by Jules Verne
Nadia also, if not completely silent, spoke little.
However, one day her heart overflowed, and she told without concealing anything all the events which had occurred from her departure from Wladimir to the death of Nicholas Korpanoff. All that her young companion told intensely interested the old Siberian.
“Nicholas Korpanoff!” said she. “Tell me again about this Nicholas. I know only one man, one alone, among all the youth of the time in whom such conduct would not have astonished me. Nicholas Korpanoff! Was that really his name? Are you sure of it, my daughter?”
“Why should he have deceived me in this,” replied Nadia, “when he deceived me in no other way?”
Moved, however, by a kind of presentiment, Marfa Strogoff put questions upon questions to Nadia.
“You told me he was fearless, my daughter. You have proved that he has been so,” said she.
“Yes, fearless indeed!” replied Nadia.
“It was just what my son would have done,” said Marfa to herself.
Then she resumed,
“Did you not say that nothing stopped him, nothing astonished him; that he was so gentle in his strength that you had a sister as well as a brother in him, and that he watched over you like a mother?”
“Yes, yes,” said Nadia. “Brother, sister, mother—he has been all to me!”
“And defended you like a lion?”
“A lion indeed!” replied Nadia. “Yes; a lion, a hero!”
“My son, my son!” thought the old Siberian. “But you said, however, that he bore a terrible insult at that post-house in Ichim?”
“He did bear it,” answered Nadia, looking down.
“He bore it!” murmured Marfa, shuddering.
“Mother, mother,” cried Nadia, “do not blame him! He had a secret, a secret of which God alone is as yet the judge!”
“And,” said Marfa, raising her head and looking at Nadia as though she would read the depths of her heart, “in that hour of humiliation did you not despise this Nicholas Korpanoff?”
“I admired without understanding him,” replied the girl. “I never felt him more worthy of respect.”
The old woman was silent for a minute.
“Was he tall?” she asked.
“Very tall.”
“And very handsome, was he not? Come, speak, my daughter.”
“He was very handsome,” replied Nadia, blushing.
“It was my son! I tell you it was my son!” exclaimed the old woman, embracing Nadia.
“Your son!” said Nadia amazed, “your son!”
“Come,” said Marfa; “let us get to the bottom of this, my child. Your companion, your friend, your protector had a mother. Did he never speak to you of his mother?”
“Of his mother?” said Nadia. “He spoke to me of his mother as I spoke to him of my father—often, always. He adored her.”
“Nadia, Nadia, you have just told me about my own son,” said the old woman.
And she added impetuously,
“Was he not going to see this mother, whom you say he loved, on his way through Omsk?”
“No,” answered Nadia, “no, he was not.”
“Not!” cried Marfa. “You dare to tell me not!”
“I say so: but it remains to me to tell you that from motives which outweighed everything else, motives which I do not know, I understand that Nicholas Korpanoff had to traverse the country completely in secret. To him it was a question of life and death, and still more, a question of duty and honour.”
“Duty, indeed, imperious duty,” said the old Siberian, “of those who sacrifice everything, for the accomplishment of which they refuse everything; even the joy of giving a kiss, perhaps the last, to his old mother. All that you do not know, Nadia—all that I did not know myself—I now know. You have made me understand everything. But the light which you have thrown on the mysteries of my heart, I cannot return on yours. Since my son has not told you his secret, I must keep it for him. Forgive me, Nadia; I can never repay what you have done for me.”
“Mother, I ask you nothing,” replied Nadia.
All was thus explained to the old Siberian, all, even the inexplicable conduct of her son with regard to herself in the inn at Omsk, in presence of the witnesses of their meeting. There was no doubt that the young girl’s companion was Michael Strogoff, and that a secret mission, some important despatch to be carried across the invaded country, obliged him to conceal his quality of the Czar’s courier.
“Ah, my brave boy!” thought Marfa. “No, I will not betray you, and tortures shall not wrest from me the avowal that it was you whom I saw at Omsk.”
Marfa could with a word have paid Nadia for all her devotion to her. She could have told her that her companion, Nicholas Korpanoff, or rather Michael Strogoff, had not perished in the waters of the Irtych, since it was some days after that incident that she had met him, that she had spoken to him.
But she restrained herself, she was silent, and contented herself with saying,
“Hope, my child! Misfortune will not overwhelm you. You will see your father again; I feel it; and perhaps he who gave you the name of sister is not dead. God cannot have allowed your brave companion to perish. Hope, my child, hope! Do as I do. The mourning which I wear is not yet for my son.”
* This form of address is the equivalent to the “sire” which is used to the Sultans of Bokhara.
CHAPTER III.
BLOW FOR BLOW.
SUCH were now the relative situations of Marfa Strogoff and Nadia. All was understood by the old Siberian, and though the young girl was ignorant that her much-regretted companion still lived, she at least knew his relationship to her whom she had made her mother; and she thanked God for having given her the joy of taking the place of the son whom the prisoner had lost.
But what neither of them could know was that Michael, having been captured at Kolyvan, was in the same convoy and was on his way to Tomsk with them.
