III
THE CAVE
"Half the work is done!" he cried, jumping from the tumble-down sofa. "But the passport? There's where the shoe pinches," continued the engraver, remembering the second half of Natasha's commission. "The passport—yes—that's where the shoe pinches!" he muttered to himself in perplexity, resting his head on his hands and his elbows on his knees. Thinking over all kinds of possible and impossible plans, he suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of his, a shoemaker named Yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment of intoxication that "he would rather hook a watch than patch a shoe." Bodlevski remembered that three months before he had met Yuzitch in the street, and they had gone together to a wine shop, where, over a bottle generously ordered by Yuzitch, Bodlevski had lamented over the hardships of mankind in general, and his own in particular. He had not taken advantage of Yuzitch's offer to introduce him to "the gang," only because he had already determined to take up one of the higher branches of the "profession," namely, to metamorphose white paper into banknotes. When they were parting, Yuzitch had warmly wrung his hand, saying:
"Whenever you want anything, dear friend, or if you just want to see me, come to the Cave; come to Razyeziy Street and ask for the Cave, and at the Cave anyone will show you where to find Yuzitch. If the barkeeper makes difficulties just whisper to him that 'Secret' sent you, and he'll show you at once."
As this memory suddenly flashed into his mind, Bodlevski caught up his hat and coat and hurried downstairs into the street. Making his way through the narrow, dirty streets to the Five Points, he stopped perplexed. Happily he noticed a sleepy watchman leaning leisurely against a wall, and going up to him he said:
"Tell me, where is the Cave?"
"The what?" asked the watchman impatiently.
"The Cave."
"The Cave? There is no such place!" he replied, looking suspiciously at Bodlevski.
Bodlevski put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some small change:
"If you tell me–"
The watchman brightened up. "Why didn't you say so before?" he asked, grinning. "You see that house, the second from the corner? The wooden one? That's the Cave."
Bodlevski crossed the street in the direction indicated, and looked for the sign over the door. To his astonishment he did not find it and only later he knew that the name was strictly "unofficial," only used by members of "the gang."
Opening the door cautiously, Bodlevski made his way into the low, dirty barroom. Behind the bar stood a tall, handsome man with an open countenance and a bald head. Politely bowing to Bodlevski, with his eyes rather than his head, he invited him to enter the inner room. But Bodlevski explained that he wanted, not the inner room, but his friend Yuzitch.
"Yuzitch?" said the barkeeper thoughtfully. "We don't know anyone of that name."
"Why, he's here all the time," cried Bodlevski, in astonishment.
"Don't know him," retorted the barkeeper imperturbably.
"'Secret' sent me!" Bodlevski suddenly exclaimed, without lowering his voice.
The barkeeper looked at him sharply and suspiciously, and then asked, with a smile:
"Who did you say?"
"'Secret,'" repeated Bodlevski.
After a while the barkeeper said, "And did your—friend make an appointment?"
"Yes, an appointment!" Bodlevski replied, beginning to lose patience.
"Well, take a seat in the inner room," again said the barkeeper slyly.
"Perhaps your friend will come in, or perhaps he is there already."
Bodlevski made his way into a roomy saloon, with five windows with faded red curtains. The ceiling was black from the smoke of hanging lamps; little square tables were dotted about the floor; their covers were coarse and not above reproach on the score of cleanliness. The air was pungent with the odor of cheap tobacco and cheaper cigars. On the walls were faded oleographs of generals and archbishops, flyblown and stained.
Bodlevski, little as he was used to refined surroundings, found his gorge rising. At some of the little tables furtive, impudent, tattered, sleek men were drinking.
Presently Yuzitch made his appearance from a low door at the other end of the room. The meeting of the two friends was cordial, especially on Bodlevski's side. Presently they were seated at a table, with a flask of wine between them, and Bodlevski began to explain what he wanted to his friend.
As soon as he heard what was wanted, Yuzitch took on an air of importance, knit his brows, hemmed, and hawed.
"I can manage it," he said finally. "Yes, we can manage it. I must see one of my friends about it. But it's difficult. It will cost money."
