Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
“It’s to be hoped so; for they’ve left no beauty for the lower, at all events.”
“We have very beautiful women in Poland,” said the courier.
“Why don’t you bring a few here, then?”
“There are a great many Polish ladies in Petersburg at this moment.”
“Then go down and order another bottle,” said McShane, “and we’ll drink their healths.”
The second bottle was finished, and McShane, who had been drinking before, became less cautious.
“You said,” observed he, “that you have many Polish ladies in Petersburg; did you ever hear of a Princess Czartowinky?—I think that’s the name.”
“Czartorinski, you mean,” replied Dimitri; “to be sure I did; I served in the family some years ago, when the old prince was alive. But where did you see her?”
“In England, to be sure.”
“Well, that’s probable, for she has just returned from travelling with her uncle.”
“Is she now in Petersburg, my good fellow?”
“I believe she is—but why do wish to know?”
“Merely asked—that’s all.”
“Now, Macshanovich,”—for such was the familiar way in which Dimitri addressed his supposed brother-servant—“I suspect this Princess Czartorinski is some way connected with your master’s coming here. Tell me the truth—is such the case? I’m sure it is.”
“Then you know more than I do,” replied McShane, correcting himself, “for I’m not exactly in my master’s secrets; all that I do know is, that my master met her in England, and I thought her very handsome.”
“And so did he?”
“That’s as may be; between ourselves, I’ve an idea he was a little smitten in that quarter; but that’s only my own opinion, nothing more.”
“Has he ever spoken about her since you were here?” said Dimitri.
“Just once, as I handed his waistcoat to him; he said—‘I wonder if all the ladies are as handsome as that Polish princess that we met in Cumberland?’”
“If I thought he wished it, or cared for her, I would make inquiry, and soon find out all about her; but otherwise, it’s no use taking the trouble,” replied the courier.
“Well, then, will you give me your hand, and promise to serve faithfully, if I tell you all I know about the matter?”
“By the blessed Saint Nicholas, I do!” replied Dimitri; “you may trust me.”
“Well, then, it’s my opinion that my master’s over head and ears in love with her, and has come here for no other purpose.”
“Well, I’m glad you told me that; it will satisfy the police.”
“The police; why murder and Irish! you’re not going to inform the police, you villain?”
“Not with whom he is in love, most certainly, but that he has come here on that account; it will satisfy them, for they have no fear of a man that’s in love, and he will not be watched. Depend upon it, I cannot do a better thing to serve our master.”
“Well, then, perhaps you are right. I don’t like this champagne—get a bottle of Burgundy, Dimitri. Don’t look so hard—it’s all right. The captain dines out every day, and has ordered me to drink for the honour of the house.”
“He’s a capital master,” replied Dimitri, who had begun to feel the effects of the former bottles.
As soon as the third bottle was tapped, McShane continued—
“Now, Dimitri, I’ve given my opinion, and I can tell you, if my master has, as I suspect, come here about this young lady, and succeeds in obtaining her, it will be a blessed thing for you and me; for he’s as generous as the day, and has plenty of money. Do you know who she is?”
“To be sure I do; she is an only daughter of the late Prince Czartorinski, and now a sort of ward under the protection of the Emperor. She inherits all the estates, except one which was left to found an hospital at Warsaw, and is a rich heiress. It is supposed the emperor will bestow her upon one of his generals. She is at the palace, and a maid of honour to the empress.”
“Whew!” whistled McShane; “won’t there be a difficulty.”
“I should think so,” replied the courier, gravely.
“He must run away with her,” said McShane, after a pause.
“How will he get to see her?”
“He will not see her, so as to speak with her, in the palace; that is not the custom here; but he might meet her elsewhere.”
“To be sure, at a party or a ball,” said McShane.
“No, that would not do; ladies and gentlemen keep very apart here in general company. He might say a word or two when dancing, but that is all.”
“But how is he to meet her, when, in this cursed place of yours, if men and women keep at arm’s length?”
“That must depend upon her. Tell me, does she love him?”
“Well, now, that’s a home question: she never told him she did, and she never told me, that’s certain; but still I’ve an idea that she does.”
“Then all I can say, Macshanovich, is, that your master had better be very careful what he is about. Of course, he knows not that you have told me anything; but as soon as he thinks proper to trust me, I then will do my utmost in his service.”
