The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 20

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 20

“Yes, I will,” returned Féron. “I’ll make an iron to brand you with

when you are caught trying to desert, as you are sure to be one of

these days.”

 

A general laugh followed this retort, then silence fell over the group,

while Féron hammered away at his task, and most of the others began to

doze in their places. When at last he held up triumphantly, in proof of

his skill, a finely-formed branding-iron with the letter N upon it, his

companions were far too sleepy to give him the applause he expected.

 

One hour--two hours passed away. All were sleeping now, even the

sentinels Seppel had placed outside as a matter of form. The village

of Nicolofsky was as still as it was wont to be in the noon of a

midsummer night. If a sound of weeping and lamentation came, softened

by distance, from the adjacent birch-wood, it failed to disturb the

sleepers. But the short summer night was soon over, and the dawn began

to creep in, cold and gray.

 

Its first faint light fell upon the figure of a mujik, who traversed,

with stealthy, silent footsteps, the deserted street of his native

village. As he passed the church he noticed that the door had been

forced open--though it was again roughly secured on the outside. He

removed the fastening and looked in. The spirit of wanton outrage,

only too common amongst the French soldiery, had made Seppel choose

that sacred place as a stable for his horse, and the animal was eating

corn out of a consecrated vessel placed upon the altar.[24] Michael

Ivanovitch ground his teeth, and his dark cheek flushed ominously; but

he passed on, for his heart was full of a great, deep anguish, before

which every other emotion paled and faded.

 

That which, at the risk of his life, he had come to fetch, was not

in the desecrated church. It had to be sought for in the very place

where most of the French soldiers had taken up their quarters for the

night--the cottage of Pope Nikita. The door of the cottage was half

open, and he saw that the floor was covered with sleeping forms clad

in the blue tunic of the French infantry. What matter to him? Blotting

out that sight, he saw the wistful, longing look in the dying eyes of

the girl he loved, and, before him, the sacred picture her faltering

accents had entreated him to bring to her. Thank God, there it hung

yet--on the cottage wall, in the right-hand corner. Could he tread

amongst those sleepers without awakening them, and reach it?

 

His step was noiseless as the footfall of the desert panther, and the

French were weary with marching, and most of them heavy with vodka.

He had grasped his prize--he stood with his hand on its frame, and a

momentary throb of triumph in his sorrowful heart, when suddenly a head

was raised; some one more wakeful than the rest had seen the intruder.

In an instant the alarm was given, and the whole group were on their

feet; in another, a dozen strong hands were laid at once upon Michael

Ivanovitch.

 

He struggled desperately, but what could one man do against a dozen

armed with swords and bayonets? He would have been cut down almost

immediately, had not Seppel, very sensibly, called upon his men to

spare his life and secure him as a prisoner. “He may serve for a guide,

or at least give us some information,” he said. Then he summoned the

Pole to act as interpreter, taking the precaution to make another

man--Féron it happened to be--stand before the prisoner with his loaded

musket pointed at his breast. “He looks dangerous,” he observed.

 

There was not much to be read in Michael’s stolid, determined face, as

the light of the early morning shone upon it. He had placed the sacred

picture in the breast of his caftan; but seeing the musket, he took

it out and laid it on the table. “They shall not harm _that_, at all

events,” he thought.

 

“Tell him,” said Seppel to the Pole, “that if he fails to satisfy us,

we will shoot him; but that if he behaves well, we will spare his life.”

 

The Pole interpreted, and Michael answered coolly, “Nitshevo.”

 

“That means,” the Pole explained, “‘It is no matter. I do not care.’”

 

“Ask him,” pursued Seppel, “what brought him here.”

 

Michael, as soon as he understood the question, pointed to the picture.

 

Seppel laughed incredulously; and the Pole inquired of his own accord,

“Is that the whole truth, Russian?”

 

“Da,” returned the prisoner.

 

“He says, ‘Yes,’” the Pole explained.

 

“Tell him he is a liar,” said Seppel.

 

A scornful smile was the only answer, and Seppel tried another course.

“Ask him,” he said, “how far it is from this place to Klopti.”

 

He did so; but Michael answered nothing.

 

“Tell him he must take us there to-day.”

 

Still no answer.

