CHAPTER I.

VERA SOUBLAIEFF.

Vera's journey back to Pampeln was in no respect, it may well be imagined, like the journey she had made to France. Three months ago, when her first grief at leaving her father and giving up the daily round of her life, so sweet and placid, amid people who adored her, had passed, an eager curiosity had seized upon her. Notwithstanding her purity and ignorance of life, she felt, like a true daughter of Eve, the pleasure of being carried off to Paris and of living a life so different from that which she had hitherto known.

With the delight of a woman in such surroundings, she nestled in a corner of the well-cushioned and padded compartment in which the prince had placed her; and there, alone with her thoughts, under the physical charm of the rapid course of the train, which frightened her too, a little, had she fallen asleep as the night wore on, not much regretting her virginal bed at the Elva farm.

Next day, when Pierre Olsdorf, beginning with the part he intended to play toward the daughter of Soublaieff, came to ask her how she had passed the night, Vera was a good deal surprised for the moment; and her master had to insist before he could make her take her place at table beside him at the refreshment-room at Konigsberg; but, ascribing the honor that was done her to the necessities of the journey, she felt some little innocent vanity about it, and nothing more.

So it was all the way, and the pretty young Russian girl, thanks to her simplicity, arrived in Paris ready to be surprised at all the events that were to follow each other day by day, awakening only her imagination, until the moment came when her heart was moved so deeply.

How far behind were these things now! So far that she sometimes wondered if she had not merely dreamed them.

And then she would close her eyes, trying to dream still. She went over again the most trifling events of her stay in Paris--her surprise when Yvan summoned her to the luncheon-table of the prince; her emotions day by day as her master, growing kinder and more attentive with each succeeding one, had made their lives almost one; until that hour, the thought of which still made her shiver, when fate had cast her into his arms.

Though the daughter of the farmer of Elva had come a virgin from that embrace, the momentary abandoning of herself to it had made of her a woman; it had taught her that she loved, and had raised in her an ardent desire to be beloved.

What would be the end of this passion? She scarcely dared think of that. Understanding now the part she had played, she asked herself, trembling at the thought, if the prince would not look upon her as the blind instrument he had used, and whether, when they were once again in Pampeln, she would not be parted from him forever.

The dread of it caused her bitter grief; and yet, when she put the idea aside as impossible, she then feared to think of what would inevitably happen if it were, on the contrary, Pierre Olsdorf's will to keep her by his side. Assuredly her father knew of the divorce and the change in the life of his master. The decree was an event which the whole nobility of St. Petersburg must have discussed, making every possible conjecture to explain how it had come about that the decree was against the prince and not against his wife, whose sin everybody knew. Why, then, had Pierre Olsdorf chosen to seem guilty--guilty instead of her--if he did not love her? Vera could not guess the reason, in her ignorance of the law and the consequences that had followed upon the action of the man to whom her whole heart was given.

All these reflections troubled strangely the poor girl, whom the bearing of her master did not calm, for as they drew nearer the end of their journey Pierre seemed more and more preoccupied and silent. At each important station he did indeed come to assure himself that Vera wanted for nothing in the reserved compartment that she was in, together with a nurse and the little Tekla; but he seemed to avoid being alone with her, and Soublaieff's daughter had looked vainly into his eyes for the reason. Plainly the prince was warding off an explanation. What would become of her? How dared she appear again before her father, so jealous of his honor? Was not death itself better than the agony and the reproaches she was threatened with?

Again and again during the last night of the journey the unhappy girl thought of throwing herself from the carriage. But death! And if she were indeed loved? Then her tears fell, and she gave herself to God's care.

In this frame of mind Vera left the train at Mittau, where the prince's carriages, telegraphed for from Paris, were in waiting for the travelers, to take them to Pampeln.

