“God is my witness.… My torments will fall on the heads of my tormentors.”
“She’ll think over it, your Grace!” whispered Oushakoff, turning over some papers. “One more experiment. She’ll come round all right.”
The experiment was tried. Her Venetian silk nightdress was exchanged for one of sackcloth.
“Almighty God! be witness of my most secret thoughts,” prayed the captive. “What am I to do, what shall I undertake? I believed in my past. It all seemed so plain. I was accustomed to think of it all, to live in that idea. Neither the treason of that monster, nor my captivity, has been able to shake my conviction. No, and not even this iron dungeon, which seems to crush me, can do that. Death is not far off. Oh! Mother of God, oh! lowly Jesus, help me. Who will give me strength, who will guide me, who will save me—from all these horrors, from this prison?”
One cold rainy evening, a hired carriage with the blinds drawn down drove up to the perron of the commandant of the fortress of Petropavlovski, André Gavrilovitch Tchernishoff. Half an hour afterwards, Orloff and the commandant walked in the direction of the Ravelin Alexéef.
“Failing,” said the commandant, walking on, “failing rapidly, especially with this dampness. Yesterday, your Grace, she begged for her own clothes and books; they were returned to her.”
The sentinels were called out of the room of the Princess. Orloff entered the room alone. Tchernishoff remained outside the door. In the dusk, the count could hardly see the low-ceilinged room, with two deeply set windows with thick iron gratings. Between the two windows stood a small table with two chairs. A few books were scattered on the table together with some other things, and, covered with a coarse cloth, stood the untouched food. On the right-hand side stood a screen. Behind the screen was a small table with a water-bottle, a glass, and a cup, and surrounded by chintz curtains, a small iron bedstead. On the bed, in a white dressing gown and cap, lay a girl, so pale, one might think she was dead, covered with a blue velvet mantilla.
Orloff was struck by the frail look of her, who such a short time ago had been so stately, and so charmingly beautiful. There flashed across his mind remembrances of Italy, tender letters, the ardent courtship, the journey to Livorno, the feast on the ship, Ribas and Christianok travestied in the old clerical vestments. “Oh! why did I play that comedy with the marriage ceremony?” thought he. “She was really on board my ship, in my hands.” And vividly there flashed through his mind the picture of the arrest of the Princess. He remembered her cries on deck, and the next day his message to her through Konsov, a letter in German, describing his own false sorrow, oaths of faithfulness till death, and assurances of love. “What sorrow has fallen upon us”—trying to write the most tender words, he had said. “We are both arrested, in chains; but God, the All-merciful, will not forsake us. Let us put our trust in Him. As soon as I get my liberty, I’ll search the whole world till I find you, to guard and serve you all my life.” “And I have found her; here she is!” thought Orloff, involuntarily shuddering, not daring to cross the threshold. At last he ventured near her, close to the screen. At the sound, the unfortunate girl opened her eyes, looked at her visitor, and rose. Her auburn hair, at one time so luxuriant, fell from under her cap, and half-covered her poor pale face, distorted by illness and passion.
“You? You—in this room—near me!” screamed out the Princess, recognising her visitor, and stretching out both her hands in front of her, as though driving away some awful apparition.
Orloff stood motionless.