The Black Cross Part 1

The Black Cross.

by Olive M. Briggs.

PART I

CHAPTER I

It was night in St. Petersburg. The moon was high in the heavens, and the domes, crowned with a fresh diadem of snow, glittered with a dazzling whiteness. In the side streets the shadows were heavy, the facades of the great palaces casting strange and dark reflections upon the pavement; but the main thoroughfares were streaked as with silver, while along the quay all was bright and luminous as at noontide, the Neva asleep like a frozen Princess under a breast-plate of s.h.i.+mmering ice.

The wind was cold, the air frosty and gay with tinkling sleigh-bells.

A constant stream of people in sledges and on foot filled the Morskaa, hurrying in the one direction. The great Square of the Mariinski was alive with a moving, jostling throng, surging backwards and forwards before the steps of the Theatre like waves on a rock; a gay, well-dressed, chattering mult.i.tude, eager to present their tickets, or buy them as the case might be, and enter the gaping doors into the brilliantly lighted foyer beyond.

It was ballet night, but for the first time in the memory of the Theatre no ballet was to be given. Instead of the "Premiere Danseuse,"

the idol of Russian society, a new star had appeared, suddenly, miraculously almost, dropped from a Polish Province, and had played himself into the innermost heart of St. Petersburg.

The four strings of his Stradivarius, so fragile, so delicate and slim, were as four chains to bind the people to him; four living wires over which the sound of his fame sped from city to city, from province to province, until there was no musician in all the Russias who could play as Velasco, no instrument like his with the gift of tears and of laughter as well, all the range of human emotions hidden within its slender, resinous body.

So the people said as they gossiped together on the steps: "The great Velasco! The wonderful Velasco!" And now he was on his way to Germany. It was his last concert, his "farewell."

The announcement had been blazoned about on red and yellow handbills for weeks. One Salle after the other had offered itself, each more commodious than the last; but they were as nothing to the demands of the box-office. The list grew longer, the clamourings louder; and at last the unprecedented happened. At the request of a t.i.tled committee under the signature of the Grand-Duke Stepan himself, the Mariinski, largest and most beautiful of theatres, had opened its doors to the young G.o.d; and the price of tickets went up in leaps like a barometer after a storm;--fifteen roubles for a seat, twenty--twenty-five--and finally no seat at all, not even standing-room.

The crowd melted away gradually; the doors of the foyer closed; the harsh cries of the speculators died in the distance. Behind the Theatre the ice on the ca.n.a.l glimmered and sparkled. The moon climbed higher and the bells of the Nikolski Church rang out clearly, resonantly above the tree-tops.

Scarcely had the last stroke sounded when a black sleigh, drawn by a pair of splendid bays, dashed out of a side street and crossed the Pozeluef bridge at a gallop. At the same moment a troka, with three horses abreast, turned sharply into the Glinki and the two collided with a crash, the occupants flung out on the snow, the frightened animals plunging and rearing in a tangled, inextricable heap.

The drivers rushed to the horses' heads.

"A pest on you, son of a goat!" screamed the one, "Have you eyes in the back of your head that you can't see a yard in front of you?"

"Viper!" retorted the other furiously, "d.a.m.nation on you and your bad driving! Call the police! Arrest the shark of an anarchist!"

Meanwhile the master of the black sleigh, a heavily built, elderly man, had picked himself out of a drift with the a.s.sistance of his lackey and was brus.h.i.+ng the snow from his long fur cloak. A fur cap, pulled down over his eyes, hid his face, but his gestures were angry, and his voice was high and rasping.

"Where is the fellow?" he snarled, "Let me see him; let me see his face. Away, Pierre, I tell you, go to the horses! A mercy indeed if their legs are not broken. A pretty pa.s.s this, that one can't drive through the streets of the capital, not even incognito!--Call the police!"

The other gentleman, who seemed little more than a boy, stood by the overturned troka wringing his hands:

"Is it hurt, my little one, my treasure, is it scratched? Keep their hoofs away, Bobo, hold them still a moment while I raise one end."

He knelt in the snow and peered eagerly beneath the sleigh.

"Sacre--ment!" cried the older man, "What is he after? Quick, on him, Pierre! Don't let him escape."

The lackey moved cautiously forward, and then gave a sudden leap back as the boyish figure sprang to his feet, clasping a dark, oblong object in his arms.

"A bomb, a bomb! In the name of all the saints! If he should drop it they were doomed, they were dead men!"