“You speak like a very rational, sensible, intelligent courier,” replied McShane, “and so now let us finish the bottle. Here’s good luck to Captain O’Donahue, alive or dead: and now—please the fleas—I’ll be asleep in less than ten minutes.”
Chapter Fourteen
Going to Court, and Courting
When McShane awoke the next morning he tried to recall what had passed between him and Dimitri, and did not feel quite convinced that he had not trusted him too much. “I think,” said he, “it was all upon an if. Yes, sure; if O’Donahue was in love, and if she was. Yes, I’m sure that it was all upon ifs. However, I must go and tell O’Donahue what has taken place.”
McShane did so; and O’Donahue, after a little thought, replied, “Well, I don’t know: perhaps it’s all for the best; for you see I must have trusted somebody, and the difficulty would have been to know whom to trust, for everybody belongs to the police here, I believe: I think, myself, the fellow is honest; at all events, I can make it worth his while to be so.”
“He would not have told me he belonged to the police if he wished to trap us,” replied McShane.
“That’s very true, and on the whole I think we could not do better. But we are going on too fast; who knows whether she meant anything by what she said to me when we parted; or, if she did then, whether she may not have altered her mind since?”
“Such things have been—that’s a fact, O’Donahue.”
“And will be, as long as the world lasts. However, to-morrow I am to be presented—perhaps I may see her. I’m glad that I know that I may chance to meet her, as I shall now be on my guard.”
“And what shall I say to Dimitri?”
“Say that you mentioned her name, and where she was, and that I had only replied, that I should like to see her again.”
“Exactly; that will leave it an open question, as the saying is,” replied McShane.
The next day O’Donahue, in his uniform, drove to the ambassador’s hotel, to accompany him to the Annishkoff palace, where he was to be presented to the emperor. O’Donahue was most graciously received, the emperor walking up to him, as he stood in the circle, and inquiring after the health of his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, what service he had been employed upon, etcetera. He then told O’Donahue that the Empress would be most glad to make his acquaintance, and hoped that he would make a long stay at Saint Petersburg.
It was with a quickened pulse that O’Donahue followed the ambassador into the empress’s apartments. He had not waited there more than five minutes, in conversation with the ambassador when the doors opened, and the empress, attended by her chamberlain, and followed by her ladies in waiting and maids of honour, entered the room. O’Donahue had made up his mind not to take his eyes off the empress until the presentation was over. As soon as he had kissed hands, and answered the few questions which were graciously put to him, he retired to make room for others, and then, for the first time, did he venture to cast his eyes on the group of ladies attending the empress. The first that met his view were unknown, but, behind all the rest, he at length perceived the Princess Czartorinski, talking and laughing with another lady. After a short time she turned round, and their eyes met. The princess recognised him with a start, and then turned away and put her hand up to her breast, as if the shock had taken away her breath. Once more she turned her face to O’Donahue, and this time he was fully satisfied by her looks that he was welcome. Ten minutes after, the ambassador summoned O’Donahue, and they quitted the palace.
“I have seen her, McShane,” said O’Donahue; “she is more beautiful, and I am more in love than ever. And now, what am I to do?”
“That’s just the difficulty,” replied McShane. “Shall I talk with Dimitri, or shall I hold my tongue, or shall I think about it while you go to dinner at the ambassador’s?”
“I cannot dine out to-day, McShane. I will write an excuse.”
“Well, now, I do believe you’re in for it in good earnest. My love never spoiled my appetite; on the contrary, it was my appetite that made me fall in love.”
“I wish she had not been a princess,” said O’Donahue, throwing himself on the sofa.
“That’s nothing at all here,” replied McShane. “A princess is to be had. Now, if she had been a general it would have been all up with you. Military rank is everything here, as Dimitri says.”
“She’s an angel,” replied O’Donahue, with a sigh.
“That’s rank in heaven, but goes for nothing in Petersburg,” replied McShane. “Dimitri tells me they’ve civil generals here, which I conceive are improvements on our staff, for devil a civil general I’ve had the pleasure of serving under.”
“What shall I do,” said O’Donahue, getting up and preparing to write his note to the ambassador.