Bodlevski immediately assented. Yuzitch at once rose and went over to a red-nosed individual in undress uniform, who was poring over the Police News.
"Friend Borisovitch," said Yuzitch, holding out his hand to him, "something doing!"
"Fair or foul?" asked the man with the red nose. "Hang your cheek!" laughed Yuzitch; "if I say it, of course it's fair." After a whispered conference, Yuzitch returned to Bodlevski and told him that it was all right; that the passport for Natasha would be ready by the next evening. Bodlevski paid him something in advance and went home triumphantly.
At eleven o'clock the next evening Bodlevski once more entered the large room at the Cave, now all lit up and full of an animated crowd of men and women, all with the same furtive, predatory faces. Bodlevski felt nervous. He had no fears while turning white paper into banknotes in the seclusion of his own workshop, but he was full of apprehensions concerning his present guest, because several people had to be let into the secret.
Yuzitch presently appeared through the same low door and, coming up to Bodlevski, explained that the passport would cost twenty rubles. Bodlevski paid the money over in advance, and Yuzitch led him into a back room. On the table burned a tallow candle, which hardly lit up the faces of seven people who were grouped round it, one of them being the red-nosed man who was reading the Police News. The seven men were all from the districts of Vilna and Vitebsk, and were specialists in the art of fabricating passports.
The red-nosed man approached Bodlevski: "We must get acquainted with each other," he said amiably. "I have the honor to present myself!" and he bowed low; "Former District Secretary Pacomius Borisovitch Prakkin. Let me request you first of all to order some vodka; my hand shakes, you know," he added apologetically. "I don't want it so much for myself as for my hand—to steady it."
Bodlevski gave him some change, which the red-nosed man put in his pocket and at once went to the sideboard for a flask of vodka which he had already bought. "Let us give thanks! And now to business!" he said, smacking his lips after a glass of vodka.
A big, red-haired man, one of the group of seven, drew from his pocket two vials. In one was a sticky black fluid; in the other, something as clear as water.
"We are chemists, you see," the red-nosed man explained to Bodlevski with a grin, and then added:
"Finch! on guard!"
A young man, who had been lolling on a couch in the corner, rose and took up a position outside the door.
"Now, brothers, close up!" cried the red-nosed man, and all stood in close order, elbow to elbow, round the table. "And now we take a newspaper and have it handy on the table! That is in case," he explained to Bodlevski, "any outsider happened in on us—which Heaven prevent! We aren't up to anything at all; simply reading the political news! You catch on?"
"How could I help catching on?"
"Very well. And now let us make everything as clear as in a looking-glass. What class do you wish to make the person belong to? The commercial or the nobility?"
"I think the nobility would be best," said Bodlevski.
"Certainly! At least that will give the right of free passage through all the towns and districts of the Russian Empire. Let us see. Have we not something that will suit?"
And Pacomius Borisovitch, opening his portfolio, filled with all kinds of passports, certificates, and papers of identification, began to turn them over, but without taking any out of the portfolio. All with the same thought—that some stranger might come in.
"Ha! here's a new one! Where did it come from?" he cried.
"I got it out of a new arrival," muttered the red-headed man.
"Well done! Just what we want! And a noble's passport, too! It is evident that Heaven is helping us. See what a blessing brings!
"'This passport is issued by the District of Yaroslav,'" he continued reading, "'to the college assessor's widow, Maria Solontseva, with permission to travel,'" and so on in due form. "Did you get it here?" he added, turning to the red-headed man.
"Came from Moscow!"
"Pinched?"
"Knocked on the head!" briefly replied the red-headed man.
"Knocked on the head?" repeated Pacomius Borisovitch. "Serious business. Comes under sections 332 and 727 of the Penal Code."
"Driveling again!" cried the red-headed man. "I'll teach you to talk about the Penal Code!" and rising deliberately, he dealt Pacomius Borisovitch a well-directed blow on the head, which sent him rolling into the corner. Pacomius picked himself up, blinking with indignation.
"What is the meaning of such conduct?" he asked loftily.
