Moscow: A Story of the French Invasion of 1812

The conversation was conducted in whispers from this point and Sasha heard no more of it.

Meanwhile Paul de Tourelle, so soon as the door was closed behind him, had made as though he would take Vera's hand and draw her to him, but she waved him away.

"Do not touch me, Monsieur," she said. "I have admitted you only for the purpose of making it clear to you that there can at present be no communication between us. I must regard you as an enemy."

"But, Mademoiselle!" exclaimed Paul, "what is this you say? In Paris we spoke of love; I hasten to Moscow, whither you have gone before me; I find you unexpectedly, and you tell me that I have come in vain. Did I not say that I would meet you in Moscow?"

"And did not I reply that I would rather never see you again than meet you in Moscow? No, Monsieur. I have no heart for love, no thought to spare for such matters, for my whole being is at present absorbed in the sorrows of my dear country. I am glad that I have seen you, since I am now assured of your safety but–

"Come, let me be thankful for the smallest of mercies!" Paul laughed bitterly. "At any rate Mademoiselle is relieved to hear that I am not yet buried beneath the soil of her dear country. We are very far from the point, however, which we discussed, Mademoiselle, in Paris. At that time we spoke of love; now it is sufficient for you that I am alive—parbleu! you are liberal with your favours."

"Monsieur, I will wish you good-night. This conversation can serve no good end. It is true that in Paris you spoke of love; as for me, I spoke of a liking which one day might ripen into love; that day has not yet arrived, Monsieur; at this moment I am inclined to think that it can never dawn; I unsay all that I said in Paris, which you will remember was not much."

Paul burst into loud laughter which had, however, no merriment in it. "I think I understand, Mademoiselle," he said; "the young gentleman who prefers to act as your doorkeeper rather than take his share in withstanding the enemies of your country: he is perhaps the fiancé of whom we once spoke, or maybe a nearer friend–"

"Monsieur, I have wished you good-night."

"Oh, but pardon, Mademoiselle, I have not yet finished that which I have to say; perhaps Mademoiselle would prefer if I continued and finished with Monsieur her friend. The matter may be settled without many words."

Vera's face paled a little, but she spoke resolutely. "If Monsieur is wise," she said, "he will not quarrel with Monsieur le Comte Maximof, who is at present acting as my protector in this city of many perils; the servants would not wait to fire their muskets if voices were raised or threats used. Be wise, Monsieur de Tourelle, and take your departure in peace. You have no quarrel with my friend, and none, I trust, with myself."

"Oh, as to yourself, Mademoiselle, I am not deceived; I shall hope to find compensation elsewhere for Mademoiselle's unkindness. But for the other matter, that, with your kind permission, shall be as I choose to decide." Paul bowed and made his exit.

Apparently the decision was for peace. He called to his companions to come away.

"Au revoir, Monsieur," he said to Maximof, at whom he now gazed very fixedly, as though he would make a note of his features; "I have no doubt we shall meet again shortly."

"With all my heart," said Sasha, bowing; "for I shall then request Monsieur to repeat certain words he thought proper to address to me, but now–"

"Monsieur shall have the words repeated," replied Paul, laughing; "come, my friends."

"You did not tell us, Paul, that Moscow contained other objects of familiar interest to you besides Clotilde," his companions observed as the door closed behind the trio and was fastened by Maximof. "She seemed gentile; may we be introduced perhaps?"

"Bah—you would not thank me. They are sour, these Russian women. This one has been in Paris, and is, at least, civilised; but she would visit upon each of you the sin of his Majesty who has declared war upon her country."

"Patriotism is a virtue, I do not dislike that in her; when the war is over you shall make us known to this lady of spirit, Paul," said the other.

"When the war is over," replied Paul, shrugging his shoulders and laughing, "I may want her myself. Remember, both of you, the face of that Russian in plain clothes, and if you should see him about the streets, inform me of it; I have a little bill to settle with my gentleman."

"What, a case of poaching upon preserved ground?" One of Paul's friends laughed, and the other remarked: "Poor little Russian if it comes to accounts with our little Paul de Tourelle! He had better have remained with the army!"

