Every time I found myself alone in front of a closed door, I did not dare to open it. I had the fixed, frightful idea that behind the door I should see—Bozevsky! I had the irremovable conviction that he was standing, motionless and expectant, behind every door that confronted me. All the doors of our apartment had to be kept wide open. If it ever happened that I found myself alone in a room of which the door was closed, instead of opening it I rang the bell, I called, I cried for help; and if it chanced that every one was out, or no one heard me, I stood riveted to the spot, rigid with fear, staring at the terrifying mystery of that closed door before me. Perchance, with a great effort of will, holding my breath while the beads of cold perspiration started on my brow, I ventured to put out my hand towards the handle—but in an instant I found myself pushing the door to again, leaning desperately with all my strength against the frail barrier which concealed—oh, I knew it did!—Bozevsky, standing upright and terrible, with the yellow gauze round his neck.
This notion, horrible as it was in the daytime, became an unbearable fear after nightfall. Tioka went upstairs to bed, accompanied by Elise, at about eight o'clock. Twice it happened that, when they were both asleep, a draught caught the open door of the drawing-room in which I was sitting, and shut it. With chattering teeth, and shivers running over me like chilly water, I remained there, motionless, through all the hours of the night, knowing that Bozevsky was there, separated from me only by that slender wooden partition.
In the morning Elise found me lying on the floor in a faint.
One day Elise was summoned to Neuchâtel. Her father was at the point of death, and wished to give his last embrace and blessing to his only daughter. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when the telegram for Elise arrived; at eight o'clock, distracted and weeping, she was in the train.
Tioka and I, who had accompanied her to the station, returned homeward feeling sad and lonely. We felt doubly lonely that day, as Donat Prilukoff had been obliged to leave Moscow on account of a lawsuit, and was not to return until the following evening.
We had, it is true, another serving-woman, a cook; but she left us every evening to go and sleep at her own home.
We entered our dark and silent apartment nervously. I hastily turned on all the lights and then carried Tioka, who was cross and already half asleep, up the inner staircase leading to our bedrooms.
I undressed him and put him to bed, tucking him up warmly and comfortably.
“Oh, dear,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes; “do you think the wolves will come and eat me if I don't say my prayers to-night?”
“No, no, dearest. I will say them for you. Go to sleep.”
I kissed him and turned out the light; then I went downstairs to get a book from the library, intending to return to my room at once. I felt nervous and restless. I was afraid I should not be able to sleep.
How did it happen? Perhaps it was an instant's forgetfulness that caused me to draw the door of the library after me. It closed with a heavy thud. The long, dark-red curtain turned on its rod and fell in front of the doorway.
I was imprisoned!
XXII
I should never dare to leave that room.
Suddenly I thought that Tioka might call me. But between him and me, standing outside on the threshold of that draped door, was there not the man whom I had seen die in Yalta? Horrifying memory! For a long time I did not venture to stir. I turned my head and looked behind me, then fixed my eyes afresh on the red curtain. Suddenly I thought I heard a cry.
Yes; it was Tioka calling me, Tioka all alone upstairs, who was frightened too, frightened even as I was. With shivers swathing me from head to foot as with an icy sheet, I listened to those cries which every moment grew shriller and wilder. Then, in answer to him, I screamed too.
Oh, those shrieks ringing through the empty house—shrieks which only that silent ghost behind the door could hear!
Suddenly another thrill ran through me; the electric bell had sounded. Some one was ringing at our door; some one was coming to save us. Tioka still screamed, and the bell continued to ring. I could also hear blows on the door and then a voice—Prilukoff's voice—calling: “It is I. Open the door!”
With a sob of mingled terror and joy I thrust back the curtain and flung open the dreaded door. Stumbling blindly through the passage I reached the hall door and drew back the latch. Prilukoff stood on the threshold; he was pale as death.
“What has happened?” he cried. “What is the matter?” And he gripped my arm.
I was sobbing with joy and relief. “Tioka, Tioka!” I called out. “Don't cry any more. Donat has come! We are here, we are near you!”
Tioka's cries ceased at once.
But Prilukoff still held me fast. “What has happened!” he asked, clenching his teeth.
“I was afraid, I was afraid—” I gasped.
“Of whom?”
A fresh outburst of tears shook me. “Of the dead,” I sobbed.
“Leave the dead to me,” said Prilukoff.
He entered and shut the door.
Thus, unconscious and unwilling, I descended yet another step down the ladder of infamy.
Shrinking and reluctant I trailed my white garments into defilement, sinking with every step deeper into the mire which was soon to engulf me; the mire which was to reach my proud heart, my pearl-encircled throat, my exalted brow on which nobility had set its seal in vain.
It was about that time, I remember, that Delphinus, a renowned fortune-teller, came to Moscow. One morning, having nothing else to do, I went with the smiling, skeptical Elise to consult him in his luxurious apartments.
He took both my hands and gazed for a long time at a crystal ball which was before him. Then he said: “Woman, your life is a tragedy.”
I smiled, incredulous yet disturbed. “Pray say rather a comedy, if you can.”
He shook his head. “A tragedy,” he repeated gloomily. Then he uttered several commonplaces which might apply to any other woman as well as to me. Finally, with knitted brows, he looked still more closely into the crystal. “Two men,” he said, speaking slowly, “have yet to enter into your life. One will bring salvation, the other ruin. Choose the one, and you will attain happiness; choose the other and you will perish.”
He paused. “You will choose the other,” he said, and released my hand.
I got up, smiling. “Oh, no, indeed! Now that I have been forewarned—”
“You will choose the other,” he repeated oracularly. “It is your destiny.”
Although I am not really superstitious, this curt, obscure prediction impressed me strangely.
“I shall beware of whom I meet,” I said to myself; and indeed, every time a man spoke to me, even casually, I wondered: could this be the One?—or the Other?
But days and months passed, and I made no new acquaintances.
Prilukoff kept me jealously secluded, and little Tioka absorbed my every hour. Apart from these two I saw no one at all.
It was by mere chance that one day I met a former acquaintance.
I had taken Tioka for a walk in the park when we saw a gentleman and a child sitting on a bench in the shade. They were both dressed in deep mourning, and they looked sad and disconsolate. The little boy was leaning his fair head on his father's arm, watching him as, with an air of melancholy abstraction, he traced hieroglyphics in the gravel with his stick. On hearing us approach the man in mourning raised his head and looked at us.
I recognized him at once. It was Count Paul Kamarowsky, the husband of one of my dearest friends, who lived at Dresden, and whom I had not seen for nearly two years.
He recognized me, too, and started to his feet with eager face, while the little boy looked at us diffidently, still holding to his father's sleeve.
“Countess Tarnowska!” he exclaimed, holding out both his hands.