"It means," said the red-headed man, "that if you mention the Penal Code again I'll knock your head off!"
"Brothers, brothers!" cried Yuzitch in a good-humored tone; "we are losing precious time! Forgive him!" he added, turning to Pacomius. "You must forgive him!"
"I—forgive him," answered Pacomius, but the light in his eye showed that he was deeply offended.
"Well," he went on, addressing Bodlevski, "will it suit you to have the person pass as Maria Solontseva, widow of a college assessor?"
IV
THE CAPTAIN OF THE GOLDEN BAND
Bodlevski had not time to nod his head in assent, when suddenly the outer door was pushed quickly open and a tall man, well built and fair-haired, stepped swiftly into the room. He wore a military uniform and gold-rimmed eyeglasses.
The company turned their faces toward him in startled surprise, but no one moved. All continued to stand in close order round the table.
"Health to you, eaglets! honorable men of Vilna! What are you up to? What are you busy at?" cried the newcomer, swiftly approaching the table and taking the chair that Pacomius Borisovitch had just been knocked out of.
"What is all this?" he continued, with one hand seizing the vial of colorless liquid and with the other the photograph of the college assessor's widow. "So this is hydrochloric acid for erasing ink? Very good! And this is a photo! So we are fabricating passports? Very fine! Business is business! Hey! Witnesses!"
And the fair-haired man whistled sharply. From the outer door appeared two faces, set on shoulders of formidable proportions.
The red-headed man silently went up to the newcomer and fiercely seized him by the collar. At the same moment the rest seized chairs or logs or bars to defend themselves.
The fair-haired man meanwhile, not in the least changing his expression of cool self-confidence, quickly slipped his hands into his pockets and pulled out a pair of small double-barreled pistols. In the profound silence in which this scene took place they could distinctly hear the click of the hammers as he cocked them. He raised his right hand and pointed the muzzle at the breast of his opponent.
The red-headed man let go his collar, and glancing contemptuously at him, with an expression of hate and wrath, silently stepped aside.
"How much must we pay?" he asked sullenly.
"Oho! that's better. You should have begun by asking that!" answered the newcomer, settling himself comfortably on his chair and toying with his pistols. "How much do you earn?"
"We get little enough! Just five rubles," answered the red-headed man.
"That's too little. I need a great deal more. But you are lying, brother! You would not stir for less than twenty rubles!"
"Thanks for the compliment!" interrupted Pacomius Borisovitch.
The fair-haired man nodded to him satirically. "I need a lot more," he repeated firmly and impressively; "and if you don't give me at least twenty-five rubles I'll denounce you this very minute to the police—and you see I have my witnesses ready."
"Sergei Antonitch! Mr. Kovroff! Have mercy on us! Where can we get so much from? I tell you as in the presence of the Creator! There are ten of us, as you see. And there are three of you. And I, Yuzitch, and Gretcka deserve double shares!" added Pacomius Borisovitch persuasively.
"Gretcka deserves nothing at all for catching me by the throat," decided Sergei Antonitch Kovroff.
"Mr. Kovroff!" began Pacomius again. "You and I are gentlemen–"
"What! What did you say?" Kovroff contemptuously interrupted him. "You put yourself on my level? Ha! ha! ha! No, brother; I am still in the Czar's service and wear my honor with my uniform! I, brother, have never stained myself with theft or crime, Heaven be praised. But what are you?"
"Hm! And the Golden Band? Who is its captain?" muttered Gretcka angrily, half to himself.
"Who is its captain? I am—I, Lieutenant Sergei Antonitch Kovroff, of the Chernovarski Dragoons! Do you hear? I am captain of the Golden Band," he said proudly and haughtily, scrutinizing the company with his confident gaze. "And you haven't yet got as far as the Golden Band, because you are cowards! Chuproff," he cried to one of his men, "go and take the mask off Finch, or the poor boy will suffocate, and untie his arms—and give him a good crack on the head to teach him to keep watch better."
