A Cigarette-Maker's Romance Part 21

At that moment Akulina's stout figure appeared, entering from the street.

The Cossack stood still, glaring at her, his face growing white and contracted with anger. He was becoming dangerous, as good-tempered men will, when roused, especially when they have been brought up among people who, as a tribe, would rather fight than eat, at any time of day, from pure love of the thing. Even Akulina, who was not timid, hesitated as she stood on the threshold.

"What has happened?" she inquired, looking from Schmidt to her husband.

The latter came to her side, if not for protection, as might be maliciously supposed, at least for company.

"I cannot understand at all," said Fischelowitz, still edging away.

"You understand well enough, I think, and as for you, Frau Fischelowitz, I have something to talk of with you, too. But we will put it off until later," he added, as though suddenly changing his mind.

The Count himself had appeared in the doorway behind Akulina. Both she and her husband stood aside, looking at him curiously.

"Good-morning," he said, gravely taking off his hat and inclining his head a little. He acted as though quite unconscious of what had happened on the previous day, and they watched him as he quietly went into the room beyond, into which the Cossack had retired on seeing him enter.

He hung up his hat in its usual place, nodding to Schmidt, who was opposite to him. Then, as he turned, he met Vjera's eyes. It was a supreme moment for her, poor child. Would he remember anything of what had pa.s.sed on the previous day? Or had he forgotten all, his debt, her saving of him and the sacrifice she had made? He looked at her so long and so steadily that she grew frightened. Then all at once he came close to her, and took her hand and kissed it as he had done when they had last parted, careless of Schmidt's presence.

"I have not forgotten, dear Vjera," he whispered in her ear.

Schmidt pa.s.sed them quickly and again went out, whether from a sense of delicacy, or because he saw an opportunity of renewing the fight outside, is not certain. He closed the door of communication behind him.

Vjera looked up into the Count's eyes and the blush that rarely came, the blush of true happiness, mounted to her face.

"I have not forgotten, dearest," he said again. "There is a veil over yesterday--I think I must have been ill--but I know what you did for me and--and--" he hesitated as though seeking an expression.

For a few seconds again the poor girl felt the agony of suspense she knew so well.

"I do not know what right a man so poor as I has to say such a thing, Vjera," he continued. "But I love you, dear, and if you will take me, I will love you all my life, more and more. Will it be harder to be poor together than each for ourselves, alone?"

Vjera let her head fall upon his shoulder, happy at last. What did his madness matter now, since the one memory she craved had survived its destroying influence? He had forgotten his glorious hopes, his imaginary wealth, his expected friends, but he had not forgotten her, nor his love for her.

"Thank G.o.d!" she sighed, and the happy tears fell from her eyes upon the breast of his threadbare coat.

"But we must not forget to work, dear," she said, a few moments later.

"No," he answered. "We must not forget to work."

As she sat down to her table he pushed her chair back for her, and put into her hands her little gla.s.s tube, and then he went and took his own place opposite. For a long time they were left alone, but neither of them seemed to wonder at it, nor to hear the low, excited tones of many voices talking rapidly and often together in the shop outside. Whenever their eyes met, they both smiled, while their fingers did the accustomed mechanical work.

When Schmidt entered the outer shop for the second time, he found the tobacconist and his wife conversing in low tones together, in evident fear of being overheard. He came and stood before them, lowering his voice to the pitch of theirs, as he spoke.

"It is no fault of yours that the Count was not found dead in his bed this morning," he began, fixing his fiery eyes on Akulina.

"What? What? What is this?" asked Fischelowitz excitedly.

"Only this," said the Cossack, displaying the letter he had brought from the Count's rooms. "Nothing more. Your wife has succeeded very well. He is quite mad now. I found him last night, helpless, in a sort of fit, stiff and stark on the floor of his room. And this was in his pocket. Read it, Herr Fischelowitz. Read it, by all means. I suppose your wife does not mind your reading the letters she writes."

Fischelowitz took the letter stupidly, turned it over, saw the address, and took out the folded sheet. Akulina's face expressed a blank amazement almost comical in its vacuity. For once, she was taken off her guard. Her husband read the letter over twice and examined the handwriting curiously.

"A joke is a joke, Akulina," he said at last. "But you have carried this too far. What if the Count had died?"

"I would like to know what I am accused of," said Akulina, "and what all this is about."

"I suppose you know your own handwriting," observed the Cossack, taking the letter from the tobacconist's hands and holding it before her eyes.

"And if that is not enough to drive the poor man to the madhouse I do not know what is. Perhaps you have forgotten all about it? Perhaps you are mad, too?"

Akulina read the writing in her turn. Then she grew very angry.

"It is an abominable lie!" she exclaimed. "I never had anything to do with it. I do not know whence this letter comes, and I do not care. I know nothing about it."

"I suppose no one can prevent your saying so, at least," retorted the Cossack.

"It is very queer," observed Fischelowitz, suddenly thrusting his hands into his pockets and beginning to whistle softly as he looked through the shop window.

"When I tell you that it is not my handwriting, you ought to be satisfied--" Akulina began.

"And yet none of us are," interrupted the Cossack with a laugh. "Strange, is it not?"

Dumnoff now came in, and a moment later the insignificant girl, who began to giggle foolishly as soon as she saw that something was happening which she could not understand.

"None of us are satisfied," continued Johann Schmidt, taking the letter from Akulina. "Here, Dumnoff, here Anna Nicolaevna, is this the Chosjaika's handwriting or not? Let everybody see and judge."

"It is outrageous!" exclaimed Akulina, trying to get possession of the letter again.

"You see how she tries to get it," laughed the Cossack, savagely. "She would be glad to tear it to pieces--of course she would."

"I wish you would all go about your business," said Fischelowitz with an approach to asperity.

Akulina was furious, but she did not know what to do. Everybody began talking together.

"Of course it is the Barina's handwriting," said Dumnoff confidently. He supposed it was always safe to follow Schmidt's lead, when he followed any one.

"Of course it is," chimed in the insignificant Anna.

"You--you minx--you flatter-cat, you little serpent!" cried Akulina, speaking three languages at once in her excitement. "Go--get along--go to your work--"

"No, no, stay!" exclaimed the Cossack authoritatively. "Do you know what this is?" he asked of all present again. "Our good mistress, here, has for some reason or other been trying to make the Count worse by having sham letters posted to him from home--"

"It is a lie! A base, abominable lie! Turn the man out, Christian Gregorovitch! Turn him out, or send for the police."

"Turn him out yourself," answered the tobacconist phlegmatically.

"Posted to him from home," continued the Cossack, "and telling him that his father and brother are dead and that he has come into property and the like. What do you think of that?"

"It is a shame," growled Dumnoff, beginning to understand.

The girl laughed foolishly.

"I swear to you," began Akulina, crimson with anger. "I swear to you by all--"