Here a light whistle was heard, and Dubrovsky fell silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Dubrovsky. “They’re calling me; a minute could be my undoing.” He walked away, Marya Kirilovna stood motionless, Dubrovsky came back and took her hand again.
“If ever,” he said in a tender and touching voice, “if ever misfortune befalls you and you cannot look for help or protection from anyone, in that case will you promise to resort to me, to demand anything from me for your salvation? Do you promise not to reject my devotion?”
Marya Kirilovna was silently weeping. The whistle was heard for a third time.
“You will be my undoing!” cried Dubrovsky. “I won’t leave you until you give me an answer. Do you promise or not?”
“I promise,” the poor beauty whispered.
Shaken by her meeting with Dubrovsky, Marya Kirilovna came back from the garden. It seemed to her that all the servants were running around, the house was astir, there were many people in the courtyard, a troika stood by the porch, she heard Kirila Petrovich’s voice in the distance and hurried inside, fearing her absence might have been noticed. Kirila Petrovich met her in the reception room. The guests surrounded the police chief, our acquaintance, showering him with questions. The police chief, dressed for the road, armed from head to foot, answered them with a mysterious and bustling air.
“Where were you, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “Did you run into M. Desforges?”
Masha was barely able to answer in the negative.
“Imagine,” Kirila Petrovich went on, “the police chief has come to arrest him and assures me that he is Dubrovsky himself.”
“By all distinguishing marks, Your Excellency,” the police chief said deferentially.
“Eh, brother,” Kirila Petrovich interrupted, “you can go you know where with your distinguishing marks. I won’t hand my Frenchman over to you before I’ve looked into the matter myself. How can you believe the word of that coward and liar Anton Pafnutych? He dreamed up that the tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he say a word to me about it that same morning?”
“The Frenchman intimidated him, Your Excellency,” the police chief replied, “and extracted an oath of silence from him…”
“Nonsense!” Kirila Petrovich decided. “I’ll get to the bottom of all this in no time. Where’s the tutor?” he asked a servant who had just come in.
“Nowhere to be found, sir,” replied the servant.
“Go and look for him,” shouted Troekurov, beginning to have doubts. “Show me your famous marks,” he said to the police chief, who handed him the paper at once. “Hm, hm, twenty-three years old…That’s right, but it doesn’t prove anything. What about the tutor?”
“Hasn’t been found, sir,” was again the answer. Kirila Petrovich began to worry. Marya Kirilovna was more dead than alive.
“You’re pale, Masha,” her father observed. “You’ve been frightened.”
“No, papa,” Masha replied, “I have a headache.”
“Go to your room, Masha, and don’t worry.” Masha kissed his hand and quickly went to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and sobbed in a fit of hysterics. The maids came running, undressed her, barely managed to calm her with cold water and all possible spirits, laid her down, and she fell into a slumber.
Meanwhile the Frenchman could not be found. Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, menacingly whistling “Thunder of victory resound.” The guests whispered among themselves, the police chief looked like a fool, the Frenchman was not found. He had probably managed to steal away, having been warned. But by whom and how? That remained a mystery.
It struck eleven and no one even thought of sleeping. Finally Kirila Petrovich said angrily to the police chief:
“Well, so? You’re not going to stay here till dawn. My house is not a tavern. It will take more adroitness than you’ve got to catch Dubrovsky, brother, if that is Dubrovsky. Go back where you came from, and in the future be more efficient. It’s time for all of you to go home as well,” he went on, addressing his guests. “Order the hitching up, I want to get some sleep.”
So ungraciously did Troekurov part from his guests!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Some time went by without any notable incidents. But at the beginning of the following summer many changes took place in Kirila Petrovich’s family life.
Twenty miles from him lay the rich estate of Prince Vereisky. The prince had been away in foreign parts for a long time, all his property had been managed by a retired major, and there had been no communication between Pokrovskoe and Arbatovo. But at the end of May the prince came back from abroad and went to his village, which he had never seen in his life. Accustomed to distractions, he could not bear solitude, and on the third day after his arrival he set off to have dinner with Troekurov, with whom he had once been acquainted.
The prince was around fifty, but he looked much older. Excesses of all sorts had undermined his health and left their indelible stamp on him. In spite of that, his appearance was pleasant, notable, and the habit of being always in society had lent him a certain amiability, especially with women. He had a constant need of distraction and was constantly bored. Kirila Petrovich was extremely pleased with his visit, taking it as a sign of respect from a man who knew the world; he began, as usual, by treating him to a tour of his establishment and took him to the kennels. But the prince all but choked in the doggy atmosphere and hurriedly left the place, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old garden with its trimmed lindens, rectangular pond, and regular paths was not to his liking; he preferred English gardens and so-called nature; yet he praised and admired. A servant came to announce that dinner was served. They went to the table. The prince limped, weary from his promenade and already regretting his visit.
But in the reception room they were met by Marya Kirilovna, and the old philanderer was struck by her beauty. Troekurov seated the guest next to her. The prince was revived by her presence, grew merry, and managed several times to attract her attention by his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovich suggested that they go riding, but the prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout; he preferred a promenade in a phaeton, so as not to part from his sweet neighbor. The phaeton was hitched up. The old men and the beauty got in together and drove off. The conversation never lapsed. Marya Kirilovna was listening with pleasure to the flattering and merry compliments of the society man, when Vereisky, suddenly turning to Kirila Petrovich, asked him what was the meaning of that burnt-down building, and did it belong to him?…Kirila Petrovich frowned; the memories evoked by the burnt-down manor were unpleasant for him. He replied that the land was now his and that formerly it had belonged to Dubrovsky.
“To Dubrovsky?” Vereisky repeated. “What, to that famous robber?”
“To his father,” Troekurov replied, “and the father was a pretty good robber himself.”
“What’s become of our Rinaldo now?14 Is he alive? Have they caught him?”
“He’s alive and on the loose, and as long as our police connive with thieves, he won’t be caught. By the way, Prince, Dubrovsky has paid you a visit in Arbatovo, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, last year it seems he did some burning or pillaging…It would be curious to become more closely acquainted with this romantic hero, wouldn’t it, Marya Kirilovna?”