CHAPTER XVIII

Early in the morning two days after Paul's visit to the Demidof mansion in the Sloboda quarter, a man came and knocked the house up. He asked to see Vera and explained his mission thus:—

"The French Emperor," he said, "is established in the Kremlin, in the dwelling of our Tsars; there is a meeting at ten in the house in the Tverskoy to decide what is best to be done".

Both Vera and Sasha Maximof attended that meeting, when it was decided that terrible as such a thing must appear to every good and patriotic Russian, the Kremlin Palace itself must be ignited or blown up. Better destroy than allow it to be defiled by the presence of these foreigners, with the antichrist himself at their head!

Volunteers were called for to attempt the dangerous enterprise. To Vera's joy and pride Sasha was one of the first to give in his name, and was chosen with a dozen others to evolve a scheme and put it into practice without delay.

"I am proud of you," she whispered; "it is a dangerous venture; if I were a man I should be with you."

"Yes, I am sure of that," Sasha laughed.

He was grave enough, however, when the time came to go forth upon his mission. The Kremlin was full of French guards and the attempt to be made by himself and his companions was perilous in the extreme.

"Promise me you will leave Moscow if anything should happen to me," he said at parting from Vera. "You must see that it is not safe for you here; the town already burns on all sides, I do not see that you can do any further good by remaining; the French rats will soon be obliged to bolt."

"Yes, I think that is so; I promise to be very discreet; the work has certainly gone well forward these two days. But do not speak as though you would not return, dear Sasha, for you, too, will be discreet and careful. Run no needless risks; your enterprise may be performed in safety, promise me you will be careful."

"If I thought," Sasha faltered, "that it was of consequence to you whether I lived or died, I would be careful indeed."

"But, mon ami, it is of the greatest consequence to me; are you not my protector here in Moscow? Are you not, too, one of our patriots and engaged even now upon a scheme which all Russia shall one day speak of and applaud?"

"Yes—but apart from that—personally, I mean, Vera; if only I might take with me the knowledge that you cared even a little for me, I would go to the gates of hell and return safely."

"Dear Sasha, I like you very much—far better than I used to like you. I suppose one would always be interested in a person who had once been her fiancé."

"Yes, yes, but–"

"But you have been so specially kind and attentive to me that—that you must really return, Sasha; I—I insist."

"Say that it matters to you personally, Vera, and by all the blessed Saints not all the soldiers of Napoleon shall prevent my returning."

"Oh, boaster," said Vera, attempting to withdraw her hand, which he had captured and was now covering with kisses; "I will say no more than this, 'please return safely'!"

Sasha Maximof went out, presently, upon his dangerous errand, and Vera was surprised to find how anxiously she awaited his return. She waited two hours, three, four, and then could bear the strain no longer. She had watched the sky in the direction of the Kremlin, but had not been able to discern that smoke rose from that particular quarter, though in almost every other direction the heavens were obscured by lurid clouds of black vapour, increasing evidence of the activity of the patriotic league.

When four hours had passed and there was still no news of Sasha, Vera could bear her anxiety no longer, and sallied forth to see whether she could hear from others any news of the Kremlin enterprise. She visited one or two of her friends in the Sloboda, but no one had yet received any news.

Then she ventured into the portion of the city which was actually occupied by French troops, and even penetrated close to the outer wall of the Kremlin enclosure itself.

A dozen times she was accosted by soldiers, none too politely, but in each case Vera successfully eluded her impudent admirers and proceeded upon her way, pursued by remarks which, if she had attended to or even heard them, would have caused her cheeks to flush; but her mind was fully occupied and she heard nothing.

Close to the Great Arch of the Kremlin she was startled to hear the sound of shots many times repeated. She hesitated before entering the Kremlin enclosure; dared she penetrate thus into the very heart of the occupied quarters?

A group of Russians, old men mostly, hawkers of lemon drinks and of prianniki, or biscuits, presently came hurrying out into the street, chattering and crossing themselves, a few French soldiers chasing them through the archway out of the Kremlin.

"Bóje moy, it is horrible!" she heard an old man exclaim; "I shall dream of it!"

Vera accosted him. "What is it, father? What has happened?" she asked.