The prisoners brought by Ivan Ogareff had been added to those already kept by the Emir in the Tartar camp. These unfortunate people, consisting of Russians, Siberians, soldiers and civilians, numbered some thousands, and formed a column which extended over several versts. Some among them being considered dangerous were hand-cuffed and fastened to a long chain. There were, too, women and children, many of the latter suspended to the pommels of the saddles, while the former were dragged mercilessly along the road on foot, or driven forward as if they were animals. The horsemen escorting the prisoners compelled them to maintain a certain order, and there were no laggards with the exception of those who fell never to rise again.
In consequence of this arrangement, Michael Strogoff, marching in the first ranks of those who had left the Tartar camp—that is to say, among the Kolyvan prisoners—was unable to mingle with the prisoners who had arrived after him from Omsk. He had therefore no suspicion that his mother and Nadia were present in the convoy, nor did they suppose that he was among those in front. This journey from the camp to Tomsk, performed under the lashes and spear-points of the soldiers, proved fatal to many, and terrible to all. The prisoners travelled across the steppe, over a road made still more dusty by the passage of the Emir and his vanguard.
Orders had been given to march rapidly. The short halts were rare. The hundred and fifty versts under a burning sky seemed interminable, though they were performed as rapidly as possible.
The country, which extends from the right of the Obi to the base of the spur detached from the Sayanok mountains is very sterile. Only a few stunted and burnt-up shrubs here and there break the monotony of the immense plain. There was no cultivation, for there was no water; and it was water that the prisoners, parched by their painful march, most needed. To find a stream they must have diverged fifty versts eastward, to the very foot of the spur which divides the waters between the basins of the Obi and Genisei.
There flows the Tom, a little affluent of the Obi, which passes near Tomsk before losing itself in one of the great northern arteri
es. There water would have been abundant, the steppe less arid, the heat less severe. But the strictest orders had been given to the commanders of the convoy to reach Tomsk by the shortest way, for the Emir was much afraid of being taken in the flank and cut off by some Russian column descending from the northern provinces. Now the Siberian high-road did not lie along the banks of the Tom, at least in the part between Kolyvan and a little village called Zabediero, and it was necessary to follow the high-road.
It is useless to dwell upon the sufferings of the unhappy prisoners. Many hundreds fell on the steppe, where their bodies would lie until winter, when the wolves would devour the remnants of their bones.
As Nadia helped the old Siberian, so in the same way did Michael render to his more feeble companions in misfortune such services as his situation allowed. He encouraged some, supported others, going to and fro, until a prick from a soldier’s lance obliged him to resume the place which had been assigned him in the ranks.
Why did he not endeavour to escape?
The reason was that he had now quite determined not to venture until the steppe was safe for him. He was resolved in his idea of going as far as Tomsk “at the Emir’s expense,” and indeed he was right. As he observed the numerous detachments which scoured the plain on the convoy’s flanks, now to the south, now to the north, it was evident that before he could have gone two versts he must have been recaptured. The Tartar horsemen swarmed—it actually appeared as if they sprang from the earth—like insects which a thunderstorm brings to the surface of the ground. Flight under these conditions would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. The soldiers of the escort displayed excessive vigilance, for they would have paid for the slightest carelessness with their heads.
At nightfall of the 15th of August, the convoy reached the little village of Zabediero, thirty versts from Tomsk. Here the road joins the Tom.
The prisoners’ first movement would have been to rush into the river, but they were not allowed to leave the ranks until the halt had been organised. Although the current of the Tom was just now like a torrent, it might have favoured the flight of some bold or desperate man, and the strictest measures of vigilance were taken. Boats, requisitioned at Zabediero, were brought up to the Tom and formed a line of obstacles impossible to pass. As to the encampment on the outskirts of the village, it was guarded by a cordon of sentinels.
Michael Strogoff, who now naturally thought of escape, saw, after carefully surveying the situation, that under these conditions it was perfectly impossible; so, not wishing to compromise himself, he waited.
The prisoners were to encamp for the whole night on the banks of the Tom, for the Emir had put off the entrance of his troops into Tomsk. It had been decided that a military fête should mark the inauguration of the Tartar head-quarters in this important city. Feofar-Khan already occupied the fortress, but the bulk of his army bivouacked under its walls, waiting until the time came for them to make a solemn entry.
Ivan Ogareff left the Emir at Tomsk, where both had arrived the evening before, and returned to the camp at Zabediero. From here he was to start the next day with the rear-guard of the Tartar army. A house had been arranged for him in which to pass the night. At sunrise horse and foot soldiers were to proceed to Tomsk, where the Emir wished to receive them with the pomp usual to Asiatic sovereigns. As soon as the halt was organised, the prisoners, worn out with their three days’ journey, and suffering from burning thirst, could drink and take a little rest. The sun had already set, when Nadia, supporting Marfa Strogoff, reached the banks of the Tom. They had not till then been able to get through those who crowded the banks, but at last they came to drink in their turn.
The old woman bent over the clear stream, and Nadia, plunging in her hand, carried it to Marfa’s lips. Then she refreshed herself. They found new life in these welcome waters.
Suddenly Nadia started up; an involuntary cry escaped her.