The eyes of the lackey were bulging with terror and he stood riveted to the spot. In the meantime the young man had s.n.a.t.c.hed out his watch and was holding it up into a patch of moonlight.

"Twenty past the hour!" he exclaimed, "and old Galitsin fuming, I'll be bound! I'll have to make a run for it. Hey, Bobo!"

As he spoke, an iron hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up amazed into a pair of eyes, small and black and crossed, flas.h.i.+ng with fury.

"Drop it," hissed a voice, "and I'll throttle you as you stand!

Traitor! a.s.sa.s.sin! Your driver obeyed orders, did he? You knew?

Vermin, you ran us down! How did you know? Who betrayed me?--Who?"

The youth stood motionless for a moment in astonishment. He was helpless as a girl in that vicious grasp that was bearing him under slowly, relentlessly. "For the love of heaven," he cried, "Let go my arm, you brute, you'll sprain a muscle! Be careful!"

"Drop it, and I swear by all that is holy--"

"You old fool, you curmudgeon, you coward of an old blatherskite!"

cried the boy, "I wouldn't drop it for all the world, not if you went on your bended knees. Bobo, yell for the police! Don't you touch my wrist! Look out now! Of all unpleasant things--!

"Bobo, come here. Never mind the horses. I tell you he is ruining my arm!--Hey! Help! You're an anarchist yourself, you fool! Shout, Bobo, shout!"

In the struggle the two had pa.s.sed from the shadow into the moonlight and they now confronted one another. The master of the black sleigh was still enveloped in his cloak, only the gleam of his eyes, small and black and crossed, was visible under the cap, his beaked nose and the upward twist of his grey mustache.

The youth stood erect and angry; his head was bare, thrown back as a young lion at bay, his dark hair falling like a mane, cl.u.s.tered in waves about his broad, overhanging brows; strange brows and strange eyes underneath. The mouth was sensitive, the chin short and rather full, the whole aspect as of some one distinguished and out of the ordinary.

They stared at one another for a moment and then the hand of the older man dropped to his side. "I beg your pardon," he said, with some show of apology in his tone, "Surely I must have made a mistake. Where have I seen you before? You are no anarchist; pray, pardon me."

The young man was feeling his arm ruefully: "Good gracious, sir," he said, "but you are hasty!--I never felt such a grip. The muscles are quite sore already, but luckily it is the left arm, otherwise, Bozhe moi[1], I vow I'd sue you!--If it were the fingers now, or the wrist--"

He took off his fur gloves and examined both hands carefully, one after the other. A scornful look came over the older man's face:

"There was no excuse, my friend, for the way your troka rounded that corner. Such driving is criminal in a public street. It's a mercy we weren't all killed! Still, you really must pardon me, these anarchist devils are everywhere nowadays and one has to take precautions. I was hurrying to the Mariinski."

Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when there came the snapping of two watch lids almost simultaneously, and both gentlemen gave a cry of consternation.

"Oh, the deuce!" exclaimed the boy, "so was I, and look at the time if you please; the House will be in an uproar!"

The older man hurried towards the already righted sleigh: "Most unfortunate," he fumed, "and to-night of all nights! The entire concert will be at a standstill. The rug, Pierre, quick the rug! Are the horses ready? Hurry, you great lumbering son of an ox!"

The boy had already leaped into the troka and was wrapping the fur robes about his knees. "We shall put in an appearance about the same time, sir," he called back carelessly over his shoulder. "You won't miss anything, not a note, if that will comfort you. Hey, Bobo, go ahead! The concert can't begin without me."

"Without you," interrupted the other, "eh, what--you? Tsyacha chertei[2]! What do you mean?"

The master of the black sleigh stood up suddenly and threw back his cloak with a haughty gesture. He was in uniform and his breast glittered with orders. His cap fell back from his face, and his eyes, small and black and crossed, his beaked nose, his grey upturned mustache, showed distinctly in the moonlight. The face was known to every Russian, young and old, rich and poor--the Grand-Duke Stepan.

The youth made a low obeisance; then he tossed the hair away from his brows and laughed: "True, your highness," he said with mock humility, "I should have said--'until we both get there,' of course. Your pardon, sire."

The Duke leaned forward: "Stop--!" he exclaimed, "Your face--certainly somewhere I have seen it--Wait!"

The driver of the troka reined in the panting horses three abreast.

They pawed the snow, still prancing a little and trembling, their bits flecked with foam. The youth saluted with one hand carelessly, while with the other he grasped the dark, oblong object that was not a bomb.