Artist and Model Part 16

Pierre Olsdorf replied to the commissary of police that he would submit to all that was needful to be done.

After casting a glance around the room where this scene had pa.s.sed, the commissary pa.s.sed into the adjoining room to dictate to his secretary the report in which it was stated that in a bed-chamber of his house, Prince Olsdorf had been found with a young girl who had lived with him for more than a month and, that being questioned, the prince had not denied the allegation of adultery made against him.

An intelligent and well-known officer, the commissary felt that no search was necessary. Instinctively, perhaps, he suspected that he was not witnessing an ordinary conjugal drama, and he was willing to confine himself to doing what was strictly needful.

His report having been revised, read over to the prince, and countersigned by the two witnesses, the functionary took his leave without returning to the bed-chamber, where Vera taking literally the threat that had been made about her, had risen and dressed hurriedly without asking herself what was to become of her or where she would find shelter.

When Pierre Olsdorf, returning to the young girl, found her half dressed, sobbing, and nearly distracted with shame, he suddenly felt the wrong that he had done this unconscious maiden; he understood how cruel and blamable his conduct toward her had been.

The fact was that his actions had grown one out of the other by a chain of fatal logic. He could not bear--he, the irreproachable husband up to now--to pa.s.s for the lover of the first girl he could find, easy as it would have been to put his hand on one in Paris to play the part he would have had to offer her in this singular adventure. If he could have made up his mind to the a.s.sociation with so vile an accomplice, perhaps no one would have believed in his guilt, or would have found it very excusable. He wished, on the contrary, to appear doubly culpable, and had taken upon himself the responsibility of an act doubly blameworthy, legally and morally, for he could be accused not only of adultery but of the seduction and abduction of a young girl over whom he had, in some sort, authority, and whose innocence and beauty would be cause enough for his pa.s.sion and forgetfulness of duty.

Now the prince thought no more of all these reasons for his course of action; he saw only the despair of this child, dishonored though pure, and, deeply sorrowing, struck too, perhaps, for the first time by her adorable beauty, he sprung toward her, drew her into his arms, and, pressing her feverishly to his heart, said tenderly:

"Vera, calm yourself and think no more of going away. I will very soon explain everything; but will you ever pardon me?"

Soublaieff's daughter let her head sink on the prince's shoulder, murmuring:

"Are you not the master: am not I the slave?"

CHAPTER X.

THE INQUIRY.

While following with absolute obedience the instructions of her husband, the Princess Olsdorf still felt so deeply humiliated by the vileness of the part she had to play that now and again she had thoughts of rebelling. But she knew the character of the prince, she knew that nothing would shake his purpose, and above all she remembered the terrible calmness with which he had said: "If for any reason whatever Monsieur Paul Meyrin does not marry you, I will kill him."

Feeling, then, that she must go forward to the end marked out for her, she had bowed the head and sought forgetfulness in the arms of her lover, whom the most ordinary conventionalities bade her to meet only in secret. Her pa.s.sion had gained from this unusual mystery a sort of acuteness which gave it an unreal strength, under which she hid from herself the uneasiness she felt. However, she was anxious that an end should be made; she feared what might happen, believing it impossible that there should not be new troubles in store.

She well knew, too, that there were yet many trials to encounter before the decree of divorce would be won.

As for Paul, who still seemed pa.s.sionately enamored of her, he left his family in ignorance of what was going on, putting off to the last moment the announcement of his approaching marriage.

Meanwhile things followed their legal course, and one morning the princess received from a delegate of the Russian Consistory a summons to appear before him.

To simplify matters, it is needful here to sketch the process to be followed in Russia upon the presentation of a pet.i.tion for divorce.