“Eat your dinner, drink a bottle of champagne, and then I’ll come and talk it over with you, that’s all you can do at present. Give me the note, and I’ll send Dimitri off with it at once, and order up your dinner.”
McShane’s advice not being very bad, it was followed. O’Donahue had finished his dinner, and was sitting by the fire with McShane, when there was a knock at the door. McShane was summoned, and soon returned, saying, “There’s a little fellow that wants to speak with you, and won’t give his message. He’s a queer little body, and not so bad-looking either, with a bolster on the top of his head, and himself not higher than a pillow; a pigeon could sit upon his shoulder and peck up peas out of his shoes; he struts like a grenadier, and, by the powers! a grenadier’s cap would serve as an extinguisher for him. Shall I show him in?”
“Certainly,” replied O’Donahue.
The reader may not be aware that there is no part of the globe where there are so many dwarfs as at Saint Petersburg; there is scarcely an hotel belonging to a noble family without one or two, if not more; they are very kindly treated, and are, both in appearance and temper, very superior to the dwarfs occasionally met with elsewhere. One of this diminutive race now entered the room, dressed in a Turkish costume; he was remarkably well made and handsome in person; he spoke sufficient French to inquire if he addressed himself to Captain O’Donahue; and on being replied to in the affirmative, he gave him a small billet, and then seated himself on the sofa with all the freedom of a petted menial. O’Donahue tore open the note; it was very short:—
“As I know you cannot communicate with me, I write to say that I was delighted at your having kept your promise. You shall hear from me again as soon as I know where I can meet you; in the meantime, be cautious. The bearer is to be trusted; he belongs to me.
“C.”
O’Donahue pressed the paper to his lips, and then sat down to reply. We shall not trouble the reader with what he said; it is quite sufficient that the lady was content with the communication, and also at the report from her little messenger of the Captain’s behaviour when he had read her billet.
Two or three days afterwards, O’Donahue received a note from a German widow lady, a Countess Erhausen, particularly requesting he would call upon her in the afternoon, at three o’clock. As he had not as yet had the pleasure of being introduced to the countess, although he had often heard her spoken of in the first society, O’Donahue did not fail in his appointment, as he considered that it was possible that the Princess Czartorinski might be connected with it; nor was he deceived, for on his entering the saloon, he found the princess sitting on the sofa with Madame Erhausen, a young and pretty woman, not more than twenty-five years of age. The princess rose, and greeted Captain O’Donahue, and then introduced the countess as her first cousin. A few minutes after his introduction, the countess retired, leaving them alone. O’Donahue did not lose this opportunity of pouring out the real feelings of his heart.
“You have come a long way to see me, Captain O’Donahue, and I ought to be grateful,” replied the princess: “indeed, I have much pleasure in renewing our acquaintance.”
O’Donahue, however, did not appear satisfied with this mere admission: he became eloquent in his own cause, pointed out the cruelty of having brought him over to see her again if he was not to be rewarded, and after about an hour’s pleading he was sitting on the sofa by her side, with her fair hand in his, and his arm round her slender waist. They parted, but through the instrumentality of the little dwarf, they often met again at the same rendezvous. Occasionally they met in society, but before others they were obliged to appear constrained and formal; there was little pleasure in such meetings, and when O’Donahue could not see the princess his chief pleasure was to call upon Madame Erhausen and talk about her.
“You are aware, Captain O’Donahue,” said the countess one day, “that there will be a great difficulty to overcome in this affair. The princess is a sort of ward of the emperor’s, and it is said that he has already, in his own mind, disposed of her hand.”
“I am aware of that,” replied O’Donahue; “and I know no other means than running away with her.”
“That would never do,” replied the countess; “you could not leave Petersburg without passports; nor could she leave the palace for more than an hour or two without being missed. You would soon be discovered, and then you would lose her for ever.”
“Then what can I do, my dear madame? Shall I throw myself upon the indulgence of the emperor?”
“No, that would not answer either; she is too rich a prize to be permitted to go into foreign hands. I’ll tell you what you must first do.”
“I’m all attention.”
