." He brokesuddenly into a low laugh. "There--that's what Zerkovitch calls my fixedidea; he declares it's written on my heart--big guns!"
"If you had them, you'd be--master?"
"I could make some attempt at a defence anyhow; at least we could covera retreat to the hills, if war came." He paused. "And in peace--yes, Ishould be master of Slavna. I'd bring men from Volseni to serve theguns." His voice had grown vindictive. "Stenovics knows that, I think."He roused himself again and spoke to her earnestly. "Listen. This fellowMistitch is a great hero with the soldiers and the mob. When I have himshot, as I shall--not on my own account, I could have killed himto-night, but for the sake of discipline--there will very likely be adisturbance. What you did to-night will be all over the city byto-morrow morning. If you see any signs of disturbance, if any peoplegather round here, go to Zerkovitch's at once--or, if that's notpossible or safe, come to me in Suleiman's Tower, and I'll send forMarie Zerkovitch too. Will you promise? You must run no risk."
"I'll come if I'm afraid."
"Or if you ought to be?" he insisted, laughing again.
"Well, then--or if I ought to be," she promised, joining in his laugh."But the King--isn't he with you?"
"My father likes me; we're good friends. But 'like father, unlike son'they say of the Stefanovitches. I'm a martinet, they tell me; well,he--isn't. Nero fiddled--you remember? The King goes fishing. He'sremarkably fond of fishing, and his advisers don't discourage him. Itell you all this because you're committed to our side now."
"Yes, I'm committed to your side. Who else is with you?"
"In Slavna? Nobody! Well, the Zerkovitches, and my hundred in Suleiman'sTower. And perhaps some old men who have seen war. But at Volseni andamong the hills they're with me." Again he seemed to muse as he reviewedhis scanty forces.
"I wish we had another match. I want to see your face c
lose," saidSophy. He rose with a laugh and leaned his head forward to the window."Oh no; you're nothing but a blur still!" she exclaimed impatiently.
Yet, though Sophy sighed for light, the darkness had its glamour. Toeach the other's presence, seeming in some sense impalpable, seemed alsodiffused through the room and all around; the world besides wasnon-existent since unseen; they two alone lived and moved and spoke inthe dead silence and the blackness. An agitation stirred Sophy'sheart--forerunner of the coming storm. That night she had given himlife; he seemed to be giving back life to her life that night. Howshould the hour not seem pregnant with destiny, a herald of the march ofFate?
But suddenly the Prince awoke from his reverie--perhaps from a dream. ToSophy he gave the impression--as he was to give it more than onceagain--of a man pulling himself up, tightening the rein, drawing backinto himself. He stood erect, his words became more formal, and hisvoice restrained.
"I linger too long," he said. "My duty lies at the Tower yonder. I'vethanked you badly; but what thanks can a man give for his life? We shallmeet again--I'll arrange that with Marie Zerkovitch. You'll rememberwhat I've told you to do in case of danger? You'll act on it?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
He sought her hand, kissed it, and then groped his way to the stairs.Sophy followed and went with him down to the porch.
"Be careful to lock your door," he enjoined her, "and don't go outto-morrow unless the streets are quite quiet."
"Oh, but I've a French lesson to give at ten o'clock," she remonstratedwith a smile.
"You have to do that?"
"I have to make my living, Monseigneur."
"Ah, yes," he said, meditatively. "Well, slip out quietly--and wear aveil."
"Nobody knows my face."
"Wear a veil. People notice a face like yours. Again thanks, andgood-night."
Sophy peeped out from the porch and watched his quick, soldierly marchup the street to St. Michael's Square. The night had lightened a little,and she could make out his figure, although dimly, until he turned thecorner and was lost to sight. She lingered for a moment before turningto go back to her room--lingered musing on the evening's history.
Down the street, from the Square, there came a woman--young or old,pretty or ugly, fine dame or drudge, it was too dark to tell. But it wasa woman, and she wept as though her heart were broken. For whom and forwhat did she weep like that? Was she mother, or wife, or sweetheart?Perhaps she wept for Sterkoff, who lay in peril of death. Perhaps sheloved big Mistitch, over whom hovered the shadow of swift and relentlessdoom. Or maybe her sorrow was remote from all that touched them ortouched the girl who listened to her sobs--the bitter sobs which she didnot seek to check, which filled the night with a dirge of immeasurablesadness. In the darkness, and to Sophy's ignorance of anythingindividual about her, the woman was like a picture or a sculpture--sometype or monument of human woe--a figure of embodied sorrow, crying thatall joy ends in tears--in tears--in tears.
She went by, not seeing her watcher. The sound of her sobbing softenedwith distance, till it died down to a faint, far-off moan. Sophy herselfgave one choked sob. Then fell the silence of the night again. Was thatits last message--the last comment on what had passed? Tears--and thensilence? Was that the end?
Sophy never learned aught of the woman--who she was or why she wept. Buther memory retained the vision. It had come as the last impression of anight no moment of which could ever be forgotten. What had it to say ofall the rest of the night's happenings? Sophy's exaltation fell fromher; but her courage stood--against darkness, solitude, and theunutterable sadness of that forlorn wailing. Dauntlessly she lookedforward and upward still, yet with a new insight for the cost.
So for Sophy passed the name-day of King Alexis.