As civil marriages are not recognized in the empire of the czars, the ecclesiastical authorities are charged with the trial of cases of divorce, p.r.o.nouncing or refusing a decree. The authority is made up of two jurisdictions, the Consistory and the Holy Synod. The Consistory is a kind of preliminary tribunal, or rather a court of inquiry and investigation. The Holy Synod is a permanent grand council, invested with every authority in religious matters throughout the schismatical Greek Church of the Russian Empire. The Holy Synod is made up of metropolitans, archbishops, a procurator-general and secretaries. Its seat is at St. Petersburg, whence it governs the affairs spiritual of the empire and the financial business of the Church. It has authority over all prelates and consistories. It exercises a censure over religious books and pamphlets, and enjoys a very wide-reaching power in civil matters, notably in all matrimonial cases. The head procurator who governs it represents the emperor, but it is an error to believe that the Holy Synod obeys the orders of the czar. The autocrat of all the Russias is not, as is often said, at one and the same time emperor and pope in his vast kingdom. He, as well as his people, is subject in religious matters to the ecclesiastical authority of the Holy Synod.

The injured party must address his or her complaint to the Consistory.

This first tribunal examines the facts, and if it finds in them _prima facie_ a case for divorce, it tries first of all to reconcile the pet.i.tioner and respondent, summoning them before it, and seeking to persuade the one to pardon and the other to return to the path of duty.

Not until it has failed in this attempt at reconciliation does the Consistory inform the Holy Synod of the pet.i.tion that has been made to it, and it is only after a long and careful examination that the higher court will p.r.o.nounce the decree of divorce, inflicting upon the guilty one at the same time a religious penance and celibacy.

The penance may be a stay of several months in a convent, but the condemned one can easily escape from the enforced retirement by the payment of a sum of money. As for the decree of celibacy, the emperor alone, on the recommendation of the Holy Synod, can abrogate it; but if authority is sometimes given to a divorced husband to marry again, the grace is always withheld from a guilty wife. A woman can marry a second time only in case of the decree having been p.r.o.nounced against her first husband, or when the separation has been without stain upon the honor of the husband or wife; for instance, in case of incompatibility of temper, or of certain infirmities duly provided for by the civil code.

Formerly, it is true, matters of the kind were managed among the Russians with greater simplicity. The husband and wife who longed for a separation went out of their house holding a piece of linen or other thin stuff, each of them having an end of it. So they went to the nearest public square and pulled till the piece of stuff parted. Then they went each their way: they were divorced.

Unhappily for the Princess Olsdorf this was no longer the practice; the summons of the delegate of the Consistory recalled the fact to her. She knew that she would again be brought face to face with her husband, to accuse him of having been unfaithful to her; and, though the lesson had been taught her, and mortifying as was the memory she had of the encounter with the beautiful Vera Soublaieff in the Rue Auber, still, it is not hard to suppose, she dreaded not being able to support her pet.i.tion with due firmness.

The arch-priest of the Russian Church in Paris was at this period the Pope Joseph Wasilieff, an old man full of wit and kindness. Husband and wife must appear before him. After receiving the plaint of the Princess Olsdorf, the Consistory of St. Petersburg had sent a commission of inquiry to the venerable priest of the Rue Daru.

On the day and at the hour indicated Lise Olsdorf attended at Pope Wasilieff's. The prince had been there a few minutes. On entering the room where the priest awaited her, the guilty wife saw her husband; she hesitated and fell back a pace, but a look from Pierre Olsdorf made her understand that, not shrinking or pausing, she must play her part to its last line.

"Madame la Princess," said the venerable Joseph Wasilieff, "I am charged by the Consistory to question you on the facts you have reported to it, and I must also, in conformity with the law as well as in pursuance of my duty as a minister, ask you if you persist in your pet.i.tion. Before you reply to me, let me urge how generous it would be on your part to forget the outrage you have suffered. Pardon it--for the honor of the name you still bear, for the sake of your children's future. You would know how to win again your husband's heart and you would avoid a great scandal."

Pale and trembling Lise Olsdorf found not a word to say. Leaning back in the deep chair in which she was seated she remained there silent and with downcast eyes.

"As for you, prince," the pope went on, "you can not hide from yourself the gravity of the sin you have been guilty of. The sin is doubly to be condemned in that your accomplice in it was a young girl over whom you had the authority of a master, and whom you carried off from her father to give her in your house the position that your legitimate wife alone has the right to fill. I am convinced that if you would but express the regret that you should feel for your past conduct, Madame la Princess would pardon you."

