The Black Cross Part 12

"In the train, last night, with this man."

"You say she is an anarchist?"

"We have known it for some time, sir."

The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself with a difficult effort.

"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart, detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar?

Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike you if it is true."

The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said, "I am an anarchist."

The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came nearer.

"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul--the truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?"

The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked at him and signed an a.s.sent.

"You--you shot the Grand-Duke?"

Her lips moved and she bowed her head.

The General stood paralyzed with horror. He was like one on the verge of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move. Then he drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger and pa.s.sion growing in his eyes.

"You are no daughter of mine!" he cried stammering, "You are a murderess, a criminal! You have killed the Grand-Duke--in his own house you have killed him!"

"Father!--Father!"

He gasped and put his hand to his throat. "Be still! I am not your father. You are no child of mine. I curse you--with my last breath I curse you.--Do with her as you like."

He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting. "Take her away--Take her out of my sight. Send her to Siberia, to the Mines--anywhere! Let her pay the uttermost penalty! Let her die! She is nothing to me!--Curse her!--Curse her!--Curse her!"

The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on either side of the girl. She shrank back.

"Father!" she cried.

"Chort vozmi, I am not your father! Take her away, I tell you." With a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from the room.

Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin. He was shivering as though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words, the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife. He dropped his violin on the litter of papers.

"By heaven!" he cried, "What a terrible thing! What brutes you all are! She is my wife--mine! No matter what she has done, she is my wife. Let go of her you savages!--Kaya! Help her, some of you--don't let them take her! They are dragging her away!--Kaya! Stop them--stop them!"

He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron, they held him in a vice. The Chief sprang forward. They held him, and the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows.

She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense look, gazed deep into Velasco's. They were dark and blue, full of anguish. Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they were thanking him, they were saying goodbye. He struggled towards her.

A moment--and she was gone.

The great door swung back on its hinges, the latch clicked.

A faint, low cry came back from the distance.

Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one official to the other. He tried to speak and could not. The cry came back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed to stop beating.

"You can go now," said the official. "We know who you are, and there is nothing against you."

He whispered something to the Chief. They handed him his violin and his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door. He followed them out, up the winding steps, through the pa.s.sages, out into the court, stumbling blindly.

"You can go--there is nothing against you."

He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the ground. He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other.

He was shivering.

The cry followed him out into the street. It rang in his ears. Her eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness. He could feel them. He was dumb, he was helpless.

Oh G.o.d--the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with pain. He stumbled on.

[1] Very well.

CHAPTER VIII

"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"

"He is, sir."

"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."

"Very well, Barin, but--he is composing. He has been composing for days--Monsieur knows?"

"I know," said the Manager.

He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled now and he snapped his fingers.

"Go ahead, Bobo, you coward. If he insists on hurling a boot at your head, why dodge it--dodge it! Or wait, stay where you are. I will announce myself."

The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind him.

Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco. His shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless. The Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis:

"Eh, Velasco, is that you?"

The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows. His face was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes were haggard and bloodshot.

"A hundred devils take you!" he cried, "What are you doing here? I told Bobo to keep people out, the treacherous rascal! For heavens sake go and leave me in peace; I tell you Galitsin, go! Don't come near me."