Chapter XI: The Departure From Rome

It was the 12th of February. The day was very cold and northern-like, but withal very bright. The Princess, her suite and servants, took their seats in several carriages. At the Church of San Carlo she distributed rich alms to the poor, and then, followed by a whole crowd of artists and nobles, and amidst the cries and shouts of the populace, who ran after her, waving hats and caps, she left Rome. At the town gates, she signed her name in the books as Countess Selinski. She took the Florentine route.

I galloped in front, while Christianok followed closely behind her.

On the 16th of February the Princess arrived at Bologna. The count was not in town; he was awaiting her in his more retired palace of Pisa.

The noisy train and crowd of servants following the Princess, and amounting to several dozens of people, exceedingly astonished the count. However, he received his visitor very respectfully and cordially, appointed her a splendid apartment, not far from his own, surrounded her with every comfort possible, and at all times conducted himself as a most faithful subject, never even, before strangers, sitting down in her presence. Strange things began to happen. What the count said to the Princess, what negotiations passed between them, no one of course knew. We could only surmise--as we did very soon--that a most hazardous game of love was being played. And, indeed, the Princess soon afterwards removed from her own apartment to that of the count, while her retinue and servants remained where they were. Christianok, ever since the arrival of the Princess, constantly tried to put me in the shade. He exalted his own services, as though the whole success of the plot was due to him alone. Of course my pride would only allow me to look upon all this with contempt. The count could see for himself that it was to my influence alone that he owed the arrival of the Princess.

Rumours began to circulate that Alexis Gregorevitch had made the Princess many presents; that among other things he had given her his own miniature, painted on ivory and encircled with precious stones; that for her he had, even from the very first, deserted his much beloved favourite, the lovely and amiable wife of the rich Alexandre Lvovitch Davidoff, a born Orloff. There remained no doubt. The enchantress had won the heart of the count, our _preux_. The lion had fallen in love with a gay butterfly. Dazzled by her, the count no longer made a secret of his passion. He was to be seen openly with her everywhere--on the promenade, at the opera, or at church: it was all the same. One day the Princess did me the honour to call me. She began asking me about this and about that and assured me several times that she had more confidence in me than in any one else. The count also was always most amiable. Christianok, seeing me again in favour, had recourse to a little ruse. The cunning Greek began to complain that the Princess had been very sparing in her attentions to him at Rome, and that he could not forget it; she therefore, with the permission of the count, gave him a colonel’s brevet. I was passed by. I bore this injustice without a murmur, relying on the confidence reposed in me by the count and the Princess, of which I was soon to have proofs.

“Well Konsov!” said the count to me one day, “honour and glory to you, who have known so well how to procure me the opportunity of making myself agreeable to such a person. We must prepare for her, in the future, a quiet and comfortable life. Is she not, truly, a lovely creature? What a lively and charming character! I must say, candidly, I’m almost ready to marry her myself, and have done with my bachelor life.…”

“Well and why not, your Grace?” answered I. “What should there be to prevent it?”

“She won’t consent, old fellow; she says, ‘I’ll consent only when I’m in my proper place.’”

“How so? Excuse me, I don’t understand. What proper place?”

“Oh! well, cannot you understand?… When she will be in Russia, at home,--well, when the empress will condescend to recognise her rights.”

“But is there any hope of that?”

Orloff became thoughtful.

“Well, I think,” said he, “that it might be possible; I hope her friends will not spoil everything. They follow her so closely here, all those Poles, those Jesuits of all kinds. Who knows? They may poison us. They may shoot us; or give us a stab at the corner of the street with a hired _Kinjal_.[34] All they desire is a person for their disturbances.”

The count seemed very much agitated. His frank, open and intelligent countenance seemed troubled. The passion of his heart, working as it were against his will, could be heard in his trembling voice, in each of his words.

The day ended. The count did not leave his visitor for a minute.

“Here’s bad luck! she won’t listen. Really I don’t know what to do,” said he, one day, having summoned me. “If I could find some one to help me, … some one who could persuade her.…”

“Persuade her to what?” I asked.

“To a private marriage, and then flight.…”

“But with whom?”

“With me!…”

“What! your Grace! but where to?”

“To the end of the world, if need be.… Ah, yes, while I think of it, persuade her not to carry pistolets on her person; the other day, in a passion, she nearly killed her own maid, Francesca.…”

Having uttered this confession, this athletic, this splendid Apollo-like count, stood before me as flushed as a schoolgirl, and his eyes were cast down, just as if he were some love-sick youth awaiting his sentence.

What answer could I make him? In my agitation I was silent; but then, as always, I decided to remain his most devoted and obedient servant. After all, what was it? A marriage. There was nothing bad in that. In marrying her the count was only obeying the dictates of his heart, and while gaining in position by allying himself with Imperial blood, he was transforming the “Adventuress” into the modest Countess Orloff.

* * * * *

Here I must interrupt my narrative, and return to the present--to our poor frigate. My God! how awful! Tempest-tost, the _Northern Eagle_ for five whole days was borne no one knew whither. All the reckonings, all the fathomings were being done in vain. To-day, at dawn, we passed Spain, not far from the African coast and near some wild stony islands. We made signals, but in the fog no one could see us. In the daytime, having finished my watch, I remained on deck. A most unbearable, sultry coast-wind, a boundless expanse of water, splashing between the rocks, a ship without mast or compass, universal despair, and not the least hope of being saved: that is all we have before our eyes. The first reef, and we are lost. Irena, oh! far-off charming traitress! oh! could you but see all the torments endured by the poor rejected exile! Night, again a calm. I’m once more in my cabin. All-powerful God, give me only the strength to live through this night and finish writing my tale.