“If madame permits,” she said in a low voice, “I might perhaps leave 'it' here?”
“It” was the black leather satchel—our white elephant.
“Yes, yes; leave it,” I said.
And she carried it into my bedroom and placed it on the dressing-table.
XXIX
I stepped out upon the balcony and watched the children cross the sunlit square; they turned and waved their hands to me; then I saw them enter the park and scamper down the shady avenue, the faithful Elise trotting quickly in their wake.
I remained on the balcony wrapped in peaceful thoughts, glad to feel the warmth of the autumn sun on my shoulders and the coolness of the autumn breeze on my cheeks. A wave of thankfulness came over me; repentance for all my past doubts and transgressions flooded my heart.
How could I ever have doubted Paul Kamarowsky's love? Was not the absolute faith he reposed in me—the blind unquestioning faith that in my folly I had often resented—was it not after all the highest homage that a noble heart could bestow? Henceforth the aim of my life should be to render myself worthy of his trust and love. In utter gratitude and devotion my heart went out to him who was about to place in my keeping the honor of his unsullied name, and the care of his motherless child. I clasped my hands and breathed a fervent prayer to Heaven, a prayer that I might deserve the happiness that was in store for me.
A slight sound startled me from my reverie. It was Kamarowsky who, having returned and not finding me in the drawing-room, had knocked at my bedroom door. Receiving no reply he entered. I left the balcony, and closing the window after me, stepped into the room.
Kamarowsky was standing in front of the dressing-table holding the black leather satchel in his hand.
“What is this?” he asked casually. “Is it yours?”
The pitiless light from the window struck me full in the face, and I felt that I was turning pale. “No—no—” I stammered. “It is not mine.”
“I thought not,” he said, turning it round and round. “I did not remember seeing it. We had better send it down to the bureau of the hotel.” And he stepped forward to touch the bell.
“No, no!” I cried, “it belongs to Elise.”
“Why does Elise leave her things in your room?” Then noticing my pallor and agitation he exclaimed: “Why, dearest? What is wrong with you? You look quite white.”
“It is nothing, nothing,” I said, attempting to smile; and I sat down with my back to the light. I was trembling from head to foot.
He bent over me with tender solicitude. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Slightly—it will pass—it is nothing. The fatigue of the journey perhaps,” and I caressed the kind face that bent over me full of affectionate concern.
He turned and rang the bell.
A waiter appeared. “Bring some brandy,” ordered Kamarowsky. “Make haste. The lady is not well.”
The waiter returned promptly and placed the tray on the table; as he was about to leave the room Count Kamarowsky, who was pouring out the brandy, said to him: “Wait a moment, you can take that satchel upstairs to the maid's apartment.”
I sprang to my feet. “No—leave it,” I cried, taking it from the waiter's hand. The man bowed and left the room.
Kamarowsky seemed astonished at my behavior. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Why are you so agitated?”
“I am not—I am not agitated at all,” I stammered, trying to control my features, and holding the odious white elephant in my trembling hands.
“What on earth is in that bag?” asked the Count.
“Nothing—nothing,” I said, with a vacuous, senseless smile.
“Come, now! It is full of papers,” laughed Kamarowsky, putting out his hand and pressing the satchel between his fingers. “Confess, what are they? Love-letters?”
I contrived to answer his jest with a smile: “You have guessed right,” I said.
“They are Elise's, I hope—not yours!” he added, half smiling and half distrustful.
I laughed. “Elise's, of course;” and with a deep sigh of relief I sank upon a chair, feeling that the danger was past. But my heart had not yet resumed its normal pulsation when the door opened and the unwitting Elise appeared on the threshold.
“We have returned, my lady, and the children have gone upstairs.”
Kamarowsky jestingly took the satchel from my hand and dangled it in the air.
“Ah, Elise! What have we got in here?”
Elise rolled her eyes wildly, and a scarlet blush mounted to her face; Elise's blushes were always painful to see; now her face was of a deep damask hue.
The Count laughed. “So this is where you keep your love-letters, is it?”
“Oh, no, sir,” exclaimed Elise, blushing till her eyes were filled with tears.
“What? Is this satchel not yours?”
“Oh, no, sir!—I mean—yes, sir,” stuttered Elise.
Kamarowsky looked at her, and then at me. Seeing the expression of our faces the laughter faded from his lips.
“Come, Elise; tell me whose it is, and what it contains.”
I attempted to make a sign to her, but the tall, broad figure of Count Kamarowsky stood between us.
I rose with a sigh of despair, acquiescing in my fate. Now—let happen what may.
“What letters are they?” insisted Kamarowsky.
I heard the hapless Elise floundering in the quicksands of falsehood; finally she let herself drift—a helpless wreck on the rock of truth.
“It is not letters, it is money,” she said at last.
“Money? Money of yours?”
“No.”
There was a brief silence. Then Kamarowsky said: “I do not believe you. I wish to see what it contains.”
No one answered him.
“Where is the key?”
Again there was silence.
I heard a slight jingling sound; Kamarowsky was searching in his pockets for a penknife. Then he said to Elise: “You can go.”
Elise went slowly and reluctantly from the room. Then I heard a faint tearing and crackling: Kamarowsky had cut through the leather of the satchel. Now the rustling of banknotes told me that he was smoothing them out on the table, and counting them.
A few moments passed.
“Thirty-five thousand rubles,” said Paul Kamarowsky slowly. “I cannot understand why you should have told me you were penniless.” There was an icy coldness in his voice such as I had never heard before.
“The money is not mine,” I said, in trembling tones.
“Whose is it?”
How was I to answer him? Could I betray Prilukoff? And, with him, myself? I decided to tell what was, intrinsically, the truth.
“I do not know whom it belongs to.”
Once more there was silence. I wondered what he would do? Would he insult me? Would he raise his voice in bitter accusation and reproof?
No. The silence remained unbroken. Kamarowsky left the room without a word.
Ah! I was still in the grip of the octopus; its tentacles bound and crushed me still. Even from afar Prilukoff guided my destinies, drove my frail barque into storm and disaster.
With trembling hands I gathered up the scattered banknotes and thrust them back into the execrated leather bag. Ah, if only I could have freed myself from this nightmare burden, if only I could have returned the money to Prilukoff! But how? Where to? At the Bellevue, in Hyères, he had called himself Zeiler. But now where was he? Under what name was he hiding? How could I, without warning, send him such a sum of money? Where could I write to him?
No; fate had doomed me to wander through the world carrying with me the hated money in Elise's abominable satchel! At the bitterness of this thought I dropped my face in my hands and wept.
I did not hear any one knock at the door; nor did I hear the door open. When, still shaken with sobs, I raised my tear-stained face, I beheld standing on the threshold a stranger—a slender, fair-haired youth. He was gazing at me with compassionate eyes, full of confusion at having found me in tears.