Below the Nicholai Bridge, on the
right quay of the Neva, stands the palace of the Grand-Duke
Stepan, a huge, granite structure, massive in form
and splendid in architecture.
The palace was ablaze with light.
In the famous ball-room thousands of electric bulbs
twinkled and sparkled, star-shaped and dazzling.
Its lofty, dome-like vault, resting on marble columns,
was encircled by a balcony, narrow and sculptured,
from which the music of the band rose and fell, soft,
entrancing, invisible, as from the clouds. The
walls were of reddish marble rounded at the corners.
The floor, shining, polished as a mirror, reflected
the swaying forms of the dancers as they whirled to
and fro.
Beyond, on the grand stair-case, the
guests ascended slowly in groups of twos and threes,
flecking the marble with splashes of colour, radiant,
vivid, like clusters of rose leaves strewn on the steps.
The perfume was intoxicating, languorous. Light
trills as of laughter and snatches of talk, gay and
fleeting, mingled with the rhythm of the violins.
The ball was at its height.
In an arch of the stair-case stood
a young officer. He was leaning nonchalantly
against the carved balustrade; the scarlet and gold
of his uniform shone against a green background of
palms, distinguishing his broad shoulders from among
the rest. The palms screened him as in a niche.
The officer was swarthy of complexion
with a short, black mustache, and his eyes, small
and near together, roamed carelessly over the throng.
As the groups approached the head of the stair-case,
one after the other, he saluted smiling, half heeding,
and his eyes roved on still more carelessly; sometimes
they crossed.
Whenever they crossed, his eyes would
remain fixed, intent, for a moment, on some one advancing
to the foot of the stair-case, eagerly watching as
the form came nearer and nearer. Then the muscles
relaxed. He frowned impatiently, tapping his
sword against the carvings.
“Hiss-s-t Prince Michel!”
The whisper came from behind the leaves
of the palms and they swayed slightly, trembling as
from a movement, or a breath.
The officer started, turning his black
eyes swiftly, fiercely on the green, and then looked
away again.
“Ha, Boris!” he muttered,
hardly moving his lips, “How you come creeping
behind one! What is it, a message?”
“Hist-st! Speak low.”
The voice was like the faint murmur
of crickets on a hot summer’s day. “The
Duke has gone.”
“Gone? What! The devil he has!”
“Sh-h! not five
minutes ago! A message came from the Tsar himself.
He has just slipped away.”
The officer gazed straight ahead of
him smiling, and bowed to a couple ascending the stair-case.
His lips parted as if in greeting. “Did
he send you to tell me?”
“No, the Duchess. She
has made some excuse and is receiving alone.
No one suspects, not yet; but the guests must be diverted,
or else ”
“Be still, Boris, be still,
you shake the leaves like a bull. When will
he return?”
“By midnight, Prince.
Could you start the mazurka at once?”
“Presently, Boris. Go
and tell my mother I will presently.
The Countess is late, unaccountably late! Is
the snow heavy to-night on the quay; are the sledges
blocked? Hiss-st! There she comes!”
The trembling of the leaves ceased
suddenly and the young officer leaned forward, his
sword clanking, his eyes crossed and fixed on a vague
white spot in the distant foyer.
“She is coming! How slowly
she moves! What a throng! There, she
comes, white and sweet like a lily, a flower!”
The Prince waved his hand; his sword clanked again.
“No, she doesn’t see me; her eyes are
on the ground and her hair, it gleams like
a crown.”
The two figures climbing the grand
marble stair-case moved forward slowly, step by step,
mingling with the flash and colour of the crowd, lost
for a moment at the bend, then reappearing again.
The man, evidently a general, was magnificent in
his uniform; his breast regal with orders and medals,
his grey head held high and his form stiff and straight.
On his arm was the Countess, his daughter.
She clung to him, her lips were smiling
and her white robes trailed the marble behind her.
She was like a young queen, charming and gracious,
bowing to right and to left. As the groups drew
aside to let her pass, they whispered together, looking
up at the carved balustrade; then the crowd closed
again.
At the top of the stair-case the Prince
sprang forward. He greeted the General hastily,
saluting. Then the watchers behind saw how the
Countess paused, hesitated, and then, at a few whispered
words from the Prince, placed her hand on his arm
and the two young figures, the white and the scarlet,
disappeared within the doorway.
The violins rose and fell in a dreamy
measure. From the sculptured gallery the sound
came mysterious, enchanting, swaying the feet with
the force of its rhythm.
“Not to-night,” said the
Countess, “No!” She drew herself away
from the arm of the Prince and her lashes drooped
over her eyes. “I am tired later
perhaps, Prince.”
Her voice, low and remonstrating,
was lost in the swing of the waltz. With a sudden,
swift movement the scarlet and white seemed welded
together, whirling into the vortex of light and of
motion.
