Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “He took the ring and the tobacco-box and the money, for he was the stronger,” answered the Lala.

  “Selim,” said Balsamides quietly, “before the Khanum died to-night she said that Alexander Patoff was alive. If so, you are lying. You are a greater liar than Moseylama, the false prophet, as they say in your country. But if not, you are a robber of dead bodies. Therefore, Selim, say a Fatihah, for your hour is come.”

  With that, Balsamides drew a short revolver from his pocket and cocked it before the man’s eyes. The negro’s limbs relaxed, and with a howl he fell upon his knees.

  “Mercy! In the name of Allah!” he cried. “I have told all the truth, I swear by the grave of my father” ——

  “Don’t move,” said Gregorios, with horrible calmness. “You will do very well in that position. Now — say your Fatihah, and be quick about it. I cannot wait all night.”

  “You are not in earnest, Gregorios?” I asked in English, for my blood ran cold at the sight.

  “Very much in earnest,” he answered in Turkish, presenting the muzzle of the pistol to the Lala’s head. “This fellow shall not laugh at our beards a second time. I will count three. If you do not wish to say your prayers, I will fire when I have said three. One — two” ——

  “He is alive!” screamed the Lala, before the fatal “three” was spoken by Balsamides. “I have lied: he is alive! Mercy! and I will tell you all.”

  “I thought so,” said Balsamides, coolly uncocking his pistol and putting it back into his pocket. “Get up, dog, and tell us what you know.”

  Selim was literally almost frightened to death, as he kneeled on the sharp stones at our feet. He could hardly speak, and I dragged him up and made him sit upon the trunk of a fallen tree. I was indeed glad that he was still alive, for though Balsamides had not yet told me the events of the night, I could see that he was in no humor to be trifled with. Even I, who am peaceably disposed towards all men, felt my blood boil when the fellow told how he and the Bekjí had robbed the body of Alexander Patoff, and thrown it into the Bosphorus for fear of being suspected. But the whole story seemed improbable, and I had a strong impression that Selim was lying. Perhaps nothing but the fear of death could have made him confess, after all, and Balsamides had a way of making death seem very real and near.

  “I will tell you this, Selim,” said Gregorios. “If you will give me Alexander Patoff Effendi to-night, alive, well, and uninjured in any way, you shall go free, and I will engage that you shall not be hurt. You evidently wished to keep the Khanum’s secret. The Khanum is dead, and her secrets are the Padishah’s, like everything else she possessed. You are bound to deliver those secrets to my keeping. Therefore tell us shortly where the Russian is, that we may liberate him and take him home at once.”

  “He is alive and well. That is to say, he has been well treated,” answered Selim. “If you can take him, you may take him to-night, for all I care. But you must swear that you will then protect me.”

  “Filthy liquor in a dirty bottle!” exclaimed Balsamides angrily. “Will you make conditions with me, you soul of a dog in a snake’s body?”

  “Very well,” returned the Lala cunningly. “But if you should kill me by mistake before I have taken you to him, you will never find him.”

  “I have told you that you shall not be hurt, if you will give him up. That is enough. My word is good, and I will keep it. Speak; you are safe.”

  “In the first place, we must go back to Yeni Köj. You might have saved yourself the trouble of coming up here on such a night as this.”

  “I want no comments on my doings. Tell me where the man is.”

  “I will take you to him,” said the Lala.

  “Well, then, get up and come back to the carriage,” said Balsamides, seeing it was useless to bandy words with the fellow. Moreover, it was bitterly cold in the forest, and the idea of being once more in the comfortable carriage was attractive. Again we took Selim between us, and rapidly descended the stony path. In a few moments we were driving swiftly away from the arches of the aqueduct in the direction whence we had come.

  Before we had reached the door of Laleli’s house, Selim asked Balsamides to stop the carriage. We got out, and he took us up a narrow and filthy lane between two high walls. The feeble light of the moon did not penetrate the blackness, and we stumbled along in the mud as best we could. After climbing in this way for nearly ten minutes, Selim stopped before what appeared to be a small door sunk in a niche in the wall. I heard a bunch of keys jingling in his hand, and in a few seconds he admitted us. Balsamides held him firmly by the sleeve, as he turned to lock the door behind us.

  “You shall not lock it,” he said in a low voice. “Are we mice to be caught in a trap?”

