The Black Cross Part 14

The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if you see him, will you?--Good-bye."

Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco."

The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp, curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door opened again.

"Is that you, Bobo,--eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me your wife was ill?"

"Yes, Barin."

"You would like to go to her to-night?--Well, go. I shan't need you.

Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the table--that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly."

After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps, scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring into the coals.

"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust people. He is better out of the way."

The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him.

There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to another, the fall of a heavy boot. Then presently the curtain was drawn aside and he reappeared.

No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish costume. The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn at the heel and patched. It wasn't Velasco--it was a gypsey, a tattered, beggarly ragam.u.f.fin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles.

He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glancing about him, and stood before the mirror examining himself. At the first glance he laughed out loud; then he clapped his hand over his mouth, listening again. But he was alone, and the form reflected in the mirror was his own, no shadow behind. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the lamp and held it close to the gla.s.s, peering at himself from the crown of his close-cropped head to the patch on his boot. He gazed at the scarf admiringly; it was red with ta.s.sels, and he patted it with his free hand.

"That is how they do it!" he cried softly, laughing. "It is perfect.

I don't know myself! Ha ha!--I would cheat my own shadow. If the door should open now, and Galitsin should come in--the ox! How he would stare! And Bobo, poor devil, he would take me for a thief in my own Studio.--G.o.d, what is that?--a step on the stairs! The police! They come preying like beasts and seize one at night. She told me!"

The gypsey's hand trembled and shook, and the wick of the lamp flared up. Great heaven! The step crept nearer--it was at the door--the door moved! It was opening!

He dropped the lamp with a crash; the light went out and he staggered back against the wall, clutching his scarf, straining his ears to hear in the darkness.

The door opened wider.

Some one slipped through it and closed it again, and the step came nearer, creaking on the boards. He heard the soft patter of hands feeling their way, the faint sound of a breath. It was worse than in the carriage, because the room was so large and the matches were on the table, far off. There was no way of seeing, or feeling. The step came nearer.

If it was a spy, he could grapple with him and throw him. The gypsey took a step forward towards the other step, and all of a sudden two bodies came together, grappling, wrestling. Two cries went up, the one loud, the other faint like an echo.

"Hush, it is I, Velasco! You are soft like a woman! Your hair--It is you, Kaya! It is you! I know your voice--your touch! Did you hear the lamp crash? Wait! Let me light a candle."

He stumbled over to the table, feeling his way, clutching the soft thing by the arm, the shoulder.

"It is you, Kaya, tell me, it is you! d.a.m.n the match, it is damp, how it sputters!--Put your face close, let me see it. Kaya! Is it you, yourself?"

The two faces stared at one another in the flickering light, almost touching; then the other sprang back with a cry of dismay.

"You are a gypsey, you are not Velasco! The voice is his,--Dieu! And the eyes--they are his, and the brows! Let me go! Don't laugh--let me go!"

"No--no, Kaya, come back! It is I. They told me you were chained with a gang; and were walking through the snow and the cold to the mines.

How did you escape; how could you escape?"

"Yes--it is you," said the girl, "I see now. It was the costume, and your hair is all cut. I thought you had gone in the train to Germany."

She shuddered and clung to his hand. "Why do you wear that? Why aren't you gone? The Studio was vacant, I thought--deserted, or I shouldn't have come!"

Velasco gazed at her, chafing the cold, soft fingers between his own.

"Oh G.o.d, how I have suffered! I tried to reach you, I did everything, and then I shut myself up here waiting--I was nearly mad. Kaya--you escaped from the fortress alone, by yourself? Did they hurt you? You cried out; it rings in my ears--that cry! It has never left me! I shut myself up and paced the floor. Did they hurt you?"

The girl looked over her shoulder: "It was horrible, alone," she breathed, "Some of the guards, the sentinels, belong to us. Hush--no one knows; it must never be guessed. To-night, after dark, someone whistled--one was waiting for me in the corridor with the keys; the others were drugged. They handed me on to someone outside; I was dropped like a pebble over the wall. Then I ran--straight here I ran."

She put her hand to her breast. "Why aren't you gone? Go now, to-night. Leave me here. As soon as it is light I shall be missed, and then--" She shuddered and her hand trembled in his, like a bird that is caught, soft and quivering.

Velasco looked at her again and then he looked away at the candle: "I won't leave you," he said, "and the railroad is useless. They would track us at once. When I put this on--" He began smoothing the scarf.

"I meant to follow you through the snow and the cold to the mines, like a beggar musician."

He laughed: "You didn't know me yourself, you see? I was safe."

"Monsieur Velasco, you were coming to me? Ah, but they told you a lie!

I--" She breathed a few words to him softly.

"They would have--"

She nodded.

"When?"

"To-morrow at daybreak."

"In spite of Mezkarpin?"

She broke down and buried her face in her hands.

Velas...o...b..gan to pace the room slowly. "If you had a costume like mine," he said, "If your hair were cut--" Then he brightened suddenly and ran forward to the girl, s.n.a.t.c.hing her hands from her eyes, dragging her to her feet.

"What a fool I was!" he cried, "What an idiot! Quick, Kaya! My chum is an artist; he is off now in Sicily, painting the rocks, and the sea, and the peasants; but his things are all there in his room next to mine, just duds for his models you know. Go--go! Put on one like mine. You shall be a boy. We will be boys together, gypsies, and play for our living. We will walk to the frontier, Kaya, together."

The two stared at one another for a moment. He was pus.h.i.+ng her gently towards the curtain. "Quick!" he whispered, "Be quick!" They both listened for a moment.

Then he pushed her inside and dragged down the curtain: "Now, I must pack," he cried, "Now I must prepare to meet Galitsin, the round-eyed ox! Ha ha!--He will wait until he is stiff, and then he will fly back here in a rage. Good G.o.d, we must hurry!" He began opening and shutting the drawers, taking out money and jewels from one, articles of apparel from another.

"No collars, no neck-ties!" he said to himself, "How simple to be a gypsey! A knapsack will hold all for her and for me.--Kaya!--Bozhe moi!"

The curtain was drawn back and in the doorway stood a boy.

CHAPTER IX

The two gypsies gazed at one another in silence.