"What has happened?" said the old fellow crossing himself and looking round to see whether the French soldiers listened, "Why, murder has happened; the shedding of good Russian blood; butchery I call it! Did you not hear the shots? A dozen of them, all shot down one after another by these most damnable foreigners! As if they have not shed blood enough already, Russian blood too, which is the holiest of all and the best!"

"Yes, but whose blood is this you speak of? who has been shot?" asked Vera, her heart feeling like lead.

"Why, Russians; good patriotic fellows who had done nothing worse than attempt to burn down the great palace with the French Tsar inside it—would to God they had succeeded! Well, they were caught and shot, a dozen or more of them."

"All shot—every one of them?" Vera asked faintly. "Are you sure that all were shot?"

"Every single one—I saw it done; that's what I say, that I shall dream of it; I called the French soldiers shameful names, but they do not understand Russian, though they turned us all out for booing at them; it is a mercy we too were not shot; yet who could stand and see the murder done without protesting? Why, what ails you, dooshá tui moyá? One would think your sweetheart had been among these butchered men."

Vera said nothing but turned away with dry eyes and a steady lip. Within her breast, however, her heart lay dead-cold and heavy as lead.

"I wish I had been among them," the thought came a hundred times into her brain. "Why was I not among them, at his side?"

"Yes, that would have been far better—to have died at his side!"

Vera heard the sound of horses' hoofs behind her, but took no notice. Some one shouted, and she stepped automatically out of the roadway upon the raised wooden pavement at the side.

"That is a French dress," she heard a man say, and seemed to recognise the voice, but her thoughts were far away. "How came she here?—ask her, General." Vera half awoke from her dream of misery and looked up; Napoleon was at her elbow on horseback, with his suite in attendance. She was about to make the reverence which her familiarity with the Court in Paris prompted her to offer automatically at sight of the sovereign; but she bethought herself and left the curtsy half made.

"Who is it—I know the face," said Napoleon; "who are you, mon enfant, and what do you here? Have I not seen you in Paris?"

"Sire, it is the daughter of the Secretary of the Russian Embassy," explained an aide-de-camp; "Mademoiselle Demidof."

"Of course," said Napoleon, smiling benignly; "pardon me, Mademoiselle, I took you for a French lady and wondered at your presence here; may I add that so fair a face courts danger in Moscow at the present moment?"

Vera had stood still, gazing with set face from one man to the other as each spoke. Her heart swelled with indignation and hatred. This was the very arch-enemy himself; the fiend in man's likeness who had brought ruin upon her country and upon this holy city.

"Shall I then be shot down in cold blood as your Majesty has just slaughtered a body of my poor countrymen?" she said suddenly.

"Morbleu!" exclaimed Napoleon, glancing angrily at the girl. He paused a moment, then laughed, shrugged his shoulders and rode on.

"She is mad, Sire, patriot-mad!" Vera heard some one say, and the Emperor's reply reached her ears: "She has nevertheless a fine spirit".

Vera hastened homewards. She forgot the incident of her encounter with Napoleon; she took no notice of the hundreds of compliments, impudent observations and rude jests thrown at her by scores of French soldiers as she passed; Sasha Maximof was dead: this was her only thought; it absorbed her entire being; was it—she asked herself—really so all-important to her that this man was dead? She had not yet learned to love him; it must surely be a mere sentimental regret, this black heavy weight upon her heart; a sentimental regret that one who had once been nominally her fiancé had suddenly met his death; her heart had not received its death-wound—oh no! this was but a passing feeling of sympathy and sorrow; it would disappear; the shock of the sudden catastrophe had unnerved her.

Nevertheless when Vera had lain for an hour upon her bed, assuring herself that after all this calamity was not really a disaster, for her, of the first magnitude, she suddenly realised that nothing in the world could have mattered more to her than the death of this man; and turning her face to the wall she wept as though her heart were indeed broken.

CHAPTER XIX

Vera heard a banging at the front door—a sound which might have startled and even frightened her at another moment, but she was so full of her new grief that she scarcely noticed it; she felt as though nothing mattered; that she did not care what happened.