  Having made sure that the door was open, he pushed Selim forward. We seemed to be in a very spacious garden, surrounded by high walls on all sides. The trees were bare, excepting a few tall cypresses, which reared their black spear-like heads against the dim sky. The flower-beds were covered with dark earth, and the gravel in the paths was rough, as though no one had trod upon it for a long time. The walls protected the place from the wind, and a gloomy stillness prevailed, broken only by the distant sighing of trees higher up, which caught the northern gale.

  Selim followed the wall for some distance, and at last stood still. We had reached one angle of the garden, and as well as I could see the corner made by the walls was filled by a low stone building with latticed windows, from one of which issued a faint light. Going nearer, I saw that the lattices were not of wood, but were strong iron gratings, such as no man’s strength could break. The door in the middle of this stone box was also heavily ironed. Selim went forward, and again I heard the keys rattle in his hands. Almost instantly the shadow of a head appeared at the window whence the light came. While the Lala was unfastening the lock I went close to the grating. I was just tall enough to meet a pair of dark eyes gazing at me intently through the lowest bars.

  “Alexander Patoff, is it you?” I asked in Russian.

  “Good God!” exclaimed a tremulous voice. “Have the Russians taken Constantinople at last? Who are you?”

  “I am Paul Griggs. We have come to set you free.”

  The heavy door yielded and moved. I rushed in, and in another moment I clasped the lost man’s hand. Gregorios, far more prudent than I, held Selim by the collar as a man would hold a dog, for he feared some treachery.

  “Is it really you?” I asked, for I could scarcely believe my eyes. Alexander looked at me once, then broke into hysterical tears, laughing and crying and sobbing all at once. He was indeed unrecognizable. I remembered the descriptions I had heard of the young dandy, the gay officer of a crack regiment, irreproachable in every detail of his dress, and delicate as a woman in his tastes. I saw before me a man of good height, wrapped in an old Turkish kaftan of green cloth lined with fur, his feet thrust into a pair of worn-out red slippers. His dark brown hair had grown till it fell upon his shoulders, his beard reached halfway to his waist, his face was ghastly white and thin to emaciation. The hand he had given me was like a parcel of bones in a thin glove. I doubted whether he were the man, after all.

  “We must be quick,” I said. “Have you anything to take away?” He cast a piteous glance at his poor clothing.

  “This is all I have,” he said in a low voice. Then, with a half-feminine touch of vanity, he added, “You must excuse me: I am hardly fit to go with you.” He looked wildly at me for a moment, and again laughed and sobbed hysterically. The apartment was indeed empty enough. There was a low round table, a wretched old divan at one end, and a sort of bed spread upon the floor, in the old Turkish fashion. The whole place seemed to consist of a single room, lighted by a small oil lamp which hung in one corner. The stuccoed walls were green with dampness, and the cold was intense. I wondered how the poor man had lived so long in such a place. I put my arm under his, and threw my heavy military cloak over his shoulders. Then I led him away through the open door. The key was s
till in the lock without, and Balsamides held Selim tightly by the collar. When we had passed, Gregorios, instead of following us, held the Lala at arm’s-length before him. Then he administered one tremendous kick, and sent the wretch flying into the empty cell; he locked the door on him with care, and withdrew the keys.

  “I told you I would protect you,” he called out through the keyhole. “You will be quite safe there for the present.” Then he turned away, laughing to himself, and we all three hurried down the path under the wall, till we reached the small door by which we had entered the garden. Stumbling down the narrow lane, we soon got to the road, and found the carriage where we had left it. There was no time for words as we almost lifted the wretched Russian into the carriage and got in after him.

  “To my house in Pera!” cried Balsamides to the patient coachman. “Pek tchabuk! As fast as you can drive!”

  “Evvét Effendim,” replied the old soldier, and in another moment we were tearing along the road at breakneck speed.

  Hitherto Alexander Patoff had been too much surprised and overcome by his emotions to speak connectedly or to ask us any questions. When once we were in the carriage and on our way to Pera, however, he recovered his senses.

  “Will you kindly tell me how all this has happened? Are you a Turkish officer?”

  “No,” I answered. “This is a disguise. Let me present you to the man who has really liberated you, — Balsamides Bey.”

  Patoff took the hand Gregorios stretched out towards him in both of his, and would have kissed it had Gregorios allowed him.