Michael Strogoff was there, a few steps from her. It was he. The dying rays of the sun fell upon him.
At Nadia’s cry Michael started. But he had sufficient command over himself not to utter a word by which he might have been compromised. And yet, when he saw Nadia, he also recognised his mother.
Feeling he could not long keep master of himself at this unexpected meeting, he covered his eyes with his hands and walked quickly away.
Nadia’s impulse was to run after him, but the old Siberian murmured in her ear,
“Stay, my daughter!”
“It is he!” replied Nadia, choking with emotion. “He lives, mother! It is he!”
“It is my son,” answered Marfa, “it is Michael Strogoff, and you see that I do not make a step towards him! Imitate me, my daughter.”
Michael had just experienced the most violent emotion which a man can feel. His mother and Nadia were there!
The two prisoners who were always together in his heart, God had brought them together in this common misfortune. Did Nadia know who he was? Yes, for he had seen Marfa’s gesture, holding her back as she was about to rush towards him. Marfa, then, had understood all, and kept his secret.
During that night, Michael was twenty times on the point of looking for and joining his mother; but he knew that he must resist the longing he felt to take her in his arms, and once more press the hand of his young companion. The least imprudence might be fatal. He had besides sworn not to see his mother—he would not see her voluntarily. Once at Tomsk, since he could not escape this very night, he would set off across the steppe without having even embraced the two beings in whom all the happiness of his life was centred, and whom he should leave exposed to so many perils.
Michael hoped that this fresh meeting at the Zabediero camp would have no disastrous consequences either to his mother or to himself. But he did not know that part of this scene, although it passed so rapidly, had been observed by Sangarre, Ogareff’s spy.
The Tsigane was there, a few paces off, on the bank, as usual, watching the old Siberian woman, without being in the least suspected by her. She had not caught sight of Michael, for he disappeared before she had time to look round; but the mother’s gesture as she kept back Nadia had not escaped her, and the look in Marfa’s eyes told her all.
It was now beyond doubt that Marfa Strogoff’s son, the Czar’s courier, was at this moment in Zabediero, among Ivan Ogareff’s prisoners.
Sangarre did not know him, but she knew that he was there. She did not then attempt to discover him, for it would have been impossible in the dark and the immense crowd.
As for again watching Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, that was equally useless. It was evident that the two women would keep on their guard, and it would be impossible to overhear anything of a nature to compromise the courier of the Czar. The Tsigane’s first thought was to tell Ivan Ogareff. She therefore immediately left the encampment.
A quarter of an hour after, she reached Zabediero, and was shown into the house occupied by the Emir’s lieutenant.
Ogareff received the Tsigane directly.
“What have you to tell me, Sangarre?” he asked.
“Marfa Strogoff’s son is in the encampment,” answered Sangarre.
“A prisoner?”
“A prisoner.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Ogareff, “I shall know——”
“You will know nothing, Ivan,” replied the Tsigane; “for you do not even know him by sight”
“But you know him; you have seen him, Sangarre?”
“I have not seen him; but his mother betrayed herself by a gesture, which told me everything.”
“Are you not mistaken?”
“I am not mistaken.”
“You know the importance which I attach to the apprehension of this courier,” said Ivan Ogareff. “If the letter which he has brought from Moscow reaches Irkutsk, if it is given to the Grand Duke, the Grand Duke will be on his guard, and I shall not be able to get at him. I must have that letter at any price. Now you come to tell me that the bearer of this letter is in
my power. I repeat, Sangarre, are you not mistaken?”
Ogareff spoke with great animation. His emotion showed the extreme importance he attached to the possession of this letter. Sangarre was not at all put out by the urgency with which Ogareff repeated his question.
“I am not mistaken, Ivan,” she said.
“But, Sangarre, there are thousands of prisoners in the camp; and you say that you do not know Michael Strogoff.”
“No,” answered the Tsigane, with a look of savage joy, “I do not know him; but his mother knows him. Ivan, we must make his mother speak.”
“Tomorrow she shall speak!” cried Ogareff. So saying, he extended his hand to the Tsigane, who kissed it; for there is nothing servile in this act of respect, it being usual among the Northern races.
Sangarre returned to the camp. She found out Nadia and Marfa Strogoff, and passed the night in watching them. Although worn out with fatigue, the old woman and the girl did not sleep. Their great anxiety kept them awake. Michael was living, but a prisoner as they were. Did Ogareff know him, or if he did not, would he not soon find him out? Nadia was occupied by the one thought that he whom she had thought dead still lived. But Marfa saw further into the future: and, although she did not care what became of herself, she had every reason to fear for her son.
Sangarre, under cover of the night, had crept near the two women, and remained there several hours listening. She heard nothing. From an instinctive feeling of prudence not a word was exchanged between Nadia and Marfa Strogoff. The next day, the 16th of August, about ten in the morning, trumpet-calls resounded throughout the encampment. The Tartar soldiers were almost immediately under arms.
Ivan Ogareff, having left Zabediero, arrived, surrounded by a large staff of Tartar officers. His face was more clouded than usual, and his knitted brow gave signs of latent wrath which was waiting only for an occasion to break forth.