Chapter XXX: “what If the Captive Be Innocent?”

Father Peter returned home in a very agitated frame of mind. “Is she a usurper?” thought he. “Of course, man will stick to anything in his own interests. But dying--almost with her last breath, after such terrible privations, almost torture! What if she’s innocent, not an adventuress? remembers her childhood, repeats always the same--of course, in all this, she is the only witness. Is it her fault that her proofs are so scanty, so insignificant?”

The priest, on coming home, went straight to his study. Having learnt that the girls were not at home, he lighted his stove, shut the door, and once more took the diary of Konsov in his hands. Having again glanced over the manuscript, he wrapped it in a sheet of paper, tied it round with a string, sealed it, and wrote on the outside paper--“To be opened only after my death.” This roll he put at the bottom of a trunk, where he kept many precious documents and manuscripts. He had hardly shut the lid down, when a knock was heard at the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Friends!” and his niece entered with Rakitina.

“What is the matter with you, dear uncle,” asked Vâra, looking at the priest; “you look agitated--this is the second day you’ve been out driving?…”

Irena looked at him inquiringly. “Perhaps he has some news for me,” thought she.

“About other people’s business; of no interest to you, my dear; and you, Irena Lvovna, be magnanimous and forgive me,” continued the priest, turning round to Rakitina. “Times are troublous, it is now too dangerous to keep the manuscripts you brought from home. I know you will soon go away, but the village even is not safe. You’ll forgive an old man.”

Irena turned pale.

“All sorts of rumours are floating about--search may be made,” continued Father Peter. “Scold me, young lady, but your manuscript.…”

“Where is it? oh, you’ve not burnt it?” cried Irena, involuntarily glancing at the lighted stove.

Father Peter silently bowed.

Irena clasped her hands.

“Oh! my God!” she cried, unable to keep back her tears; “the last consolation, the last token of remembrance, and that is gone! What shall I carry away with me now?”

Vâra looked reproachfully at her uncle.

“Afterwards, dear young lady; in time you shall know everything, but now it is better to be silent,” said the priest in a decided voice. “God’s ways are not our ways. The enemy’s path is full of snares. Pray to God; He will have mercy.”

But the priest was not to be left in peace. That very day he was again called to the commander-in-chief.

“Well, did you get anything from the captive?” asked Galitzin.

“Excuse me, your Grace,” answered Father Peter, “but the secrets of the Confession.… No! I cannot, I dare not.”

Galitzin became embarrassed.

“What a commission!” thought Galitzin, blushing. “Ah, those counsellors.… Orloff, you can see, unable to rest, is again inventing something at Moscow, and I--play the Inquisitor.…”

“Well, Batiushka! that’s my orders from high.…”

“I cannot, your Grace; ’twould be against my conscience.”

Galitzin moved his lips, not finding a way out of his embarrassment.

“Who _is_ she?” said he, trying to look very important and determined. “Cannot you see this is a State secret, a most important one. You see I must send a report. There will be inquiries; I’m answerable for everything, for order. Here, I … I alone!”

“One thing I may tell your Grace--while I am alive, I’ll keep the oath exacted by you.”

The field-marshal was all ears.

“I’ll not let one word fall of what I heard at the Confession,” continued Father Peter. “You exacted from me an oath of silence, but I can inform you of one thing, prince, although it is my own personal opinion: the captive has been much calumniated, a great deal has been invented, … and what if she.…”

“Oh! speak, speak!” said the field-marshal.

“What if the captive were innocent?” said the priest; “why should she suffer all that?”

If a thunderbolt had fallen at the feet of the prince, he could not have been more wonderstruck.

“You assure me--do you mean to say, that she had no accomplices?” said he; “that she was no traitor? But then, am I to understand that she is our own truly born grand-duchess! But is it possible? No, not for one minute can I think it!”

Father Peter, with his head bent down, was silent.

“No! you make a mistake, that’s all a dream, delirium,” cried out the field-marshal, clutching at the bell rope. “Horses!” he called to the orderly, who at once came in, “I’ll try; time is not yet quite lost. I’ll see for myself.”