  “God bless you! God bless you!” he repeated fervently. He was evidently still very much shaken, and in order to give him a little strength I handed him a flask of spirits which I had left in the carriage. He drank eagerly, and grasped even more greedily the case of cigarettes which I offered him.

  “Ah!” he cried, in a sort of ecstasy, as he tasted the tobacco. “I feel that I am free.”

  I began to tell him in a few words what had happened: how we had stumbled upon his watch in the bazaar, had identified Selim, and traced the Lala to Laleli Khanum’s house; how the Khanum had died while Balsamides was there, just as she was about to tell the truth; how we had dragged Selim into the forest, and had threatened him with death; and how at last, feeling that since his mistress was dead he was no longer in danger, the fellow had conducted us to Alexander’s cell in the garden. I told him that his brother and mother were in Pera, and that he should see them in the morning. I said that Madame Patoff had been very ill in consequence of his disappearance, and that every one had mourned for him as dead. In short, I endeavored to explain the whole situation as clearly as I could. While I was telling our story Balsamides never spoke a word, but sat smoking in his corner, probably thinking of the single kick in which he had tried to concentrate all his vengeance.

  As we drove along, the dawn began to appear, — the cold dawn of a March morning. I asked Balsamides whether it would be necessary to change my clothes before entering the city.

  “No,” he answered; “we shall be at home at sunrise. The fellow drives well.”

  “I shall have to ask you to take me in for a few hours,” said Alexander. “I am in a pitiable state.”

  “You must have suffered horribly in that den,” observed Balsamides. “Of course you must come home with me. We will send for your brother at once, and when you are rested you can tell us something of your story. It must be even more interesting than ours.”

  “It would not take so long to tell,” answered Patoff, with a melancholy smile. In the gray light of the morning I was horrified to notice how miserably thin and ill he looked; but even in his squalor, and in spite of the long hair and immense beard, I could see traces of the beauty I had so often heard described by Paul, and even by Cutter, who was rarely enthusiastic about the appearance of his fellows. He seemed weak, too, as though he had been half starved in his prison. I asked him how long it was since he had eaten.

  “Last night,” he said, wearily, “they brought me food, but I could not eat. A man in prison has no appetite.” Then suddenly he opened the window beside him, and put his head out into the cold blast, as though to drink in more fully the sense of freedom regained. Balsamides looked at him with a sort of pity which I hardly ever saw in his face.

  “Poor devil!” he said, in a low voice. “We were just in time. He could not have lasted much longer.”

  We reached the outskirts of Pera, and Alexander hastily withdrew his head and sank back in the corner, as though afraid of being seen. He had the startled look of a man who fears pursuit. At last we rattled down the Grande Rue, and stopped before the door of Balsamides’ house. It was six o’clock in the morning, and the sun was nearly up. I thought it had been one of the longest nights I ever remembered.

  While Balsamides dismissed the coachman, I led Alexander quickly into the house and up the narrow stairs. In a few minutes Gregorios joined us, and coffee was brought.

  “I think you could wear my clothes,” he said, looking at Alexander with a scarcely perceptible smile. “We are nearly the same height, and I am almost as thin as you.”

  “If you would be so very kind as to send for a barber,” suggested Patoff. “I have never been allowed one, for fear I should get hold of his razor and kill myself or somebody else.”

  “I will go and send one,” said I. “And I will rouse your brother and bring him back with me.”

  “Stop!” cried Balsamides. “You cannot go like that!” I had forgotten that I still wore the adjutant’s uniform. “Take care of our friend,” he added, “and I will go myself.”

  We should probably have felt very tired, after our night’s excursion, had we not been sustained by the sense of triumph at having at last succeeded beyond all hope. It was hard to imagine what the effect would be upon Madame Patoff, and I began to fear for her reason as I remembered how improbable it had always seemed to me that we should find her son alive. I was full of curiosity to hear his story, but I knew that he was exhausted with fatigue and emotion, so that I put him in possession of my room and gave him some of my friend’s clothes. In a few moments the barber arrived, and while he was performing his operations I myself resumed my ordinary dress.

  Balsamides found Paul in bed and fast asleep, but, pushing the servant aside, he walked in and opened the windows.

  “Wake up, Patoff!” he shouted, making a great noise with the fastenings.

  “Holloa! What is the matter?” cried Paul, opening his sleepy eyes wide with astonishment as he saw Balsamides standing before him, white as death with the excitement of the night. “Has anything happened?”