No word was exchanged. They
whirled, gliding, twisting in and out among the dancers;
and suddenly, swiftly, as at a signal, the music broke
into the measure of the mazurka. A cry went up
from the throng. In a twinkling the floor was
cleared, the crowd pressed back against the columns;
under the reddish marble of the dome four couples
gathered, poised hand in hand.
The uniforms of the officers glowed
in the light, rich and scarlet, faced with silver
and gold. The gowns of their partners were brocade
and velvet, purple and crimson, lilac and pearl.
Then from the balcony, high up, unseen, the rhythm
changed again like a flash, and with it the national
dance began.
At first the movements were slow,
the steps graceful; the feet seemed scarcely to move,
barely gliding over the floor. One by one the
couples retreated, the last left alone; and then interchanging.
The music grew faster. In that moment, when
they were left alone, the Prince bent his head to
the slim, swaying whiteness by his side:
“Why did you come so late?”
he whispered, “Where were you?”
The Countess’ hand was cold
like ice. She drew it away and danced on; then
she whispered back:
“The Duke! Where is he
to-night? He is not here! Why is the mazurka
so early, tell me.”
They interchanged again.
“Hush,” said the Prince,
“You noticed? Don’t speak.
He has gone to the Tsar. What is it?
Are you ill?”
“He has gone?”
“Dance, Countess, dance.
Don’t stop; are you mad? Come nearer.
Hush! The Tsar sent for him, but he will
be back at midnight. No one must know.”
The figure of the mazurka grew stranger
and more complicated. When they were thrown
together again, the Countess lifted her blue eyes to
the eyes of the Prince. They seemed to look at
her and yet to look past her; they were crossed.
She shivered slightly and turned her head.
Her white figure, slender and light as thistledown,
floated away from him, and then in a moment she was
back, their hands had touched; they were whirling
together faster and faster, the tips of her slippers
scarcely touching the floor. She closed her eyes.
“You won’t tell, not a
soul, I can trust you?” whispered the Prince.
“Come closer, closer. There is a plot to-night.
Boris told me. The Secret Service men are everywhere,
watching. Don’t be frightened, Countess your
hand is so cold. Can you hear me? Bend
your head so! They hope to make arrests
before he returns.”
“When when does he return?”
“Sh h! At midnight.
Dance faster, faster Let yourself go!”
The music broke into a mad riot of
rhythm; the violins seemed to run races with one another
in an intoxication of sound, pulsing, penetrating,
overpowering. The white figure twirled in the
Prince’s arms, her gold hair a blot against
the scarlet of his sleeve, faster and faster.
Her head drooped; her eyes closed again.
The rhythm was alive, tempting, subtle,
like a madness in the veins; and as they whirled,
the rubato, dreamy, sudden, caught them as in a leash;
the steps faltered, slower, more lingering; slower,
still slower until the music stopped, dying away into
the dome of the vault in a last faint echo of sound.
The Countess swayed suddenly.
Her face was white as the lace on
her bosom, and her eyes grew dark and big, with black
shadows sweeping her cheeks. Others stepped forward
to the dance; their places were filled and the music
commenced again.
“Lean on me,” whispered
the Prince, “Are you ill? Countess, lean
on my arm so.”
His voice was hoarse and excited.
He was swaying a little himself from the intoxication
of the dance.
“Take me away somewhere, some
quiet place,” she whispered back. “Let
me rest I am faint.”
He drew her after him and the two
figures, the scarlet and the white, passed under the
archway into a salon beyond. The Prince raised
a curtain: “This is the Duke’s own
room,” he said in her ear, “Go under be
quick!”
The curtain fell heavily behind them
and the two stood alone in the Grand-Duke’s
room. There was a desk in the corner littered
with papers, a lamp stood beside, heavily shaded,
and back in the shadowy recesses was a couch.
“Help me there,” whispered
the Countess, “And then go go, Prince,
leave me. My head is on fire! See, my cheeks,
my hands, how they burn? Help me to the couch.”
She staggered and almost fell as they
approached it, burying her face in her hands.
“I can’t leave you,”
said the Prince. He was on his knees beside her,
kissing her hands, trying to draw them down from her
face. “Kaya, what is the matter?
Don’t hide your eyes look at me.
Shall I call some one? Are you ill?”
The Countess drew back against the
cushions, shuddering, pushing him from her: “Don’t
call any one,” she said, “Give me that
water on the table there.” Her eyes were
wide open now and dilated; the hair fell disordered
in golden rings and waves about the oval of her face.
She drew her breath heavily; her bosom rising and
falling like waves after a storm. One hand pressed
her lace as if to clutch the pulsing and steady it;
the other held the glass to her trembling lips.
The Prince hovered over the couch.
He was pale and the crossing of his eyes was more
pronounced than ever. “Drink now,”
he whispered soothingly as if to a child in trouble,
“Drink it slowly. It is wine, not water,
and will bring back your strength. It was the
dance; ah, it was so fast, so mad. You were
wonderful! The blood beats in my veins still;
I can feel the rhythm throbbing, can you? Speak
to me, Countess are you better?”
