The Black Cross | Page 9

vanished and the light died out of his
face. "Who in the name of--" He hesitated: "What in the world--" Then
he hesitated again, his dark eyes blinking under his brows.
The woman stretched her hands from under the cloak, clasping them.
She was fighting hard for her breath.

"Tell me, Monsieur," she whispered, "Tell me quickly--are you married?
Are you going alone to Germany?" Her voice shook and trembled: "Oh,
tell me,--quickly."
"Married, my good woman!" exclaimed Velasco. His eyes opened wide
and he drew back a little further: "Why really, Madame--Of course I
am going alone to Germany. What do you mean? How extraordinary!"
"Quite alone?" repeated the woman, "no friend, no manager? Oh then,
sir, do me the little favour, the kindness--it will cost you nothing--I
shall never forget it--I shall bless you all the days of my life."
She took a step forward, limping. Velasco recovered himself.
"Sit down, Madame," he said, "and explain. You are trembling so. Let
me give you some wine.--Wait a minute. There,--is it money you want?
Tell me."
His manner was that of a prince to a beggar, lofty, authoritative, kindly,
indifferent. "Sit down, Madame."
The woman shrank back against the door and her hand fled to the bolt
as if seeking support. "No--no!" she murmured. "You don't understand.
It's not for--not money! I'm in trouble, danger. Don't you see? I must
flee from Russia--now, at once. You are going to Germany alone,
to-morrow night. Take me with you--take me with--you!"
An irritated look came over Velasco's face. Was the creature mad?
"That is nonsense," he said, "I can't take any one with me, and I
wouldn't if I could. Besides there is only one passport."
The woman put her hand to her breast. It was throbbing madly under
the cloak. "You could take--your--wife," she whispered, "Your wife.
No one would suspect."
"Really, my dear Madame!"
Velasco yawned behind his palm. "What you say is simply absurd. I tell

you I have no wife."
She stretched out her hands to him: "You are a Pole, a Pole!" Her voice
rose passionately. "Surely you have suffered; you hate Russia, this
cruel, wicked, tyrannous government. Your sympathy is with us, the
people, the Liberals, who are trying--oh, I tell you--I must go, at once!
After tomorrow it is death, don't you understand,--death? What is it to
you, the matter of another passport? You are Velasco?--Every one
knows that name, every one. Your wife goes with you to Germany. Oh,
take me--take me--I beseech you."
The Violinist stared down at the hooded face. Her voice was tense and
vibrating like the tones of an instrument. It moved him strangely. He
felt a curious numbness in his throat and a wave passed over him like a
chill. She went on, her hands wrung together under the cloak:
"It isn't much I ask. The journey together--at the frontier we part--part
forever. The marriage, oh listen--that is nothing, a ceremony, a farce,
just a certificate to show the police--the police--"
Her voice died away in a whisper, broken, panting. She fell back
against the door, bracing herself against it, gazing up into his eyes.
Velasco stood motionless for a moment; then he turned on his heel and
strode over to the fire-place, staring down into the coals. The sight of
that bent and shrinking figure, a woman, old and feeble, trembling like
a creature hunted, unmanned him.
"I can't do it," he said slowly, "Don't ask me. I am a musician. I have no
interest in politics. There is too much risk. I can't, Madame, I can't."
He felt her coming towards him. The flutter of her cloak, it touched
him, and her step was light, like a bird limping.
"You read it?" she whispered, "I saw you at the Mariínski; and
there--there are the violets on the table, by the violin. Have you
forgotten?"

Velasco started: "Who are you?" he exclaimed. "Not Kaya!" He
wheeled around and faced her savagely: "You Kaya, never! Was it you
who threw the violets--you?"
His dark eyes measured the shrinking form, bent and crippled,
shrouded; and he cried out in his disappointment like a peevish boy: "I
thought it was she--she! Kaya was young, fair, her face was like a
flower; her hair was like gold; her lips were parted, arched and sweet;
her eyes--You, you are not Kaya!--Never!"
His voice was angry and full of scorn: "It was all a dream, a mistake.
Go--out of my sight; begone! I'll have nothing to do with anarchists."
He snatched the violets from the table and flung them on the hearth:
"Begone, or I'll call the police." He was in a tempest of rage. His
disappointment rose in his throat and choked him.
The old woman shrank back from him step by step. He followed