At first the young girl hoped that Pierre would ask her to go with him in the drosky, which would hold but two persons; but he put her in the landau, where the nurse and baby already were, and after speaking a few commonplace words in the way of excuses for putting her to so much fatigue, he sprung into the lighter carriage beside Yvan.

The luggage was to follow in an omnibus, with the servants who had come to meet their master.

This fresh disappointment for Vera had scarcely been mastered when, after a three hours' drive, she caught sight of the heavy-looking front of Pampeln, and soon the wheels of the landau were grinding through the sand of the court-yard and stopping before the flight of steps leading down from the main entrance.

Quite given up to her gloomy thoughts, the farmer's daughter stepped from the carriage. She was surprised to find her hand in that of the prince, who, drawing her a little way aside at the foot of the marble staircase, said in a troubled voice:

"Pardon me, dear child, for the silence I have kept since we left Paris, but I have determined that there ought to be no explanation between us until after I have seen your father. I have sent word to him to expect me at Elva, where I am going to seek him. In a couple of hours I shall be here again. Until then trust me. Soon, I hope, you will have ceased to be displeased with me, and will doubt no more either my gratitude or my affection."

Vera replied only with a look from her great limpid eyes raised to his. Pierre Olsdorf pressed both her hands in his, and sprung into the drosky, to which fresh horses had been harnessed.

The young girl followed him with her eyes until he disappeared from sight at the end of the great avenue; then she slowly mounted the stairs, and passing through the fencing-room, gained the chapel, where she knelt in devotion on the stone floor, murmuring:

"If my father rejects me, what shall I do? Oh, God! have pity on me!"

Vera was still in prayers as the lord of Pampeln reached Elva.

"Is my daughter ill, prince?" exclaimed Soublaieff, meeting his master at the outer fence of the farm.

"No; do not be uneasy, Alexei; Vera is well," replied Pierre Olsdorf, alighting; "but her presence was needed at the chateau. That is the only reason why she has not come with me. To-night, even, you can embrace her; and to-morrow, if you wish it, she shall come back to you. I have much to say to you."

Struck by the grave look on the prince's face, as well as by the sad tones of his voice, the farmer followed him without daring to question him anew.

In the large lower room of the farm-house, wherein on hunting days he was wont to assemble his friends, the master of Pampeln seated himself, and signed to Soublaieff to take a place opposite to him after closing the doors.

His heart filled with sad forebodings, the former serf obeyed.

"Alexei," said Prince Olsdorf, after a few moments' silence, "you must listen without interrupting me, and without being troubled unreasonably at the tale of the scenes that have passed in Paris in which your daughter has played an important part, and which I will relate to you, hiding nothing. I should say, first of all, that Vera returns to you as worthy of your respect and of the affection of all as she was before she left you. I give you my word of honor on that."

"I believe you, prince; I believe you," replied Soublaieff, in a low voice.

"You know," said the former husband of Lise Barineff, "that the Holy Synod has pronounced a divorce against me on the petition of the woman who bore my name."

"Against you?"

"Yes, against me. Ah! that surprises you? Even here, then, my misfortune was known. Well, well! Yes, against me. I wished that it should be so, though all the wrong was on the side of the princess; but if it had been otherwise, that is, if the divorce had been pronounced in my favor, she would have been dishonored, and her dishonor would have been reflected upon me and upon my son, Alexander. I would not permit that. The name of Olsdorf must remain stainless. To gain my end I had to affect a sin that left me without defense. Your daughter was my accomplice."

"My daughter!" cried Soublaieff, springing to his feet.

"I prayed that you would listen to me calmly. I swear to you again, on the honor of my race, that Vera is still the spotless maiden that you trusted to me."

Alexei sunk back into his chair again, his eyes filling with tears.

