CHAPTER VI.
A KITCHEN FEUD.
When the postern had finally closed upon mademoiselle, I advanced cautiously through the darkness. It had occurred to me that the outer gate might be closed for the night, in which case I should find myself caught in a trap. The house was dark and quiet now, the boyar’s guest having evidently departed.
To my consternation, the front gate was indeed locked, and I stood perplexed. A noise from the other side of the house suggested a possible exit by the kitchen way, and I crept cautiously along close to the wall, looking for it. The door at the back of the house stood wide open, and the stream of light from it, while it increased my risk, served also to show me the side gate, standing ajar. I had not a moment to lose; to be caught here and compelled to explain my presence to the boyar would be a sorry fate. I heard loud talking and laughing in the kitchen, which a little reassured me, as the servants were evidently enjoying a merry evening, and therefore less likely to be watchful. A little natural curiosity, and also a desire to learn as much of Zénaïde’s surroundings as I could, impelled me to approach near enough to peep into the interior: a low-ceiled room, stained with smoke from the huge fireplace, and gloomy as such a place could be, when lighted and filled with people. The cook, with naked, brawny arms akimbo, stood before the fire turning some meat upon the spit; and a dozen other serfs were gathered about a table playing at dice, or watching it, and drinking kvas. It was not an attractive picture, not even homely; but there was a surprise there for me: I saw in the group the cowardly fellow who had been whipped in the contest in the Red Place. I remembered his face well; it had still something of the evil and mean expression that had marked it when Peter Lykof dragged his servant off his fallen adversary. The place he occupied now at the table, and his dress, declared him to be no less a person than the boyar’s major-domo. The fellow had an evil face and a hang-dog look about the eyes, and I was not pleased to find him occupying a post of trust in the house. One could easily buy his soul for a couple of francs, being sure that he would sell again to the next highest bidder, and so cancel the previous bad bargain. I was amused to see that the miserable coward of a few hours ago was now a considerable braggart, assuming an air of authority among his fellow servants.
There was little danger that my presence would be observed, and I walked slowly across the courtyard, and slipping through the half open gate, stood in the street. It was dark, but yet it seemed to me that as I appeared a figure dashed away from the postern and crept along by the wall. Remembering that I had noticed a similar appearance at the front of the house, I half unsheathed my sword and advanced in the direction in which the figure had gone, my taste for adventure still keen, and moreover determined to know if any spy lurked about the Ramodanofsky house. The darkness and the shadow of the wall were both unfavorable to my purpose; but nothing daunted, I proceeded, my eyes fixed keenly on the darkest portion under the overhanging cornice. Seeing nothing, I was not a little startled by a sudden blow which, just missing my temple, fell roundly on my shoulder. I sprang aside, and drawing my sword, was on the defensive; but my unknown adversary leaped upon me with the agility and ferocity of a wild animal, and I found my sword arm pinioned as we closed in a fierce grapple. I had no desire to rouse the house by any outcry, and, for some reason, my assailant was equally silent. I had as much as I could do to keep his hands from my throat.
“Ma foi!” I exclaimed bitterly, “this is Russian fighting!”
My words had a magical effect; my strange adversary released me and stumbled back. But my blood was up, and it was my turn to attack him; however, he dodged me with wonderful dexterity.
“Leave me alone, your excellency,” he said in poor French; “I struck by mistake. I beg your pardon.”
His voice was familiar, and putting two and two together, in a flash of intuition, I hit upon the truth.
“You are Michael Gregorievitch!” I exclaimed, “Peter Lykof’s attendant; and you took me for your friend the steward.”
“Even so, my lord,” he admitted with evident reluctance in his tone. “My master would be very angry if he knew of my mistake.”