He shrugged his shoulders. It was then that the idea came to him—the execrable, the nefarious idea.
“Listen. As he”—with a movement of his head he indicated the absent Kamarowsky—“is doomed—I suppose he is doomed, isn't he?” he interposed.
I assented in a barely audible whisper: “Yes.”
“Well, his—his disappearance may as well be of some use. Do you not think so?”
Seeing the look of horror which I turned upon him, he continued: “For goodness' sake don't let us behave like romantic fools. We are not a pair of poetic assassins in a play, are we?”
Gradually, by subtle pleading and plausible argument, he led my weak brain to view the idea with less horror. He assured me that we had not only the right but almost the duty to commit this enormity. According to him, it was not a shameful and disgraceful deed. No; it was a just, reasonable, logical thing to do.
“Of course, it is not as if we were getting rid of a man simply in order to plunder him of his money. No, indeed. That would be vile, that would be abominable. But, given the necessity—the irrevocableness—of his fate, why should we not see to it that his death may at least be of some use to some one? Not to ourselves, remember. The money you get from him shall be used to serve a just purpose—to redress a wrong. We shall make restitution to those I have despoiled. I will pay back what I took from my clients to the very last farthing. And anything that is left over shall be given in charity to the poor. What do you say to that? We shall keep nothing for ourselves—nothing. Do you agree?”
He went on to recall that among the clients he had defrauded was a widow with four little children; the thought of her, he said, had always worried him. It was good to think that she would recover every penny.
The advocate in him awoke, eloquent and convincing, until he ended by assuring me that we should be performing a meritorious deed.
Indignant at first, then uncertain, then reluctant, I was finally persuaded. Soon I heard myself repeating after him: “It will be a meritorious deed.”
Ah, if such beings as evil spirits exist, with what laughter must they have listened to our talk in that exquisite evening hour.
It was Prilukoff who thought out the details and settled the plan.
“You must get him to insure his life.”
“How can I?” I cried feebly and tearfully. “How can one possibly suggest such a thing?”
“Leave that to me,” said Prilukoff, reverting to his Moscow manner.
Next day he showed me a letter written by himself in a disguised hand.
“Open this letter when he is present, and when he insists on seeing it, show it to him … reluctantly!”
“But what if he does not insist?”
“You must make him insist,” said Prilukoff.
The letter was brought to me in Kamarowsky's presence, and when he saw me turning scarlet and then pale as I opened it, he insisted on seeing what it contained.
I showed it to him … reluctantly.
The letter was in Prilukoff's handwriting, but was signed “Ivan Troubetzkoi.” The prince (whom I scarcely remembered, and whom I had not seen for more than six years) begged me to marry him, and as proof of his devotion offered to make a will in my favor and, in addition, to insure his life for half a million francs.
Paul Kamarowsky was aghast.
“Is everybody trying to steal you away from me, Mura?” he exclaimed brokenly; then he sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands. I gazed at him, feeling as if I should die with sorrow and remorse.
For a long time he did not speak. Then he drew me to him.
“Dear one, do not heed the offers of other people. No one, whether he be prince or moujik, can love you more than I do. No one will do more for you than I am willing to do. I, also, am ready to make a will in your favor; I, also, will insure my life for half a million francs.”
“No, no,” I cried, crushed with misery and shame.
“Oh, yes, I will. It shall be done immediately. To-day.”
And it was done.
“You see?” cried Prilukoff triumphantly, “I am not quite a fool yet, am I? Hush now, don't cry. Remember that it is not for ourselves, but to make an honorable act of restitution.”
“But a hundred thousand francs would have been enough for that,” I sobbed.
“The other four hundred thousand we shall give to the poor,” said Prilukoff. “It will be a meritorious deed.”
XL
I remember that when I was a child I was taken to a fair and given a ride on a switchback railway. I was scarcely seated in the car, with the straps round my waist and the giddy track before me, than I cried to get out again. But the car was already moving forward, slowly gliding down the first incline.
I screamed, writhing against the straps, “Stop! stop! I want to get out. I want to go back!” But now the car was rushing giddily, in leaps and bounds, down one slope and up another, whirling over bridges and gulfs, dashing down the precipitous declivity with ever-increasing speed.
Even thus had I embarked, almost without realizing it, upon the rapid slope of crime. Impelled by my own madness, I had started on the vertiginous course to perdition, and now I plunged downwards, rolling, leaping, rushing into the darkness, without possibility of pause or return.
It was Kamarowsky himself who begged me to leave Venice for Kieff, where some formalities still remained to be accomplished before our impending marriage. He offered to accompany me, but I declined. He resigned himself, therefore, though with reluctance, to allowing me to start alone with Elise.
“Now,” said Prilukoff, on the eve of my departure—and the transversal vein stood out like whipcord on his forehead—“let there be no more backing out and putting off. You will see Naumoff in Russia; send him straight back here. I'm sick of this business; let us get it over.”
I bowed my head and wept.
Kamarowsky took me to the railway station, where I found the compartment he had reserved for me already filled with flowers. I thanked him with trembling lips.
“In three weeks, my love,” he said, “you will be back again, and then I shall not part from you any more.” He kissed me and stepped down upon the platform, where he stood gazing up at me with smiling eyes. Many people stood near, watching us. I leaned out of the carriage window, and as I looked at him I kept repeating to myself: “This is the last time I shall see him! The last time!”
It seemed strange and incongruous to see him there, with his usual aspect, making ordinary gestures and uttering commonplace remarks. Knowing as I did that he stood on the threshold of death, I wondered that he had not a more staid and solemn demeanor, slower, graver gestures and memorable words.
Whereas he was saying, with a smile: “Mind you don't lose your purse; and remember to look after your luggage at the Customs. You will have the dining-car at Bozen.” And then, looking about him: “Would you like some newspapers?” He hurried away after the newsvendor, and then counted his change and argued about a coin which he thought was counterfeit. He came back to my carriage door, handed me the newspapers, and with his handkerchief dried his forehead and the inside of his hat.
“Fearfully hot,” he said, looking up at me with a friendly laugh.
All this seemed terribly out of keeping with the tragic situation of which, all unconsciously, he was the hero. I tried to say something tender and affectionate to him, but my agitation stifled me.
“Mind you are good,” he said, still smiling, and he threw a glance at some officers in the compartment next to mine.
I heard the doors being shut and the guard calling out “Partenza!” My heart began to beat wildly. I felt as if once again I were strapped in the car on the switchback railway. I wanted to get out, to stop, to turn back. A whistle sounded and a gong was struck.
“Well, Mura, au revoir,” cried Kamarowsky, stretching up his hand to me. “A happy journey and all blessings.”