The Black Cross Part 11

The prisoner stared at him for a moment blinking. "You impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "She is my wife, papers or no papers. Ask her!--Kaya!"

The girl held herself straight and aloof. She was gazing down at the litter of papers on the table; her face was white and her lips were clenched in her teeth.

"Kaya--tell him! The papers are lost! G.o.d, they are gone somehow!

Tell him--"

The girl released her lip and her voice came out suddenly, ringing, clear as if the room had been large and the Cossack deaf; it seemed to burst from her throat.

"I am not his wife," she said, "He is mistaken. He is telling you that out of kindness. Monsieur is a stranger to me, until last night a perfect stranger. I don't know him at all. Don't believe what he says. You see for yourself there are no papers. Is it likely?"

The tones of her voice seemed to die away suddenly and a drop of blood oozed from her lip. She wiped it away and clinched her teeth again, fiercely, as if hedging her words.

"Kaya!" cried the man. "She is my wife, I tell you, she is my wife!

The priest married us. I can prove it."

"Silence," cried the Cossack. "What do we care if you are married or not. You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does not concern you. Silence, I tell you. Answer my questions. What is your name?"

"My name is Velasco."

"Ha--the musician?"

"Yes."

"Very good! Try again. There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every one knows, and he isn't here. Your name? Tell the truth if you can."

"My name is Velasco."

"The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!--You two make a pair between you. Velasco! The Wizard of the bow! The one all Russia is mad over! Ye saints! I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard him. Bah--you anarchist dog! Now, d.a.m.n you, answer me straight or I'll make you. Your name?"

The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking his fist. "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it?

Quick--your name?"

The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window, half closing his eyes. The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the lids.

"Will you answer or not?"

Velasco swayed a little and a dark gleam shot out between the slits: "If I had been brought up a soldier," he said, "instead of a musician, I should take pleasure in knocking you down; as it is, my muscles were trained to much better purpose. This interview, sir, is becoming unpleasant. I will trouble you to send for my Stradivarius at once.

Some of your men stole it, I fancy, last night. It is worth its weight twice over in gold. There is not another like it in the country, perhaps in the world. The next time his majesty, the Tsar, requests my presence, I shall inform him that the violin is here in his fortress, stolen by a slovenly, insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from a block of wood, or a note from a pin head." His eyes drooped again.

The Cossack examined him narrowly.

"If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khorosho[1]! then prove it. There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a fiddle. Brr--Ivanovitch, go for it. No. 17,369, in the third compartment, by the wall. That isn't a bad idea!" He rubbed his hands together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your impudence. You can't cheat me." He laughed loud and long.

Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming, his mind far away. The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a roof, rolling off, leaving no sign.

The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly. She pressed them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white; then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her brow and her cheeks.

"Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle.

Now, for a lark! Brr--Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical--ha ha! No, stop! I will keep the fun to myself. Shut the door. Is the Chief here yet?"

"No, Gospodin."

"Sapristi! Never mind, shut the door--shut the door!"

Velasco roused suddenly. He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his hands. His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief.

"My violin, my treasure! My beloved, give it to me! You brute, you great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you! Out of my way! Let it go--or I'll strike you!--Let go!"

He s.n.a.t.c.hed the case to his breast and carried it over to the table, opening it, unfolding the wrappings. They were silken and heavy. The violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening yellow, golden and resinous. He touched it tenderly, lifting it, examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been bruised.

The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their helmets. The girl watched him with wistful eyes. She understood. It was the artist-temperament in full command. The man had vanished, the musician was in possession. He was rocked by it, swayed, overpowered, a slave. His eyes saw nothing; his ears heard nothing; his mind was a whirl, a wonderful chaos of sound, of colour, of notes dancing, leaping.

The bow was in his hand, the violin was on his breast. He closed his eyes, swaying, pressing it to his cheek. The eyes of the girl filled with tears. It was just as he had said. He was talking to it and it was answering him, softly at first, faint and low, his fingers scarcely touching the strings; then the tones burst out, full, radiant, like a bud into bloom, rus.h.i.+ng, soaring, echoing up to the walls of the room, striking the stone, bounding back, dying away. He was drunk, he was mad; he was clasping the thing, forcing it, pressing it, swaying it, and the strings leaped after his will.

She fell back against the wall, steadying herself, and her eyes drank in the sight of him as her ears the sound--the slight, swaying figure, the dark head bowed with his hair like a mane, the arm with the bow, the abandon of the wrist, the white, flas.h.i.+ng fingers. She drew a quick breath.

The official sat open-mouthed. The cruelty had gone from his face, the sharp, steely look from his eyes. He was grasping the desk with both hands, leaning forward, staring as one who is benumbed, hypnotized.

Velasco played as he had never played before. He was playing for his life, his ident.i.ty, his freedom; and suddenly into the tones crept another consciousness, subtle at first, scarcely heard, something fragile and weak, new born as if struggling for breath. He stopped and pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes, dropping the bow. Where was he! What had happened! Was it his life, or hers, he was playing to save?--Oh G.o.d!

He gazed at her across the room, into the two deep wells of her eyes, and again his muscles swelled, his chin stiffened. He stood there gazing, struggling with himself; his one personality against the other; the hair falling over his brows, the violin clasped in his arms.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door.

The Cossack gave a long sigh. He went up to Velasco slowly and took his hand, the hand with the bow.

"Great heaven!" he cried, "I am exhausted, I am limp as a rag! There is not another soul in Russia, in the world, who can play like that!

You are marvellous, wonderful! All they said was too little.

Monsieur--there is no further doubt in my mind, I ask your forgiveness.

You are, you can be no other than he--Velasco."

The knock was repeated.

"Come in!" cried the Cossack. His voice was hoa.r.s.e and he cleared his throat: "Come in!"

The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by the Chief of the Third Section. The Cossacks saluted with their hands stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet them, bowing. All the a.s.surance was gone from his manner; he was now the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior. The General waved him aside. His face was florid and red; he was a large man, heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone of the floor as he moved. The girl was still leaning against the wall.

When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching out her hands: "Father!" she cried, "Father!" And then she stopped suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast.

"Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris. He spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic, staccato.

"Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"--"Is this the woman?"

"It is, General."

"She was in the Duke's room?"

"She was."

"You found her in the train?"