“You must make love to me,” replied the countess. “Nay, understand me. I mean that you must appear to make love to me, and the report of our marriage must be spread. The emperor will not interfere in such a case; you must do so to avoid suspicion. You have been here very often, and your equipage has been constantly seen at the door. If it is supposed you do not come on my account, it will be inquired why you do come; and there is no keeping a secret at Petersburg. After it is supposed that it is a settled affair between us, we then may consider what next ought to be done. My regard for my cousin alone induces me to consent to this; indeed, it is the only way she could avoid future misery.”
“But is the emperor so despotic on these points?”
“An emperor is not to be trifled with; a ward of the emperor is considered sacred—at least, so far, that if a Russian were to wed one without permission, he probably would be sent to Siberia. With an Englishman it is different, perhaps; and, once married, you would be safe, as you could claim the protection of your ambassador. The great point is, to let it be supposed that you are about to marry some one else; and then, suspicion not being awakened, you may gain your wish.”
“But tell me, madame,—that I may be safe from the emperor’s displeasure is true—but would the princess, after he discovered it? Could he not take her away from me, and send her to Siberia for disobedience?”
“I hope, by the means I propose, to get you both clear of the emperor—at least, till his displeasure is softened down. Me he cannot hurt; he can only order me out of his dominions. As for the princess, I should think that, if once married to you, she would be safe, for you could claim the protection of the ambassador for her, as your wife, as well as for yourself. Do you comprehend me now?”
“I do, madame; and may blessings follow you for your kindness. I shall in future act but by your directions?”
“That is exactly what I wished you to say; and so now, Captain O’Donahue, farewell.”
Chapter Fifteen
A Runaway and a Hard Pursuit
“Well, now,” said McShane, after he had been informed by O’Donahue of what had passed between him and the countess,—“this is all very pretty, and looks very well; but tell me, are we to trust that fellow Dimitri? Can we do without him? I should say not when it comes to the finale; and is it not dangerous to keep him out of our confidence, being such a sharp, keen-witted fellow? Nay, more, as he has stated his wish to serve you in any way, it is only treating him fairly. He knows the little dwarf who has been here so often; indeed, they were fellow-servants in the Czartorinski family, for he told me so. I would trust him.”
“I think so, too; but we must not tell him all.”
“No, that we certainly need not, for he will find it out without telling.”
“Well, McShane, do as you please; but on second thoughts, I will speak to the countess to-morrow.”
O’Donahue did so, the countess called upon the princess at the palace, and the next morning O’Donahue received a note stating that Dimitri was to be trusted. O’Donahue then sent for the courier, and told him that he was about to put confidence in him on a promise of his fidelity.
“I understand you, sir, and all you intend to do; there is no occasion to say anything more to me, until you want my assistance. I will not, in the meantime, neglect your interest, for I hope to remain with you, and that is the only reward I ask for any services I may perform. I have only one remark to make now, which is, that it will be necessary, a few days before you leave Petersburg, to let me know, that I may advertise it.”
“Advertise it!”
“Yes, sir, you must advertise your departure, that you may not run away in debt. Such is the custom; and without three notices being put in the Gazette, the police will not give you your passport.”
“I am glad that you mentioned it. Of course you are aware that I am paying attention to the Countess Erhausen, and shall leave Petersburg with her, I trust, as my wife?”
“I understand sir, and shall take care that your intimacy there shall be known to everybody.”
So saying, Dimitri left the room.
The winter now set in with unusual severity. The river was one mass of ice, the floating bridges had been removed, the Montagnes-Russes became the amusement of the day, and the sledges were galloping about in every direction. For more than a month O’Donahue continued his pretended addresses to the fair cousin of the princess, and during that time he did not once see the real object of his attachment: indeed, the dwarf never made his appearance, and all communication, except an occasional note from her to the countess, was, from prudence, given up. The widow was rich, and had often been pressed to renew her bonds, but had preferred her liberty. O’Donahue, therefore, was looked upon as a fortunate man, and congratulated upon his success. Nor did the widow deny the projected union, except in a manner so as to induce people to believe in the certainty of its being arranged. O’Donahue’s equipage was always at her door, and it was expected that the marriage would immediately take place, when O’Donahue attended a levee given by the emperor on the Feast of Saint Nicholas. The emperor, who had been very civil to O’Donahue, as he walked past him, said, “Well, Captain O’Donahue, so I understand that you intend to run away with one of our fairest and prettiest ladies—one of the greatest ornaments of my court?”
