Marie Tarnowska

With cheeks and heart aflame I hurried to my apartments, glad to think that I should find them dark and silent. My temples were throbbing, the coronet of diamonds—a gift of Kamarowsky's—weighed heavy on my brow, and my eyes seemed to be pierced with red-hot needles.

I opened the door of my sitting-room, where a lamp, turned low, glimmered like a star veiled in red vapor. Behind it I could see yawning blackly the open door leading to my bedroom, which was in complete darkness.

I had a strange feeling that I was not alone. Some one was in the room—some one whom I could not discern was near to me.

Yes, a footstep approached; a strong arm encircled me. Nicolas Naumoff's voice spoke in thrilling accents: “Marie! Marie! My heart is breaking.”

With a sigh of infinite weariness merging into a sense of infinite repose I laid my head against his breast. I longed to die. I felt as if I had nothing more to ask for, nothing more to desire.

But the anguish that was passing from my soul seemed to have entered into his.

“You must not marry that man! You must not, you shall not!” He gripped my shoulders as if he would crush them. “Tell me, tell me that you do not love him.”

At that instant on the black background of my bedroom there appeared a form—Prilukoff! Erect in the doorway he stood watching us. Naumoff had his back to him, but across his shoulder I looked Prilukoff in the face, only a few steps from me.

My heart stood still. What would he do?

Knowing as I did his ungovernable frenzies of jealousy, his madness, his recklessness, I wondered whether he would leap forward and spring at Naumoff's throat? Would there be blows and groans and a death-struggle in my tranquil, shadowy room? Would there be a turmoil and a scandal, during which the bond of infamy that tied me to Prilukoff would be revealed to Naumoff? Revealed to Kamarowsky and to the world?

The fear of tragedy and disgrace kept me stark and terror-stricken, rooted to the spot. Then I saw Prilukoff move. Slowly he raised his right arm. His right hand clutched something which I could not see. Suddenly—incredible sight!—I saw him open his mouth wide; and never, never have I seen anything more grotesque and terrifying than that figure in the darkness with mouth gaping wide....

But still his right arm moved, rising slowly and relentlessly until it was on a level with that terrible open mouth. What did the hand hold? Did I not see a gleam of polished metal?

I tried to scream, but no sound issued from my parched throat. I could see the whites of his staring upturned eyes, and the hand now motionless just in front of the open mouth—

From my throat came a hoarse whisper: “Don't, for heaven's sake! Wait—”

Naumoff, in amazement at these words which he believed to be addressed to himself, relaxed his hold. “What is it?” he whispered. “Is any one there?”

Step by step I drew back from him, with my fascinated eyes still fixed upon Prilukoff, who stood motionless as a statue in the same dreadful attitude.

“Is any one there?” repeated Naumoff.

“Yes. Don't move.” The words formed themselves soundlessly on my lips, but Naumoff understood them and obeyed. He neither turned nor moved.

“Stand as you are,” I breathed; “do not stir.” And I glided snake-like from him.

Then with the quickness of lightning I darted upon Prilukoff, thrusting him back into the dark bedroom, clutching him by the wrist, and covering his rapid breathing with my hand. The carpet deadened our footsteps. With my elbow I pushed the door and, as it closed behind me, I turned and shot the bolt. I was locked in my room with Prilukoff.

“Hush, hush!” I whispered, my lips almost touching his face. “I implore you, I implore you! Do not betray me. Do not let them hear you.”

Through his closed and stifled lips there issued hideous, incoherent words of vituperation.

“Hush! hush! hush!” I pressed my hand still tighter to his lips. “Forgive me! Spare me! I am yours, yours only! Donat, forgive me and keep silence!”

“Mine, mine only,” breathed Prilukoff, hoarsely; “you swear it!”

“Yes! oh, yes!”

I could hear Naumoff trying the handle on the other side of the door.

“Marie! Marie! What are you doing? Why have you run away?”

Prilukoff's right hand was still uplifted, and now he held it close to his temple. As I clutched that hand I could also feel the cold contact with the steel of a revolver.

“Do you swear that you will be mine forever?”

I murmured something inarticulate. Naumoff was calling under his breath: “Marie! Marie! Open the door.”

Prilukoff raised his voice slightly. “Swear to me that you loathe that man and the other; swear that if I murdered them both you would still be mine.”

“Yes, yes. Speak softly!”

“Swear it! Swear that they shall both die, that you will help me to rid the world of them. Swear it.” I could feel his hand tenser against his temple, I could feel the first finger crooking itself over the trigger. “Unless you swear,” hissed Prilukoff, “I shall shoot myself here, this instant.”

I did so. He repeated the words softly with me: “I swear—that—they shall die.” And something within me kept saying: “I am dreaming all this.”

“That is not enough!” breathed Prilukoff. “Swear it on the life of Tioka.”

My parched lips opened, but the iniquitous words would not pass my throat.

Then Prilukoff pushed me from him and the fingers of his right hand moved. I heard a slight clicking sound. I threw myself forward.

“I swear it—”

And I swore it on the life of Tioka.

Prilukoff's hand dropped to his side; he seemed to reel slightly, and staggering backwards leaned against the foot of my bed.

Naumoff on the other side of the door was growing impatient. He shook the handle.

I bent over to Prilukoff. “Are you going to betray me? If I open this door, will you show yourself?”

He laughed derisively. “Go along, go along,” he muttered. And I opened the door.

“Why did you run away?” asked Naumoff, taking my hand.

I closed the door behind me. I felt no more fear of Prilukoff. I felt no more fear of any one or anything. My heart seemed turned to stone. And as I stood thus, some one else knocked at the outside door. It was Kamarowsky.

And the door was not locked! I turned quickly and blew out the lamp.

But Naumoff had taken a rapid step forward, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stood still, leaning against the door.

Kamarowsky outside heard him; and thinking it was I, murmured softly: “Good-night! Good-night, my darling!”

Then I was seized with a convulsive fit of laughter. I laughed and laughed, shaken from head to foot by a wild paroxysm of mirth. I could not leave off laughing. I laughed until the laughter became a spasm which racked and agonized me; my teeth chattered, I trembled and quaked; and still the hysterical laughter continued, shaking my entire frame as an aspen is shaken by a brutal hand. I laughed and laughed, trying to laugh softly in order that those three men standing in the dark should not hear me.

The thought of the three men motionless behind the doors made me laugh more than ever. Tears ran down my face, my head felt as if it would burst asunder. And still I rocked in the throes of frantic laughter until body and soul seemed to be shattered and rent....