The "mask" that Kovroff employed on such occasions was nothing but a piece of oilcloth cut the size of a person's face, and smeared on one side with a thick paste. Kovroff's "boys" employed this "instrument" with wonderful dexterity; one of them generally stole up behind the unconscious victim and skillfully slapped the mask in his face; the victim at once became dumb and blind, and panted from lack of breath; at the same time, if necessary, his hands were tied behind him and he was leisurely robbed, or held, as the case might be.
The Golden Band was formed in the middle of the thirties, when the first Nicholas had been about ten years on the throne. Its first founders were three Polish nobles. It was never distinguished by the number of its members, but everyone of them could honestly call himself an accomplished knave, never stopping at anything that stood in the way of a "job." The present head of the band was Lieutenant Kovroff, who was a thorough-paced rascal, in the full sense of the word. Daring, brave, self-confident, he also possessed a handsome presence, good manners, and the worldly finish known as education. Before the members of the Golden Band, and especially before Kovroff, the small rascals stood in fear and trembling. He had his secret agents everywhere, following every move of the crooks quietly but pertinaciously. At the moment when some big job was being pulled off, Kovroff suddenly appeared unexpectedly, with some of his "boys," and demanded a contribution, threatening instantly to inform the police if he did not get it—and the rogues, in order to "keep him quiet," had to give him whatever share of their plunder he graciously deigned to indicate. Acting with extraordinary skill and acumen in all his undertakings he always managed so that not a shadow of suspicion could fall on himself and so he got a double share of the plunder: robbing the honest folk and the rogues at the same time. Kovroff escaped the contempt of the crooks because he did things on such a big scale and embarked with his Golden Band on the most desperate and dangerous enterprises that the rest of roguedom did not even dare to consider.
The rogues, whatever their rank, have a great respect for daring, skill, and force—and therefore they respected Kovroff, at the same time fearing and detesting him.
"Who are you getting that passport for?" he asked, calmly taking the paper from the table and slipping it into his pocket. Gretcka nodded toward Bodlevski.
"Aha! for you, is it? Very glad to hear it!" said Kovroff, measuring him with his eyes. "And so, gentlemen, twenty-five rubles, or good-by—to our happy meeting in the police court!"
"Mr. Kovroff! Allow me to speak to you as a man of honor!" Pacomius Borisovitch again interrupted. "We are only getting twenty rubles for the job. The whole gang will pledge their words of honor to that. Do you think we would lie to you and stain the honor of the gang for twenty measly rubles?"
"That is business. That was well said. I love a good speech, and am always ready to respect it," remarked Sergei Antonitch approvingly.
"Very well, then, see for yourself," went on the red-nosed Pacomius, "see for yourself. If we give you everything, we are doing our work and not getting a kopeck!"
"Let him pay," answered Kovroff, turning his eyes toward Bodlevski.
Bodlevski took out his gold watch, his only inheritance from his father, and laid it down on the table before Kovroff, with the five rubles that remained.
Kovroff again measured him with his eyes and smiled.
"You are a worthy young man!" he said. "Give me your hand! I see that you will go far."
And he warmly pressed the engraver's hand. "But you must know for the future," he added in a friendly but impressive way, "that I never take anything but money when I am dealing with these fellows. Ho, you!" he went on, turning to the company, "some one go to uncle's and get cash for this watch; tell him to pay conscientiously at least two thirds of what it is worth; it is a good watch. It would cost sixty rubles to buy. And have a bottle of champagne got ready for me at the bar, quick! And if you don't, it will be the worse for you!" he called after the departing Yuzitch, who came back a few minutes later, and gave Kovroff forty rubles. Kovroff counted them, and put twenty in his pocket, returning the remainder in silence, but with a gentlemanly smile, to Bodlevski.
"Fair exchange is no robbery," he said, giving Bodlevski the passport of the college assessor's widow. "Now that old rascal Pacomius may get to work."
"What is there to do?" laughed Pacomius; "the passport will do very well. So let us have a little glass, and then a little game of cards."