Pierre Olsdorf went on:

"Without understanding the part she was playing, your daughter obeyed me with such devotion and simplicity that the official appointed to gather proofs of the act of adultery I was guilty of was deceived, as was the princess herself, who accompanied him, as the law requires. Thanks to Vera, I succeeded completely. I made no attempt to defend myself, and your daughter was not questioned at all. The divorce was pronounced against me, but I was left with the guardianship of my children: I say of my children, for the princess had been delivered of a daughter, whom I could not disown without accusing of adultery the woman whom I wished to leave worthy, in the eyes of the world, of respect; and Lise Olsdorf, by my order, will become the wife of the man with whom she deceived me. The child who bears my name necessarily I have brought back with me, and have given her to the care of Vera. That is why your daughter is at Pampeln; terrified as she is at the thought that, wrongly informed of what has happened far from here, you may believe her guilty, and take from her your love."

"My darling Vera," cried Soublaieff. "Oh! let her come now, at once, to Elva. I will never let her know what I have suffered by her absence and at your story. I knew nothing of what you have just told me, and I believe you as I would an angel from heaven. But if I, her father, do not doubt her purity, will others, knowing all that has happened in that accursed Paris, believe that Vera Soublaieff has been a virtuous girl throughout? What will become of her? What man who has a care for his honor would take her now for his wife? Ah! Pierre Alexandrowich, though you respected her innocence, you have ruined my daughter none the less."

Pierre Olsdorf's head was lowered. He understood the sorrow of the father whose daughter's name was forever compromised.

"Yes," he replied, however; "yes, Alexei, I am deeply guilty, I confess. But do not fear. No one will dare to suspect Vera when I swear, on the Holy Evangelists, that she is pure. And I will make her so rich that she will find a husband worthy of her."

The prince said these words with so great an effort, and so pained a smile, that Soublaieff trembled. His mind at rest on the fate of his daughter, he saw now only the sufferings of the master who had humiliated himself before him. He was far from imagining that Pierre Olsdorf was in love with Vera, still less did he suppose that she loved him. Such an idea could never have entered his mind. He thought only of the misfortune that had fallen upon the house of Olsdorf, so widely respected. The sin committed by the princess, whom everybody at Pampeln loved, was inexplicable to him, and he pitied, to the bottom of his heart, this great nobleman so shamefully betrayed by the woman he had raised to his side. It seemed, as if, in a sense, he felt the shame of it, as an old dependent of the family. His emotion was so great that he did not even think of thanking the prince for his promise to secure Vera's future.

Pierre Olsdorf was the first to speak again.

"Now," he said, "I need to make one more appeal to the devotion of your daughter. After a short journey to St. Petersburg I shall leave Russia--Europe indeed--for a long time. Where shall I go? I do not know--but far, far from here. Alexander and this little girl must have a sister near them, since they have no mother, and the law forbids me to replace the woman who has proved herself unworthy. I wish to ask Vera to be in the stead an elder sister to these two little deserted ones. She will need then to live at the chateau, where I shall give orders that she shall be obeyed as I myself. Before I go I will make provision for the future of all of them, in case that anything should happen to me."

"Why leave us, prince?" said Soublaieff, "why go from us?"

"I must, Alexei. Time alone can close the wound I have received. Later on, who knows but that I may forget? Can I count on you and on Vera?"

"My devotion to you, Pierre Alexandrowich, is as deep as my daughter's; and you know what proof she has given of hers. What you order will be done."

"Then all is well. Come with me to the chateau to embrace your daughter. To-morrow I will give you my instructions, for I must go away by nightfall. Your hand, Soublaieff. Thank you."

The farmer took respectfully the hand that Pierre Olsdorf offered him and pressed it to his lips. Five minutes afterward they had mounted the drosky to drive to Pampeln.

In less than half an hour they were there. Soublaieff, who had followed his master into the fencing-room, saw Vera coming out of the chapel.

Seeing her father, whom she did not expect, the young girl stopped suddenly, stifling a cry of fear, but when he came forward to her, smiling, and with opened arms, she sprung to his breast, crying:

"Father, dear, dear father."