Then old Michael, one of the two servants who had remained in the house when the rest left Moscow, knocked at her door and put his head into the room.

"Golôobushka moyá," he said, "do not be frightened, a disaster has happened; the young Graf Maximof–" he paused; Vera laughed hysterically.

"Yes, yes, go on; he has been shot—he is dead—they have brought his body; you may tell me all, Michael."

"Oh, liubeemaya, not so bad as that; but he is hurt."

"What do you say—he is not dead?" cried Vera; she sprang from the bed upon which she lay. "Is he dying, is he mortally wounded, tell me quickly, has Stepan gone for a doctor?"

"But I did not say matters were so bad as that!" exclaimed old Michael, startled by her agitation. "The Count has, I think, been fighting—there is a rag bound round his wrist which is covered with blood and he is pale and faint, but–"

"But is he not shot—I thought—stop, Michael—go down and say that I will come immediately—I am not quite ready—I think I have been dreaming—do not tell the Count what I have said."

Old Michael went downstairs muttering and crossing himself. His beloved mistress could not be well if she dreamed in this fashion by daylight; what did it mean?

Vera dashed water upon her eyes and smoothed her ruffled hair; she stood a moment before her ikon and prayed; her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed; the expression of utter misery had left her face.

She found Sasha sitting dejected and pale, his arm bound up with a cloth which, as Michael said, was soaked in blood.

"What has happened—what is the matter? Are you hurt, Sasha?" she asked, assuming her usual air of composure, though her heart beat wildly with a variety of emotions.

"Vera, I am disgraced—doubly disgraced. We failed in our attempt—all my poor companions are dead—shot—I almost wish I had died with them—I feel dishonoured—shamed; see, I cannot look you in the face."

Vera leaned over and kissed his forehead; he looked up gratefully but said nothing.

"I am sure you are not dishonoured," she murmured softly; "let me first attend to your arm, and then you shall tell me all."

"I will tell you as you bind me," he said, and began at once.

"We carried out the first part of our scheme successfully; we got into the stables and set fire to straw and rubbish, but the smoke frightened the horses and there was a great commotion. We were found and dragged out by soldiers. Several young officers, quartered in the Kremlin, ran up and we were all pulled about and insulted. Among the officers were two of those who came to this house. 'Look here,' said one, on recognising me, 'look, Paul, here is your acquaintance of the other evening;' whereupon the impertinent one whom you interviewed alone that day saw me also. He called up half a dozen fellows and bade them take me to his quarters. Of course I struggled, but I soon saw it was useless and went with them. Afterwards I heard that the Emperor suddenly appeared upon the scene and asked what had happened and who were these men, meaning my late companions. When he was told he frowned and twisted his nose and called them canaille and bade the soldiers shoot them down, then and there, for which butchery I trust he may be tortured in eternal fires.

"As for me, I was taken to a house in the Kremlin in which your friend is quartered, and thither he came, presently, and found me awaiting his pleasure, which, it seemed, was to answer to him at the sword's point for my presumption in posing as your protector in Moscow; at any rate, I could learn no other reason for his particular animosity against me. You may believe that I was charmed to meet his wishes even though he had not assured me, which he did many times, that I might thank my stars I had not been left by him with my fellow conspirators; for it seems Napoleon had himself condemned them to instant death, giving the order, so your French friend said, carelessly over his left shoulder as though the talk were of drowning so many rats. Well, we fought, and there is my disgrace, for though I thought I could fence, the fellow had me at his mercy with many French tricks which I had never seen. Doubtless he could have ended me several times over, but he forbore. I am ashamed and disgraced, Vera, I have come home beaten like a dog that slinks into his kennel after a thrashing. There is excuse for me, but I do not claim it—strange, foreign swords to fight with, the shock of my companions' deaths, the uncertainty whether, if I fell savagely upon the man and bore him down by sheer stress, I should not injure a dear heart at home which perhaps held his life as a precious thing."

Vera laughed hysterically.

"Who knows," she cried, "perhaps the same generous consideration held his hand also!"