“I trust that I have your Majesty’s permission so to do,” replied O’Donahue, bowing low.
“Oh, certainly you have; and, moreover, our best wishes for your happiness.”
“I humbly thank your Majesty,” replied O’Donahue; “still I trust your Majesty does not think that I wish to transplant her to my own country altogether, and that I shall be permitted to reside, for the major part of the year, in your Majesty’s dominions.”
“Nothing will give me greater pleasure; and it will be a satisfaction to feel that I shall gain instead of losing by the intended marriage.”
“By the powers! but I will remind him of this, some day or another,” thought O’Donahue. “Haven’t I his permission to the marriage, and to remain in the country?”
Everything was now ripe for the execution of the plot. The countess gave out that she was going to her country-seat, about ten miles from Saint Petersburg; and it was naturally supposed that she was desirous that the marriage should be private, and that she intended to retire there to have the ceremony performed; and O’Donahue advertised his departure in the Gazette.
The Princess Czartorinski produced a letter from the countess, requesting her, as a favour, to obtain leave from the empress to pass two or three days with her in the country; and the empress, as the countess was first-cousin to the princess, did not withhold her consent; on the contrary, when the princess left the palace, she put a case of jewels in her hand, saying, “These are for the bride, with the good wishes and protection of the empress, as long as she remains in this country.” One hour afterwards O’Donahue was rewarded for all his long forbearance by clasping his fair one in his arms. A priest had been provided, and was sent forward to the country château, and at ten in the morning all the parties were ready. The princess and her cousin set off in the carriage, followed by O’Donahue, with McShane and his suite. Everything was en règle. The passports had been made out for Germany, to which country it was reported the countess would proceed a few days after the marriage, and the princess was to return to the palace. As soon as they arrived at the château the ceremony was performed, and O’Donahue obtained his prize; and to guard against any mishap, it was decided that they should leave the next morning, on their way to the frontier. Dimitri had been of the greatest use, had prepared against every difficulty, and had fully proved his fidelity. The parting between the countess and her cousin was tender. “How much do I owe, dear friend!” said the princess. “What risk do you incur for me! How will you brave the anger of the emperor?”
“I care little for his anger. I am a woman, and not a subject of his; but, before you go, you must both write a letter—your husband to the emperor, reminding him of his having given his consent to the marriage, and his wish that he should remain in his dominions; and let him add his sincere wish, if permitted, to be employed in his Majesty’s service. You, my dear cousin, must write to the empress, reminding her of her promise of protection, and soliciting her good offices with the emperor. I shall play my own game; but, depend upon it, it will all end in a laugh.”
O’Donahue and his wife both wrote their letters, and O’Donahue also wrote one to the English ambassador, informing him of what had taken place, and requesting his kind offices. As soon as they were finished, the countess bade them farewell, saying, “I shall not send these letters until you are well out of reach, depend upon it;” and, with many thanks for her kindness, O’Donahue and his bride bade her adieu, and set off on their long journey.
The carriage procured for their journey was what is called a German bâtarde, which is very similar to an English chariot with coach-box, fixed upon a sleigh. Inside were O’Donahue and his young bride, McShane preferring to ride outside on the box with Joey, that he might not be in the way, as a third person invariably is, with a newly married couple. The snow was many feet deep on the ground; but the air was dry, and the sun shone bright. The bride was handed in, enveloped in a rich mantle of sable; O’Donahue followed, equally protected against the cold; while McShane and Joey fixed themselves on the box, so covered up in robes of wolf-skins, and wrappers of bear-skins for their feet, that you could see but the tips of their noses. On the front of the sleigh, below the box of the carriage, were seated the driver and the courier; four fiery young horses were pawing with impatience; the signal was given, and off they went at the rate of sixteen miles an hour.
“Where’s the guns, Joey, and the pistols, and the ammunition?” inquired McShane; “we’re going through a wild sort of country, I expect.”
“I have put them in myself, and I can lay my hands on them immediately, sir,” replied Joey; “the guns are behind us, and your pistols and the ammunition are at my feet; the captain’s are in the carriage.”