"We are going to know each other better; I like your face, so I hope we shall make friends," said Kovroff, again shaking hands with Bodlevski. "Now let us go and have some wine. You will tell me over our glasses what you want the passport for, and on account of your frankness about the watch, I am well disposed to you. Lieutenant Sergei Kovroff gives you his word of honor on that. I also can be magnanimous," he concluded, and the new friends accompanied by the whole gang went out to the large hall.
There began a scene of revelry that lasted till long after midnight. Bodlevski, feeling his side pocket to see if the passport was still there, at last left the hall, bewildered, as though under a spell. He felt a kind of gloomy satisfaction; he was possessed by this satisfaction, by the uncertainty of what Natasha could have thought out, by the question how it would all turn out, and by the conviction that his first crime had already been committed. All these feelings lay like lead on his heart, while in his ears resounded the wild songs of the Cave.
V
THE KEYS OF THE OLD PRINCESS
It was nine o'clock in the evening. Natasha lit the night lamp in the bedroom of the old Princess Chechevinski, and went silently into the dressing room to prepare the soothing powders which the doctors had prescribed for her, before going to sleep.
The old princess was still very weak. Although her periods of unconsciousness had not returned, she was still subject to paroxysms of hysteria. At times she sank into forgetfulness, then started nervously, sometimes trembling in every limb. The thought of the blow of her daughter's flight never left her for a moment.
Natasha had just taken the place of the day nurse. It was her turn to wait on the patient until midnight. Silence always reigned in the house of the princess, and now that she was ill the silence was intensified tenfold. Everyone walked on tiptoe, and spoke in whispers, afraid even of coughing or of clinking a teaspoon on the sideboard. The doorbells were tied in towels, and the whole street in front of the house was thickly strewn with straw. At ten the household was already dispersed, and preparing for sleep. Only the nurse sat silently at the head of the old lady's bed.
Pouring out half a glass of water, Natasha sprinkled the powder in it, and took from the medicine chest a phial with a yellowish liquid. It was chloral. Looking carefully round, she slowly brought the lip of the phial down to the edge of the glass and let ten drops fall into it. "That will be enough," she said to herself, and smiled. Her face, as always, was coldly quiet, and not the slightest shade of any feeling was visible on it at that moment.
Natasha propped the old lady up with her arm. She drank the medicine given to her and lay down again, and in a few minutes the chloral began to have its effect. With an occasional convulsive movement of her lower lip, she sank into a deep and heavy sleep. Natasha watched her face following the symptoms of unconsciousness, and when she was convinced that sleep had finally taken complete possession of her, and that for several hours the old woman was deprived of the power to hear anything or to wake up, she slowly moved her chair nearer the bedstead, and without taking her quietly observant eyes from the old woman's face, softly slipped her hand under the lower pillow. Moving forward with the utmost care, not more than an inch or so at a time, her hand stopped instantly, as soon as there was the slightest nervous movement of the old woman's face, on which Natasha's eyes were fixed immovably. But the old woman slept profoundly, and the hand again moved forward half an inch or so under the pillow. About half an hour passed, and the girl's eyes were still fastened on the sleeping face, and her hand was still slipping forward under the pillow, moving occasionally a little to one side, and feeling about for something. Natasha's expression was in the highest degree quiet and concentrated, but under this quietness was at the same time concealed something else, which gave the impression that if—which Heaven forbid!—the old woman should at that moment awake, the other free hand would instantly seize her by the throat.
At last the finger-ends felt something hard. "That is it!" thought Natasha, and she held her breath. In a moment, seizing its treasure, her hand began quietly to withdraw. Ten minutes more passed, and Natasha finally drew out a little bag of various colored silks, in which the old princess always kept her keys, and from which she never parted, carrying it by day in her pocket, and by night keeping it under her pillow. One of the keys was an ordinary one, that of her wardrobe. The other was smaller and finely made; it was the key of her strong box.
About an hour later, the same keys, in the same order, and with the same precautions, found their way back to their accustomed place under the old lady's pillow.
Natasha carefully wiped the glass with her handkerchief, in order that not the least odor of chloral might remain in it, and with her usual stillness sat out the remaining hours of her watch.