"Ah, you mock me; well, beaten and disgraced I am, and it is useless to conceal the truth. Yes, he withheld his hand, he could have given me the point a dozen times while I never touched him, not once. There is worse behind. He made me promise, under threat to send me back to his master to share the fate of my fellows, that I would give you a detestable message. Please do not blame me, Vera, I cannot help it, for the promise was given. Before giving it I fell upon him furiously, and it was thus I received this wound in my sword-arm, which incapacitated me. I was to say that he returned to you a spoilt lover, but perhaps good enough for one who could not tell a man from a moujik."

Vera's eyes flashed and her bosom heaved. "Is that all?" she asked.

"Not quite. I must say all he bade me tell you. Tell her, he said, that next time man meets moujik matters will end less happily for the moujik; she had better send him out of Moscow, there is less danger for him without than within the walls."

"If you had killed him for that speech, I could not have blamed you, my friend," answered Vera. "When I see him I will tell him something."

"I could then no longer even attempt to kill him," said Sasha, blushing hotly, "for I was helpless; we had finished fighting, and I was worsted. I thought it better to bear the disgrace of telling you this than to go back to the Red Plain in order to be shot in cold blood by Napoleon's men. I have not done with him. With God's help I will one day give him quid for his quo. Until I shall have done this I can enjoy no self-respect. With my own sword I may do better, though he has the devil's own skill." Vera considered a while, then she spoke.

"I think we will go out of Moscow; there is no longer any reason to stay here. The smoke hangs over the city in every direction; already there is more fire than all Napoleon's men can extinguish; within a fortnight the rats must make their bolt."

"We have done something, certainly, but it is not yet time to go—not for me; for you it is different; go, in God's name, Vera; I will do your work and mine. In the face of this man's insult I cannot leave Moscow."

"Yes—that is true; you cannot; we will stay, then, Sasha; I do not doubt that we shall find work to our hands. Do not search out this man, however; leave your quarrel in God's hands. Promise me you will not be rash, Sasha."

"Ah, I see you think that I have no chance against him; yet I am not a fool with the rapier, Vera, my own weapon, mind you, not his. I shall have a chance, though I admit he is very clever. If he were as clever as the prince of all the devils I must meet him."

"He is the best fencer in Paris, mon ami. What matters is your safety; oh, do not mistake me—do you think I shall esteem you less and him more because he is a little cleverer than you with tricks of the sword?" Vera laughed quite merrily. "Oh, what children men are to think so much of so small a matter," she continued; "you are not disgraced in my eyes, Sasha; I thank God for two things, the first that it occurred to Paul to vent his spite upon both of us by pricking you with his sword instead of allowing you to be shot down by the guard, and the second that his conceit was so great that he preferred sending you back with a bombastic message to giving you a fatal wound."

"Tell me truly, Vera, is this Paul he to whom you gave your heart in Paris; for God's sake, tell me truly?"

"I do not think I gave my heart in Paris. Perhaps I fancied that my heart was in danger where no danger existed. He is the man who caused me thus to search my feelings—well, I have searched them."

"And the result?" Sasha murmured.

"The result is that I can thank God I do not love a Frenchman, one of Russia's enemies."

"Then I thank God also humbly and sincerely. You know well what I would have of you, if I could. You treat me now as a brother, you are kindness itself, but I hunger for more; I will wait more patiently now that I am assured that at any rate your heart is free."

"When I love I promise that I will love a Russian," Vera smiled. "Promise me in return that you will not run foolish risks in order to prove to me how cleverly your hand and eye work together in sword play. There are greater issues at stake for us Russians than the nursing of private petty vanities. The noblest of men may yet be the clumsiest. Russia requires all the manhood of all her sons, my friend. Come, promise me!"

"Well, I promise then," muttered Sasha, "though your words are not flattering to my vanity. I wish you could have added," he sighed, "that you wanted me alive for your own sake, as well as for Russia's."

"Oh, I will say that," she laughed. "I certainly want you alive. Sasha," she added suddenly, her eyes softening wonderfully, though her voice was full of laughter, "I see that you are still far from having eschewed the follies of cadetdom; you are as vain as ever, mon ami, and as blind to—to the true proportion of things."

Sasha Maximof looked puzzled and shook his head, failing to understand the meaning of Vera's last utterance.

CHAPTER XX