“Is any one here,” said the girl faintly,
“Are we alone?”
“Yes, yes, we are alone.”
“Will the Duke come in?”
“Not yet. Put your head
back against the cushions and rest. The colour
is gone from your cheeks and you are pale like a broken
flower. Listen do you hear the violins
in the distance? Your feet move like mine; every
pulse in your body is tingling and throbbing.
Rest; don’t speak, and in a moment Kaya ”
Again the Countess pushed him back,
her blue eyes sparkling, flashing on his: “Prince,
hush! Don’t speak to me like that.
You don’t know, how can you! Poor boy poor
boy! Don’t look at me; I tell you, don’t
look at me. In the dusk it might be the Duke
himself, his very self! Go Leave me
a little. If he were good like you but
you will be bad too when you are older, wicked, cruel the
blood is there in your veins. You will be like
the rest. Keep away from me, Michel. Don’t
kiss my hands, not my hands!”
The Countess tore them away and gazed
at the young officer, her eyes wild and dilated.
She gave a little cry as of pain.
“No no! I can
bear all the rest, but not this not this!
Get up off your knees Prince. Leave me leave
me for a little while I must think; I must
be alone and think.”
Her hair sparkled and gleamed against
the cushions. One hand was still clasped to
her breast. He stooped over her, panting.
“Come and dance with me, Kaya dearest.
You are well now; your cheeks are like roses.
The wine is so strong when one is giddy. Let
me put my arms about you come! I
love you. Ah, your hair is like a halo; your
lips are trembling. The tears in your eyes are
like dew, Kaya.”
The Countess rose slowly to her feet.
“Yes, you are like your father already,”
she cried, “Already you are cowardly. You
are strong and you think I am weak.” Her
head was thrown back; she measured him scornfully,
“Go and dance, sir. Leave me, I tell you.”
The Prince held out his hands.
“Leave you!” he cried, “No, Kaya,
no. Come and dance.”
“Leave me leave me.”
He came nearer: “Are you
still faint? Will you rest and let me come back?
When? How soon?”
“Leave me.”
He took out his watch: “Nearly
midnight,” he cried, “then the Duke will
return. When the clock strikes, Kaya, it will
be our dance. You will waltz with me then once
more? As soon as the clock strikes?”
“Leave me.”
“A quarter of an hour, Kaya,
no more? I will send word to Boris. He
will guard the curtain so no one will enter, unless
it is the Duke himself. As soon as the clock
strikes, you promise, we will waltz together?”
“Go, Michel, go I promise.”
The Prince made a step forward as
though to gather the shrinking figure in his arms.
He hesitated; then he moved towards the curtain;
hesitated again and looked behind him. Then the
heavy folds fell and the girl was alone.
She stood for a moment, watching the
folds, then she put her hands to her eyes and swayed
as though she were falling.
“God!” she cried, “Must
I do it? Is there no other no other
instrument?” She sobbed to herself in little
broken words, catching her breath: “I
vow I vow without weakness, or
hesitation, or mercy with mine own hands
if needs be.”
She staggered forward, still sobbing,
and bent over the desk. Something white fluttered
and fell from her lace; she smoothed it with her fingers;
gazed at it.
“God!” she cried, “Oh, God!”
Then she clasped her breast again
and drew something out, something dark and hard.
She gave a startled glance about the room, covering
it with her arms; her form shivering as though in
a chill.
“In the name of the Black Cross I swear I
swear ”
Then she crept back to the couch and
sank on the floor behind it, covering her face with
her hands. As she did so, the door on the corridor
opened a crack, then wider, slowly wider, and some
one came in. The form was that of a man.
He looked about him. The room was still, deserted,
and he gave a sigh of relief, hurrying over to the
desk. When he turned up the lamp, the light revealed
a bundle of papers which he laid on the desk, examining
them one after the other, putting his face close to
the lamp, studying, absorbed.
The face was that of the Grand-Duke
Stepan; his beaked nose, his grey, upturned mustache,
his eyes small and crossed. They were fixed on
the sheets. All of a sudden he started violently.
Beside him on the desk, just under
the lamp, was a slip of paper. There was nothing
on the paper but a Black Cross graven, above it:
Cmeptb.
As the Duke gazed at it, his face
grew ashen, his mouth twitched, his eyes seemed fairly
to start from his head; his knees knocked together.
He glanced fearfully around, trying vainly to steady
his hands.
“Without weakness, without
hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if needs be,
I swear ”
Was it a voice shrieking in his ears?
He cowered backwards, huddled together, shivering.
“I swear ”
Suddenly there came the click of a
revolver. A shot rang out; a moan. The
Duke stood motionless for a second; then he faltered,
twisted and fell on his face with his arms outstretched.