“It is impossible!” And Elise, whom fear rendered well-nigh voiceless, would roll towards me her round, despairing eyes.
Then the Count would speak to me through the closed door, entreating and arguing; and every time he used a tender expression Prilukoff, who held me fast, pinched my arm.
“Mura, Mura, let me in. Let me see you for a moment. You know how I love you (pinch); it is cruel to lock me out as if I were a stranger. If you are ill let me take care of you, with all my tenderness (pinch), with all my love (pinch)—”
In feeble accents I would reply: “Forgive me—I shall soon be better—do not trouble about me.”
“But what is the matter? Why do you not want to see me? Do you not love me any more?”
“Oh, yes, I love—(pinch). Please, please go away. I shall come down as soon as I can.”
Then I could hear his slowly retreating footsteps, while Prilukoff glared at me and, on general principles, pinched my arm again.
It was with the greatest difficulty that I could conceal Prilukoff's presence from little Tioka.
One day the child caught sight of him seated on the terrace, and, with a wild cry of delight, started to run towards him. I caught him in my arms. “No, darling, no! That is not Prilukoff. It is some one very much like him; but it is not our friend.”
And as the man, with scowling countenance, was gazing out at the sea, and paid no heed to us, Tioka believed me, and, with a little sigh of regret, ran in search of his playmate Grania.
The life Prilukoff led me in this grotesque and unbearable situation is impossible to describe. My days were passed in an agony of terror. When I dined with Kamarowsky, Prilukoff invariably took a seat at the next table, and I might almost say that it was he who regulated our conversation. If any subject were raised that was distasteful to him—my approaching marriage to Kamarowsky, for instance, or some tender reminiscence which my betrothed loved to recall—Prilukoff, at the adjoining table, made savage gestures which terrified me and attracted the attention of all the other guests. He would shake his fists at me, glare at me with terrible eyes, and, if I pretended not to notice him, he upset the cruet-stand or dropped his knife and fork noisily to attract my attention. He would stare at the unconscious, slightly bald head of Kamarowsky, and imitate his gestures with a demoniacal grin.
The guests of the hotel thought him insane, and he certainly behaved as if he were. I myself have often thought: “Surely he is a madman!” when I came upon him suddenly, hidden behind the curtains in my sitting-room, or crouching in a dark corner, or lying on my bed smoking cigarettes. I felt that my nerves and my reason were giving way.
“What do you want of me, you cruel man?” I sobbed. “What am I to do? Do you wish me to tell everything to Kamarowsky? To break off the marriage and return to Moscow with you?”
“We cannot return to Moscow, and you know it,” growled Prilukoff.
“Somewhere else, then. Anywhere! I will go wherever you like, I will do whatever you like. Anything, anything, rather than endure this torture any longer.”
“For the present we stay here,” declared Prilukoff, who seemed to enjoy my anguish. “And as for the future,” he added, rolling his terrible eyes, “you can leave that to me.”
Sometimes he forbade me to go out with Kamarowsky. At other times he followed us in the streets, torturing me behind the unconscious back of my betrothed, who marveled and grieved at my extraordinary and frequently absurd behavior.
Early one morning, as I looked out of my window, I saw Kamarowsky standing on the terrace, gazing thoughtfully out at the sea. I ran down to him. We were alone. “Paul,” I whispered hurriedly, “let us go away from here; let us leave quietly, to-day, without saying a word to any one.”
He laughed. “What a romantic idea! Do you not like this place? Are you not happy here?”
“No, Paul, no! There is some one spying upon me.”
“Spying upon you?” he repeated, greatly astonished. “Is that the reason of your strange behavior?”
“Yes, yes, but do not ask me any more questions.”
“Who is it? I must know who it is.”
“No, Paul. I will tell you later on. Hush!”
“You are a fanciful creature,” he said, laughing and patting my cheek.
I felt hurt at his calm acceptance of what I had told him, and wondered that he did not insist upon knowing more. I reflected in my folly that if he really loved me he ought to have been less satisfied and secure. I did not understand—alas! I never understood—his guileless and noble trust in me. The insensate and exacting passion of others who until now had dominated my life had spoiled me for all normal affection. Hypersensitive and overwrought, I myself suffered unless I caused suffering to those I loved; nor did I ever feel sure of their love unless they doubted mine.
was not the love I knew. My storm-tossed heart did not recognize it. Neither on that day nor ever could I bring myself to believe that Paul Kamarowsky really loved me.
During those few moments that we were alone together on the terrace, we arranged that I should start with Tioka and Elise that very evening, during the dinner hour, leaving all our trunks behind us for my betrothed to see to after we had left. He could join us three days later in Vienna, and then we should all proceed to Orel, where important affairs claimed his presence.
Half-way through dinner, as had been arranged (and as usual Prilukoff sat at a table next to ours), Elise entered the dining-room timidly and came to our table.
“I beg your ladyship's pardon. Master Tioka is outside and wishes to say good-night.”
“Bring Master Tioka in,” I said, trying to speak naturally and raising my voice a little so that Prilukoff should hear.
“I am sorry, my lady, but he refuses to come,” and Elise hung her head as she spoke these words; the treason we were perpetrating on Lohengrin grieved her even more than the tortures that Lohengrin had inflicted upon me.
“Pray excuse me a moment,” I said to Count Kamarowsky, and rose from the table. “I shall be back at once.”
No sooner was I outside the dining-room than Elise threw my traveling cloak round me. A motor-car was throbbing at the door, and in it with beaming face sat Tioka surrounded by our hand-bags and dressing-cases, shawls and hats.
“What are we doing?” he cried gleefully. “Are we running away?”
“Yes, darling,” and I clasped him to my heart, as I sank into the seat beside him. The motor was already gliding through the twilight roads towards Cannes.
“But why? Why are we running away? Have we stolen something?”
At those words my heart stopped beating. I suddenly remembered Prilukoff's ill-gotten banknotes.
“Elise!” I gasped; “in the desk in my sitting-room—there was some money.”
“Yes, madame.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It is quite safe, madame. I have taken it.”
“You have taken it!”
“Yes, madame. Here it is.” And with satisfied hand Elise patted a black leather satchel that lay in her lap.
With a sob I hid my face in my hands.
Indeed, we had stolen something!
XXVIII
As soon as we reached the frontier I telegraphed to Prilukoff. I wanted to send Elise back to Hyères with the money, but she refused to leave me.
“What if Mr. Prilukoff were to kill me,” she cried. “Then what would your ladyship and poor little Master Tioka do, all alone in the world?”
“But my good Elise, why on earth should Mr. Prilukoff kill you?”
“I don't know,” sighed Elise. “But he has become so strange of late—” and after a pause, she added, under her breath: “We have all become very strange.”
It was true. I could not but admit it. We were “very strange.” We were not at all like other people. The people that we met on our journeys and in hotels, for instance, all took an interest in external things—in the surrounding landscape, or in works of art and monuments and cathedrals. As for us, we never spoke about monuments. We never entered a cathedral. We took no interest whatever in anything beyond our own dolorous souls. We were even as those who travel with an invalid, watching him only, caring for and thinking of nothing else. The invalid I traveled with was my own sick soul.