He stopped eating long enough to squint at me sideways, his hands full of bread and meat, the miniature of a glutton.
“‘A woman’s hair is long, her understanding is short,’ saith the proverb,” he replied sagely, and filled his mouth.
I walked away; it was not the first Russian proverb I had heard, and I found them little to my taste. A woman was as little regarded as a slave, and sometimes less, and yet a woman could prefer such a master as she might find there—and the woman I loved! Then came the thought of Galitsyn, and my blood tingled—if I could but measure swords with him! But did she love him? I knew not, but I smiled grimly at the thought of Sophia.
I looked out into the darkness, the vast steppe stretched before me and I heard the wind sigh. Bitterness and desolation lingered in my heart. What evil star had sent me to Russia? I remembered clearly that night of the ball on the Rue de Bethisi and the duel in the Place Royale. Ill fortune had haunted me since; but so be it, I had done it to defend a woman.
I lay that night on the bare ground and counted the stars, while the little glutton of a dwarf, my faithful friend, slept noisily at my feet. That night, and the bitterness of it, stand out in my life unforgotten. It was a quiet night, too, although, far off, I heard wild music and the sound of voices, but these voices died away at last, and the hours until dawn were long ones. I remember seeing the day break, keenly at the far-off rim of the plain, a June day, cloudless and serene.
Maluta slept still and I rose and walked away. It was barely light; a belt of fir-trees lay between us and the village, but I could see the turrets of the palace in the distance; dim and grey it lay, at least a third of a league from us. The ground rose a little to the left and was bare of trees, and I walked up to the crest of the small elevation and looked away, over the vast sweep of the steppes, at the pale beauty of the sky. The whole scene was tremulous with awakening light. As I looked I turned, and my glance fell on the dark shadows of the firs, the semblance of a road skirting the edge of the wooded land. Suddenly, I saw two figures on horseback at the edge of the trees, and involuntarily my hand went to my sword and remained there while I watched them. They halted, still in the shadow, and dismounted and one held the horses, the other came on alone, taking the beaten path that led straight toward me. I waited, curious but indifferent; I looked for an enemy and not a friend, but as the cloaked figure drew nearer, I perceived that it was a woman. A woman, hooded and muffled and alone. She came, at first swiftly as if by a determined impulse, and then more slowly, until—as she got within a few yards of me, she halted and stood still. I could not distinguish a single feature, but I could not mistake that outline; it was the Princess Daria.
Nor did I doubt her errand; she had come to warn me to flee for my life. I remembered the bread and salt, but I resented her charitable anxiety for my safety. Was I a slave or a coward? I stood quite still, therefore and left her to make the advances, and I saw that I was inflicting no light punishment upon her pride, for she stood hesitating, and once I thought that she was going to flee. Then she took her courage in both hands and came nearer, but she kept her hood close over her face.
“Monsieur,” she said very low and faltering, “monsieur, I came to—to thank you for—saving my life—for delivering me from Kurakin.”
“Nay, madame,” I replied coldly, “thank the saints for that. As for the marriage, surely the one bridegroom must have been as distasteful as the other.”
I could not see her face, but I saw her hands trembling as she clasped them together.