"Vera, my darling Vera," said Alexei again and again, covering her forehead with kisses, "the prince has told me all. I have no reproaches for you. God will reward your devotion. We will part no more. You shall be as happy as you deserve to be."

At these words Soublaieff's daughter turned her eyes to the prince, who stood by during this scene, and she was so struck by the look of pain on his face that drawing herself from her father's arms she ran to him.

But Pierre Olsdorf, alarmed at Vera's movement, gave her no time to speak.

"Calm yourself, dear child," he said, quickly, as much by his look as his voice, as he took her hands in his, "your father knows the great service you have done me, and I have told him how much I count on you for still. You shall know to-morrow what I speak of. Meanwhile, be at home here in the chateau, where you will live henceforward; your father has given his consent. I leave you with him. To-morrow I shall see you again."

Not waiting until she could answer, he walked rapidly away, after pressing her hands affectionately in his.

"Poor prince," said Soublaieff going to his daughter, "how unhappy he is. Who would have guessed what was going to happen? And now he means to leave Pampeln, which is so full of sad memories for him."

"Leave Pampeln," cried Vera, not able to command herself, "leave us? Where will he go to?"

"I don't know, but very far away, so he has told me. What is the matter with you?"

The unhappy girl had grown ghastly pale. She could scarcely stand.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, making a great effort not to betray herself further. "It is the fatigue of the journey, no doubt. Let me go to bed now, father. I shall see you to-morrow, shall I not?"

"Yes, dear Vera, to-morrow. I have promised the prince to come and take his instructions to-morrow. I shall go back to Elva now. Do you have a good night's rest, and you will be as strong and brave when you wake as if you had not traveled four hundred leagues."

And Soublaieff, having kissed his daughter tenderly, retired.

Night was falling. The great portraits of the ancestors of the Olsdorfs that hung on the walls of the room; the suits of armor which stood as if they covered still the men who had worn them of old; the fantastic shadows which the last rays of daylight lengthened, streaming through the colored glass of the Gothic window-frames; the mournful silence that reigned around her, all filled Vera with so sudden a fear that she fled in terror to the rooms which Yvan had told her were to be hers.

They were in the right wing of the chateau, near to those that Pierre's son and his governess, Mme. Bernard, a worthy woman quite wrapped up in the child intrusted to her care, occupied. It was the suite which was usually reserved for the prince's more intimate friends. Very elegantly furnished, it consisted of a dressing-room, a bath-room, and a small sitting-room.

As soon as she got there, Vera burst into tears and sobs.

So all was over; the prince deserted her, careless of the love he had won, love which either he did not see or perhaps despised; he was going away, leaving her to her memories and her despair. She had been nothing but a tool in his hands, of which he rid himself pitilessly. Her dream was all a lie; he did not love her. What did she care for the comfort he wished to leave her in? Was not her future life quite ruined? Why, then, should she stay at Pampeln? No, she would not. With her father only could she hope for forgetfulness. She would keep none of the rich dresses and jewels that he had given her. They would but recall to her hours of bliss and hope which she would no longer have the right to remember. She would go back to Elva as she had come from it, poor and simple, not to-morrow but then, that night, without seeing the man who thought of her no more. She would walk the road from Pampeln to Elva, all alone, as she used to do when she was a little girl and knew only by sight, because they stopped at the farm on hunting days, elegant carriages such as she had been driven about Paris in. The darkness would not frighten her. What misfortune could happen to her greater than that she was now suffering? And the poor child, her eyes filled with tears, her hair falling about her shoulders, her hands trembling, turned over the things in her trunks to find, among the silks and laces, the linen gown and national head-dress which she had worn three months before journeying to France. But each of the things she touched painfully revived the memory of the past. This necklet of pearls was the prince's first gift; these diamonds were in her ears that evening at the opera when her appearance there for the first time had caused such surprise. This white silk dress she had worn at the Italian opera when Patti sung; in this furred mantle Pierre Olsdorf had wrapped her as they were leaving the theater. These fans, these bracelets, she remembered with what sweet words they had been given to her. On each thing she could have put a date, so close in accord were her memory and her heart.

