“Up, you little rogue,” I said bluntly, “and go home; ’tis your monkey tricks that have brought you to this. Learn a lesson, and leave such brutes alone.”
But he was not to be drawn off so easily; he clung to my knees, begging to serve me, vowing fidelity to death, and such an abject picture of misery and gratitude that I had not the heart to send him away. Indeed, he was afraid to venture two yards from my feet, and, as he was too weak to travel far, I was in a pleasant dilemma. The prospect of taking such a follower to the Voronin palace was certainly worse than the wearing of the old taffety jacket.
“What is your name, varlet, and your home?” I asked with impatience, and yet a little amused.
“My name is Maluta, excellency,” he said, kissing my shoes for the fiftieth time, “and my home is your home.”
“Holy Virgin!” I ejaculated, somewhat aghast, and then I laughed, too heartily amused to be vexed: here, certainly, was an acquisition to our household.
But it turned out no jest, and, try as I would, I could not shake the little wretch off, and was forced, at last, to convoy him back to our quarters and order Advotia to dress his wounds, while Maître le Bastien promised to keep him close until my return from my errand, laughing all the while at my adventure, as if at the richest joke in the world. So, by a strange intervention of fate, I was the patron of a miserable little dwarf and I had a mortal enemy in the kitchen next door; besides I was an hour late on my errand to the Princess Daria.
V: THE PRINCESS DARIA
AS I approached the palace of the Prince Voronin I entered a street which gave me a view of the open space beyond, where the Iberian Chapel stood, overlooking the Red Place, and farther off were the white buildings of the Kremlin, bathed in sunlight, their roofs of scarlet and green and blue, and their crosses of gold, glowing and flashing like so many stars at noonday. I caught, too, a gleam of the Moskva, and heard again the hum of busy life, for there was a throng of people in the Red Place. But my business was nearer at hand, and after one glance at the scene before me, I turned to the right and here, set in the midst of some peasant huts, I saw the Voronin palace, white—like the buildings of the Kremlin—with a green roof, and a golden cupola over the upper story, which I took, and rightly, for the terem. The main building was solid and massive, and nearly square, and there was a wing at one side, opening on to a high walled court, while behind this wing was the garden, which was beginning to show the promise of summer.
Instinct, and some observation of Russian customs, directed me, not to the main entrance, but to a low door in the wing, and here I knocked boldly, while I looked about the court with sharp eyes. Once out of the street, I heard none of its noises; and the quiet atmosphere of the place impressed me: there was not even the usual clatter and bustle in the kitchen, and while I waited a drosky drove up to the main entrance and a young man jumped out of it and was immediately admitted. I confess I was little pleased with his youthful and well-dressed appearance, for he had the air of a courtier, and I was on the point of going to the front of the house myself when the door behind me was softly opened. A serf looked out, staring at me in no very friendly fashion, and taking in every detail of my “German clothes,” as they called the European dress, and he almost closed the door again while he listened to my request to see the Princess Daria. Indeed, if I had asked for a piece of the moon he could not have looked more amazed, and, instead of answering me, he called loudly to someone within, and another serf came to stare, and then another and another, until the door was full of faces and all eyes fixed upon me, much as I have seen a rabble of Paris stare at a dancing bear.
“What ails you, you gaping fools?” I asked, losing all patience. “Do you not hear my errand? I come at the request of the Princess Voronin, and I bring her a packet of grave importance.”