There was a sudden recoil—the people tumbling affrightedly over one another, horrified at what they had done. The nearest fell on their knees before her in the trampled snow, or groveled like animals upon their faces, some trying to get at her hands, others clutching at the hem of her skirt, to kiss it. “Our Princess! Our own Princess!” they cried. “Take the worthless one away! Give us our own Princess!” Delirium was rampant, emotions of every imaginable kind alive and writhing, but Tatiana was the very person to deal with such a crisis. In a trice she had freed herself from all those imploring hands, cuffing a few heads with a quick “Get out of the way, Fèdor-Ivànovitch! Here, you Andrèi-Petrovitch, quit howling! Anna-Stéfanôvnà, you’ll get something for yourself if you don’t look out! Shame on you silly sheep! How did you dare? Where are you, staròstá? What do you mean by letting such an outrage be done?” etc., etc., etc., until she reached the half-overturned sleigh and Laurence, who at the first sign of help had fainted. It took Tatiana little time or trouble to have her removed to her own sleigh, and to drive her, together with Célèste—very pale but quite calm—back to the Castle, followed by uproarious demands for forgiveness from the repentant and frightened multitude.
An hour after her descent upon this scene of disorder there was no longer any sign of confusion, either in the village or at the Castle, where she had found the servants huddled in every corner, trembling with fright, and Garrassime, almost beside himself with wrath and indignation, mounting guard over Master Piotr, who, it appeared, was determined to take the law into his own hands and go and thrash everybody without further delay. From Garrassime the Duchess learned that before any one was astir, Fidèlka, Célèste’s admirer, had brought round to a side entrance a sleigh and pair, in which the Princess and her maid had taken their places. It was just at sun-up, and a few moments later Garrassime had been awakened at his post across the door of his unruly young charge’s room by a breathless groom running in to report the flight of the Princess. He (Garrassime) explained that, having opened a window, he had seen the people gathering in masses upon the street below the rock, and had even heard shrieks upon shrieks as soon as the runaways had come into view; but that he could not leave Prince Piotr for a moment, for, having been aroused by the groom’s story, the boy had behaved—begging her Excellency’s pardon—like a young devil! Ah, he had blood, had the little Seigneur! Heaven be praised, he had blood! And just then, as if to demonstrate the truth of this greatly understated report, Piotr himself afforded his aunt evidence that left nothing to be desired, by creating an uproar of angular power.
At last, having summoned the staròstá and called him severely to account, declaring to him that she would send for a sotnia of Kossàks should he prove incapable of keeping his people quiet—a terrible menace indeed—Tatiana swallowed a hasty breakfast, and then bent her calm and inexorable steps toward Laurence’s room.
She found that young lady sitting in front of a roaring log-fire, wrapped in a gallant négligé of the most daintily flowered silk, her hair in unbound glory, and on her face an expression of almost fiendish ill-temper. As her sister-in-law entered she rose and bowed slightly, omitting, no doubt by an oversight, to thank her for the timely arrival to which she probably owed her life. Indeed, her attitude was that of an unjustly accused and badly treated prisoner standing before his judge, rather than that of a grateful relative receiving her rescuer.
“I am sorry you had such a bad time of it this morning,” Tatiana said, pleasantly. “If you’ll allow me to do so, I will sit down and talk the matter over with you a bit.” And suiting the action to the words, she possessed herself of a chauffeuse at the other side of the hearth and looked steadily into Laurence’s sulky eyes.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” the latter said, shortly, dismissing Célèste from the room with a nod. “I sent for you to protect me from infuriated beasts to whose ways you are better used than I. I am obliged to you for coming so promptly. That is, I think, all there is to be said.”
Tatiana, gazing into the dancing flames, smiled. She had not expected to find her brother’s wife in a chastened mood, and was not disappointed. As to gratitude, she well knew that this quality would be lacking from any and every thought of this surprisingly heartless girl.
“I am glad I was in time,” she quietly remarked. “Our peasants, however, are not beasts, though they are apt to become a little too impulsive when egged on—and there is no doubt that they are being periodically egged on—by an ever-increasing horde of professional agitators; also they require a firm and kind hand on the reins at any season. This being so, I am afraid you acted unwisely when you refused to interest yourself in their welfare.”
“Why should I interest myself in their affairs at all?” Laurence asked, with surprising disdain. “I see no reason why I should.”
“Perhaps you forget that it is your duty to do so,” was the disconcerting reply. “When you married my brother you did so with your eyes open. He did not conceal from you that the condition of his peasants was very near his heart. I know that he went so far as to disclose to you the various generous plans he has formed for checking the general spirit of unrest fostered by the imported—I advisedly say imported, since most of it comes from Germany—revolutionary literature and revolutionary counsels, that will in time cause irreparable harm. So I fear that either you should have accepted the bitter with the sweet and helped him in his self-imposed task, or else refused to share a high position and high ideals you felt yourself unable to attain.”