 

“Tell him if he chooses to behave in this way he has not two minutes to

live.”

 

“Nitshevo,” was the only reply.

 

This went on for some minutes, every inquiry being met by a dogged

silence, every threat by “Nitshevo.” At last Seppel lost patience, and

told Féron to fire upon the prisoner.

 

But Féron disliked the task, for he rather admired the courage of the

Russian. He slowly laid his finger on the trigger of his musket, then

withdrew it again. This he did twice, keenly watching the countenance

of the prisoner, which showed no perceptible change. All the French

soldiers had now crowded around them, and were watching the scene with

interested faces.

 

“Do not kill him, sergeant,” pleaded one.

 

“He is a brave fellow. Try something else first,” said another.

 

Seppel paused, and a new thought occurred to him. “Ah, yes,” he said,

“these Russian slaves understand nothing except it comes to them

through their bodily feelings. They are accustomed, I suppose, to be

treated like beasts of the field.--Pole, tell him he is our prisoner;

_that_, at least, we will make him know.--Féron, put down your musket,

and bring that branding-iron I saw you make last night; there is enough

fire yet in the stove to heat it red-hot.”

 

Féron obeyed without hesitation, even with alacrity; for it seemed to

him much better to brand a man on the hand than to shoot him through

the heart. So the letter N, fashioned in sport the night before, was

used in earnest now. It came down with burning pain, and left its mark,

indelible for ever, upon the unresisting hand of Michael.

 

For a moment his strong frame quivered, but his lips were silent,

pressed closely together. Then he turned to the Pole, and, for the

first time speaking of his own accord, he asked him, “What does that

mean?”

 

“It means that you belong now, soul and body, to our Emperor, the great

Napoleon. That which you bear on your hand is his mark--the first

letter of his name.”

 

Michael smiled slightly, and advancing to the table, laid the wounded

hand upon it. (Féron not unintentionally had made choice of the left

one.) Then with one blow from the axe which he drew from the sash of

his caftan, he severed it from his wrist. “Take what belongs to your

Emperor,” he said, turning proudly to the astonished group. “As for me,

I belong altogether to the Czar.”[25]

 

A thrill of involuntary admiration passed through the spectators,

and for some moments no one spoke. Meanwhile, in the calm summer sky

outside, the sun was rising, and its first red beams flashed through

the little window upon the homely features of the serf, which shone

with a courage and devotion that were almost sublime.

 

“Cut him down!” cried a solitary voice, that of the conscript who, the

night before, had challenged Féron’s skill. But half-a-dozen other

voices cried, “Shame!” while Seppel himself seemed to hesitate, and

stood with the air of a man perplexed and confounded.

 

In the meantime Henri de Talmont, who had hitherto taken no part in the

scene, walked boldly up to the prisoner. He held in his hand a fine

white cambric handkerchief, which he wound carefully about the wounded

arm. “As you love your Czar,” he said gently, “so we Royalists in

France loved our King.”

 

The words, of course, fell meaningless upon the ear of Michael; but

the tones in which they were uttered, and the action which accompanied

them, were abundantly intelligible. The eyes of the Russian serf and

the French gentleman met with a look of comprehension and sympathy.

 

“Shall we let him go?” Seppel asked at length. “What say you, mes

enfants?”

 

There was now not one dissentient voice, and Seppel turned to the

interpreter. “Tell him, Pole, that we Frenchmen know how to respect a

brave enemy. He is free.”

 

Michael heard, bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment, took up the

sacred picture with his remaining hand, and walked slowly out. He

scarcely noticed the ringing cheer which the excitable Frenchmen sent

after him. Their applause was nothing to him: it could not bring back

the young life of his betrothed, flowing forth so quickly through the

wound their guns had made last night. Enough if he might but be in

time to see her once again, and to comfort her dying moments with the

treasure he had risked so much to procure.

 

When he was gone, Seppel stretched his limbs once more before the

stove, and said half to himself with a meditative air, “After all, I

begin to doubt whether we shall succeed so easily in conquering these

Russians.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII.

 

SERF AND BOYAR.

 

“Vengeance, deep brooding o’er the slain,

Had locked the source of softer woe;

And burning pride and high disdain