A long sigh, a sigh of love and despair, escaped from her lips, and a blush rose to her face. She saw the dressing-gown of blue, trimmed with lace, that she had taken off on that terrible night, in which was but one moment of bliss, when, half naked, she had clung about the neck of the prince to defend him or to seek his protection as the door of her room was flung open. Could she ever forget that moment? Pierre had not understood how she adored him. Yet had not she betrayed it plainly, in her eyes, at the moment of that mad embrace?

"Oh, no," she sobbed, ready to fall to the ground, conquered by all these emotions, "no, he will never love me."

"Never more than at this moment, Vera," a voice said suddenly that made her tremble.

She sunk into the arms of Pierre Olsdorf who, without being heard by her, had entered the room and had been watching her for some moments.

"Is it you?" murmured Soublaieff's daughter, closing her eyes as if, fancying this was a new dream, she wished to lengthen it.

The prince carried rather than led her to a large sofa at one side of the room. He laid her down on it, and kneeling beside her, said:

"Why do you doubt me? Vera, I have the sincerest and tenderest affection for you. I will never forget what you have done for me nor the trouble I have brought into your life. I am responsible for your future, and I swear to you it shall be happy."

"You speak of happiness for me, Pierre Alexandrowich, and you are leaving me," sobbed the young girl, with a despairing look in her eyes brimming over with tears. "Why do you go? Why do you leave me alone?"

Never was woman more beautiful, more desirable, more intoxicating than Vera in her sorrow and her chaste _abandon_. The dusky flood of her hair sweeping about her, her scarlet lips parted as if they begged for a kiss, the subtle fragrance of youth and maidenhood that innocently offered itself--all this intoxicated Pierre Olsdorf. He had seized in his the cold hands of the young girl, and, his head swimming, he felt himself drawn irresistibly to her. But a last gleam of reason arrested him; and rising he exclaimed:

"Oh, no, no; it would be an act of cowardice unworthy of me."

Vera, amazed, half raised herself, and her face showed such pain that the prince, going to her quickly again, said hurriedly, mastering his heart and his passions by a strong effort:

"Listen to me, my child, my darling, my beloved, and do not take from me by your despair the courage I need. Yes, I love you, and yet I must go from you. I must; it is my duty; that you may still be worthy of respect and that I may still be an honorable man. I will not have it thought that what happened in Paris happened only that I might be happy through you. I will not give power to any one to accuse you of having been my willing accomplice. How long shall I be away? God alone knows. Perhaps I shall not have the strength to prolong our separation; but part we must, for your sake and for mine. While I am far away and thinking of you you will be a mother to my son and to that little creature who bears my name, and whom, though I can not love, I can not abandon. You will be mistress at Pampeln; and later, when time, if it has not cured, at least will have cicatrized the horrible wound that I have received, I will return, and I shall have forgotten nothing. Adieu."

Without waiting for Vera to answer him, Vera, who understood nothing but that he was going to leave her, Prince Olsdorf seized her in his arms, pressed his lips in a long kiss to hers quivering with sobs, and, snatching himself from this intoxicating embrace, he let her sink, fainting, on the sofa.

When Soublaieff's daughter again opened her eyes, she was alone.

Next morning, at day-break, after kissing his son, and having had long interviews with his steward, Beschef, and the farmer of Elva, to whom he gave a letter for his daughter, the prince left Pampeln for St. Petersburg, where he had to submit to the will of the Holy Synod.

He had not had the courage to see Vera again. He took with him only his faithful Yvan, to have near him some one on whom he could rely should death strike him when far from home.

A fortnight later Pierre Olsdorf took ship at Brindisi for Egypt, to begin the long exile to which he had condemned himself.