"Forgive me, holy father," said Pierre Olsdorf with great deference but in a firm tone, "if I can not follow you in the way of conciliation that you are so good as to point out to madame and me. Things have come to such a pa.s.s that we can not either of us retrace our steps. It would be best, I think, to shorten this scene, which is equally painful to both of us. What you reproach me with imposes upon me an obligation which my honor, and of it I am the only judge, will not allow me to shrink from."

Pope Wasilieff did not think he ought to insist further. Perhaps he knew more of the facts than the princess imagined. He said, then, addressing her:

"It only remains for me, madame, to put to you this question: Do you persist in your pet.i.tion?"

"I persist, holy father," replied Lise Olsdorf, in a stifled voice.

"Then you may retire. With deep sorrow I shall inform the Consistory at St. Petersburg of the defeat of my attempts to reconcile the prince and you."

The princess rose and walked out of the room, lowering her veil. Soon afterward she reached her home, at the moment that her husband arrived at the house in the Rue Auber, where the daughter of his farmer Soublaieff still was.

The pretty Vera was greatly changed. Since the night when she played a part so completely unforeseen by her, everything had tended to add to her uneasiness--the events that succeeded this evening and were not without mystery for her, and also the bearing of the prince toward her.

It will be remembered that, on returning to the bed-chamber where the commissary of police had appeared to bear witness against him as having been found _in flagrante delicto_, the prince had asked for Vera's forgiveness, and that she, letting her head sink upon his shoulder, replied: "Are not you the master; am not I the slave?"

This was more than an act of submission to his will on the part of the young girl; it was an avowal of the pa.s.sion that had seized on her wholly, and against which she did not try to struggle--out of the deep love to which her very innocence delivered her without defense.

Chaste as her abandon was to the feeling, the prince was deeply moved by it. He remembered that a few minutes earlier, when the knocking came at the door of the bedroom, and she feared some danger for him, Vera had wound her arms about his neck.

He had gently drawn himself from the embrace and had done his best to calm the poor child by telling her there was nothing to fear. Then, calling her maid, he had begged her to go to bed again.

As usual, Vera obeyed his wish, but it was easy to guess what a wretched night she had pa.s.sed.

The prince went to his room, and there, thinking over what had happened, he soon grew very discontented with himself, though he had gained the end he had aimed at. But had he been right in choosing as his accomplice this maiden who was now irretrievably compromised, and in whose heart he could not doubt that he had awakened a feeling which he was forbidden to return? What answer could he make to Soublaieff, her father, who had trusted to the honor of his master, when he asked for an account of the honor and happiness of his daughter? Had not he done everything to persuade Vera of his love for her, and was not it his duty now to undeceive her? But what would she think of him then?

Must he tell her that she had been nothing but a tool in his hands, to be broken and cast aside when she was of no further use? He felt he could not tell her this. But if he were silent, if he left Vera to her illusions, her love would grow with each day, and inevitably the time would come when he must yield to this love or speak out. Pierre Olsdorf was too honorable a man to think of making this young girl his mistress, and as, at the same time, he was full of tenderness for, and grat.i.tude toward her, he dreaded the infliction of a cruel wound in telling her the truth.

Moreover, his pride as a n.o.bleman revolted from the thought of taking as a confidante of his dishonor the daughter of one of his tenants. And then, how could he tell her what had pa.s.sed between him and the princess? In what words could he explain to an innocent girl the outrage he had been the victim of? Was there not, too, some danger for the success of his plan in acquainting Vera with the part he had made her play? Would not she refuse indignantly to continue her role, and would not she, in the course of the inquiry that was to be held, betray by her bearing, if not in words, the real situation in which she had been placed?

Troubled by all these doubts, Pierre Olsdorf cast himself on his bed to seek a few hours' rest. He had come to no decision by the next morning, when his valet came to say that breakfast was served.

Not knowing what he should say or do, he went to the breakfast-room, where Vera awaited him. Seeing her white and trembling, in his remorse he thought only of comforting her with tender words.

"Dear child," he said, pressing her little hands in his, "will you give me a fresh proof of your devotion?"

Vera's only reply was a smile, which told the prince, better than any words could have done, how completely he might count on her.