“That’s all right, then; I like to know where to lay my hands upon my tools. Just have the goodness to look at my nose now and then, Joey; and if you see a white spot on the tip of it, you’ll be pleased to tell me, and I’ll do the same for you. Mrs McShane would be anything but pleased if I came home with only half a handle to my face.”
The journey was continued at the same rapid pace until the close of the day, when they arrived at the post-house; there they stopped, McShane and Joey, with the assistance of the courier, preparing their supper from the stores which they brought with them. After supper they retired, O’Donahue and his wife sleeping in the carriage, which was arranged so as to form a bed if required; while McShane and Joey made it out how they could upon the cloaks and what little straw they could procure, on the floor of the post-house, where, as McShane said the next morning, they “had more bed-fellows than were agreeable, although he contrived to get a few hours’ sleep in spite of the jumping vagabonds.” When they rose the next morning, they found that the snow had just begun to fall fast. As soon as they had breakfasted they set out, nevertheless, and proceeded at the same pace. McShane telling Joey, who was, as well as himself, almost embedded in it before the day was half over, that it was “better than rain, at all events;” to be sure that was cold comfort, but any comfort is better than none. O’Donahue’s request for McShane to come inside was disregarded; he was as tough as little Joey, at all events, and it would be a pity to interrupt the conversation. About four o’clock they had changed their horses at a small village, and were about three miles on their last stage, for that day’s journey, when they passed through a pine-forest.
“There’s a nice place for an ambuscade, Joey, if there were any robbers about here,” observed McShane. “Murder and Irish! what’s those chaps running among the trees so fast, and keeping pace with us? I say, Dimitri,” continued McShane, pointing to them, “what are those?”
The courier looked in the direction pointed out, and as soon as he had done so, spoke to the driver, who, casting his eyes hastily in the direction, applied the lash to his horses, and set off with double speed.
“Wolves, sir,” replied the courier, who then pulled out his pistols, and commenced loading them.
“Wolves!” said McShane, “and hungry enough, I’ll warrant; but they don’t hope to make a meal of us, do they? At all events we will give them a little fight for it. Come, Joey, I see that Dimitri don’t like it, so we must shake off the snow, and get our ammunition ready.”
This was soon done; the guns were unstrapped from the back of the coach-box, the pistols got from beneath their feet, and all were soon ready, loaded and primed.
“It’s lucky there’s such a mist on the windows of the carriage, that the lady can’t see what we’re after, or she’d be frightened, perhaps,” said Joey.
The rapid pace at which the driver had put his horses had for a time left the wolves in the rear; but now they were seen following the carriage at about a quarter of a mile distant, having quitted the forest and taken to the road.
“Here they come, the devils! one, two, three—there are seven of them. I suppose this is what they call a covey in these parts. Were you ever wolf-hunting before, Joey?”
“I don’t call this wolf-hunting,” replied Joey; “I think the wolves are hunting us.”
“It’s all the same, my little poacher—it’s a hunt, at all events. They are gaining on us fast; we shall soon come to an explanation.”
The courier now climbed up to the coach-box to reconnoitre, and he shook his head, telling them in very plain English that he did not like it; that he had heard that the wolves were out in consequence of the extreme severity of the weather, and that he feared that these seven were only the advance of a whole pack; that they had many versts to go, for the stage was a long one, and it would be dark before they were at the end of it.
“Have you ever been chased by them before?” said Joey.
“Yes,” replied the courier, “more than once; it’s the horses that they are so anxious to get hold of. Three of our horses are very good, but the fourth is not very well, the driver says, and he is fearful that he will not hold out; however, we must keep them off as long as we can; we must not shoot at them till the last moment.”
“Why not?” inquired McShane.
“Because the whole pack would scent the blood at miles, and redouble their efforts to come up with us. There is an empty bottle by you, sir; throw it on the road behind the carriage; that will stop them for a time.”
“An empty bottle stop them! well, that’s queer: it may stop a man drinking, because he can get no mote out of it. However, as you please, gentlemen; here’s to drink my health, bad manners to you,” said McShane, throwing the bottle over the carriage.
The courier was right: at the sight of the bottle in the road, the wolves, who are of a most suspicious nature, and think that there is a trap laid for them in everything, stopped short, and gathered round it cautiously; the carriage proceeded, and in a few minutes the animals were nearly out of sight.
