On the red staircase

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“Where will you go?” I said to Von Gaden in French. “You cannot accompany us in broad daylight; it would be certain death to you.”

“Ay, and ruin to your project, M. le Vicomte,” he replied calmly. “I know of a temporary refuge near at hand. You must go on at once, and may success attend you.”

“I cannot bear to leave you in this extremity,” I rejoined, hesitatingly.

“Delay is fatal,” he replied quietly; “this is the beginning of the end. Sophia has let loose the fiends, and who will chain them up again? Zénaïde Feodorovna is in danger from them also; therefore farewell, M. de Brousson, and may your patron saint befriend you.”

We were standing in the lane, and he pressed my hand; his face was sad, it may have been with a prescience of impending fate. His warning had taken effect, however, and my thoughts were all for Zénaïde’s safety; and so I parted from him and hurried on with the reluctant dwarf, who saw that his chances of evading me grew momentarily less. Once I looked back and saw the Jew disappearing into the low door of a pine hovel at the end of the lane,—one of those huts occupied by peasants, and built in two days, at the cost of a few rubles, and at that time scattered through Moscow, beside the palaces of the nobles, in every quarter of the town. After this, I turned my face steadily towards the river and hurried on, guided by Homyak, who seemed to grow more resigned to the inevitable as he realized my relentless determination. I had selected a way that I knew was not likely to be crossed by the rioters, and our progress was uninterrupted. This part of the city seemed quiet enough as yet, undisturbed as it was by the tumult stirring in the quarters of the Streltsi. Yet there was a portentous aspect even about these silent houses; occasionally a face would appear at a window, to be withdrawn as quickly at our approach, and once or twice I heard the heavy bolts drawn across a door as our footsteps sounded in the silent street. There was terror here, concealed in these quiet corners; the specter of some danger already lurked in these lonely alleys. The gray of dawn had passed into the broad daylight, but there were no signs of the busy life of a city waking up; it seemed as if the active element must have been drawn off to another quarter, and there was only desolation here. How still it was! We were in the Biélui-gorod now, walking in the direction of the Smolensk Gate, and suddenly we were startled by a strange sound, the galloping hoofs of a horse and a man’s hoarse voice shouting something, the same words repeated again and again. I stopped involuntarily to listen, and in a moment he crossed the end of the street, riding recklessly, and swinging his long arms over his head. It was one of the Streltsi, and his uniform was splashed with mud and his long hair was flying. He saw us but did not pause, only calling out his constant cry:—

“The Naryshkins have murdered the Czarevitch Ivan! To arms! To the Kremlin and punish the traitors! Rescue the czar!”

And with this he dashed on, repeating his alarm as he went. Could it be true? It was not probable that the blind czarevitch had been injured; but, in any case, I had no time for reflection, but hastened on, knowing that this must be a preconcerted signal, and anticipating the worst. My fears were soon justified by another more ominous sign. The silence of the quiet city was once again broken, and now by a tremendous wave of sound, a deep, warlike note; the tocsin in four hundred churches called the Streltsi to arms. On every side, the loud, full notes smote the air and awoke a tremendous echo, and in the intervals, far off I heard the roll of drums. Still, the streets about me remained deserted; the rioters were not here.

I had released my hold on Homyak, because I did not wish to attract the notice even of the occasional watcher at a window; but he walked in front of me, knowing that I carried my pistol, ready to send him to his last account if he made an attempt to escape. It struck me now that he was walking slowly, and I mended my pace. “More haste, Homyak,” I remarked grimly; “every moment lost increases your risk of falling into Ramodanofsky’s hands.”

“It is but a little way now, M. le Vicomte,” he said sullenly; “yonder is the house.”

I looked eagerly in the direction he indicated, and saw a plain-looking building that might be the home of one of the middle class, and it was closed in a gloomy fashion. Running my eye over the portions that faced us, I could not see a sign of occupation. It occurred to me that the dwarf might be leading me into a trap, and I laid my hand again on his collar, at the same time pushing on to the door.