  “Everything has happened,” said Gregorios. “The sun is risen, the birds are singing, the Jews are wrangling in the bazaar, the dogs are fighting at Galata Serai, and, last of all, your brother, Alexander Patoff, is at this moment drinking his coffee in my rooms.”

  “My brother!” cried Paul, fairly leaping out of bed in his excitement. “Are you in earnest? Come, let us go at once.”

  “Your costume,” remarked Balsamides quietly, “smacks too much of the classic for the Grande Rue de Pera. I will wait while you dress.”

  “Does my mother know?” asked Patoff.

  “No,” replied Balsamides. “Your brother had not been five minutes in my house when I came here.” Then he told Paul briefly how we had found Alexander.

  Paul Patoff was not a man to be easily surprised; but in the present case the issue had been so important, that, being taken utterly unawares by the news, he felt stunned and dazed as he tried to realize the whole truth. He sat down in the midst of dressing, and for one moment buried his face in his hands. Balsamides looked on quietly. He knew how much even that simple action meant in a man of Paul’s proud and undemonstrative temper. In a few seconds Paul rose from his seat and completed his toilette.

  “You know how grateful I am to you both,” he said. “You must guess it, for nothing I could say could express what I feel.”

  “Do not men
tion it,” answered Balsamides. “No thanks could give me half the pleasure I have in seeing your satisfaction. You must prepare to find your brother much changed, I fancy. He seemed to me to be thin and pale, but I think he is not ill in any way. If you are ready, we will go.”

  Meanwhile, Alexander had had his hair cut short, in the military fashion, and had been divested of the immense beard which hid half his face. A tub and a suit of civilized clothes did the rest, even though the latter did not fit him as well as Gregorios had expected. Gregorios is a deceptive man and is larger than he looks, for his coat was too broad for Alexander, and hung loosely over the latter’s shoulders and chest. But in spite of the imperfect fit, the change in the man’s appearance was so great that I started in surprise when he entered the sitting-room, taking him for an intruder who had walked in unannounced.

  He was very beautiful; that is the only word which applies to his appearance. His regular features, in their extreme thinness, were ethereal as the face of an angel, but he had not the painful look of emaciation which one so often sees in the faces of those long kept in confinement. He was very thin indeed, but there was a perfect grace in all his movements, an ease and self-possession in his gestures, a quiet, earnest, trustful look in his dark eyes, which seemed almost unearthly. I watched him with the greatest interest, and with the greatest admiration also. Had I been asked at that moment to state what man or woman in the whole world I considered most perfectly beautiful, I should have answered unhesitatingly, Alexander Patoff. He had that about him which is scarcely ever met with in men, and which does not always please others, though it never fails to attract attention. I mean that he had the delicate beauty of a woman combined with the activity and dash of a man. I saw how the lightness, the alternate indolence and reckless excitement, of such a nature must act upon a man of Paul Patoff’s character. Every point and peculiarity of Alexander’s temper and bearing would necessarily irritate Paul, who was stern, cold, and manly before all else, and who readily despised every species of weakness except pride, and every demonstration of feeling except physical courage. Alexander was like his mother; so like her, indeed, that as soon as I saw him without his beard I realized the cause of Madame Patoff’s singular preference for the older son, and much which had seemed unnatural before was explained by this sudden revelation. Paul probably resembled his father’s family more than his mother’s. Madame Patoff, who had loved that same cold, determined character in her husband, because she was awed by it, hated it in her child, because she could neither bend it nor influence it, nor make it express any of that exuberant affection which Alexander so easily felt. Both boys had inherited from their father a goodly share of the Slav element, but, finding very different ground upon which to work in the natures of the two brothers, the strong Russian individuality had developed in widely different ways. In Alexander were expressed all the wild extremes of mood of which the true Russian is so eminently capable; all the overflowing and uncultivated talent and love of art and beauty, which in Russia brings forth so much that approaches indefinitely near to genius without ever quite reaching it. In Paul the effect of the Slavonic blood was totally opposite, and showed itself in that strange stolidity, that cold and ruthless exercise of force and pursuance of conviction, which have characterized so many Russian generals, so many Russian monarchs, and which have produced also so many Russian martyrs. There is something fateful in that terrible sternness, something which very well excites horror while imposing respect, and especially when forced to submit to superior force; and when vanquished, there is something grand in the capacity such a character possesses for submitting to destiny, and bearing the extremest suffering.