"And five are twenty," said the Cossack, producing the six which he had,
and taking one silver piece out of the number to be returned to his
pocket. The children must not starve on the morrow.

"Oh, thank you, Herr Schmidt!" cried poor Vjera in a joyful voice as she
eagerly took the proffered coins. "Twenty already! Why, twenty-five will
be half, will it not? And I am sure that we can find the rest, then."

"There is Dumnoff," said Schmidt. "He probably has something, too."

"But I could not borrow of him--besides, if he knew it was for the
Count--and he is so rough--he would not give it to us."

"We shall see," answered the other, who knew his man. "Wait a moment. He
is still inside."

He re-entered the shop, where Fischelowitz and his wife were conversing
under the gaslight.

"I tell you," Akulina was saying, "that it is high time you got rid of
him. The new workman from Vilna will take his place, and it is positively
ridiculous to be made to submit to this madman's humours, and
impertinence. What sort of a man are you, Christian Gregorovitch, to let
the fellow carry off your Gigerl, with his airy promise to pay you the
money to-day?"

"The Gigerl was broken," observed the tobacconist.

"Oh, it could have been mended; and if it was really stolen, was that our
business, I would like to know? Nobody would ever have supposed, seeing it
in our window, that it had been stolen. And it could have been mended, as
I say, and might have been worth something after all. You never really
tried to sell it, as you ought to have done from the very first. And now
you have got nothing at all, nothing but that insolent maniac's promise.
If I were you I would take the money out of his wages, I would indeed!"

"No doubt you would," said Fischelowitz, with sincere conviction.

Meanwhile Schmidt had gone into the back shop, where Dumnoff was still
doggedly working, making up for the time he had lost by coming late in the
morning. He was alone at his little table.

"How much money have you got?" asked the Cossack, briefly. Dumnoff looked
up rather stupidly, dropped the cigarette he was making, and felt in his
pocket for his change. He produced five marks, an unusual sum for him to
have in his possession, and which would not have found itself in his hands
had not his arrest on the previous evening prevented his spending
considerably more than he had spent in his favourite corn-brandy.

"I want it all," said Schmidt.

"You are a cool-blooded fellow," laughed Dumnoff, making as though he
would return the coins to his pocket.

"Look here, Dumnoff," answered the Cossack, his bright eyes gleaming. "I
want that money. You know me, and you had better give it to me without
making any trouble."

Dumnoff seemed confused by the sharpness of the demand, and hesitated.

"You seem in a great hurry," he said, with an awkward laugh, "I suppose
you mean to give it back to me?"

"You shall have it at the rate of a mark a day in the next five work days.
You will get your pay this evening and that will be quite enough for you
to get drunk with to-night."

"That is true," said Dumnoff, thoughtfully. "Well, take it," he added,
slipping the money into the other's outstretched palm.

"Thank you," said the Cossack. "You are not so bad as you look, Dumnoff.
Good-night." He was gone in a moment.

Dumnoff stared at the door through which he had disappeared.

"After all," he muttered, discontentedly, "he could not have taken it by
force. I wonder why I was such a fool as to give it to him!"

"I tell you," said Akulina to her husband as Schmidt passed through the
outer shop, "that he will end by costing us so much in money lent, and
squandered in charity, that the business will go to dust and feathers! I
am only a weak woman, Christian Gregorovitch, but I have four children--"

The Cossack heard no more, for he closed the street door behind him and
returned to Vjera's side. She was standing as he had left her, absorbed in
the contemplation of the financial crisis.

"Five more," said he, giving her the silver. "That is one half. Now for
the other. But are you quite sure, Vjera, that it is as bad as you think?
I know that Fischelowitz does not in the least expect the money."

"No--I daresay not. But I know this, if I had not met him just now and
promised to bring him the fifty marks, he would have been raving mad
before morning." Schmidt saw by her look that she was convinced of the
fact.

"Very well," he said. "I am not going to turn back now. The poor Count has
done me many a good turn in his time, and I will do my best, though I do
not exactly see what more I can do, at such short notice."

"Have you got anything worth pawning, Herr Schmidt?" asked Vjera,
ruthless, as devoted people can be when the object of their devotion is in
danger.

"Well--I have not much that I can spare. There is the bed--but my wife
cannot sleep on the floor, though I would myself. And there are a few pots
and pans in the kitchen--not worth much, and I do not know what we should
do without them. I do not know, I am sure. I cannot take the children's
things, Vjera, even for you."

"No," said Vjera doubtfully. "I suppose not. Of course not!" she
exclaimed, immediately afterwards, with an attempt to express conviction.

"There is one thing--there is the old samovar," continued the Cossack. "It
has a leak in one side, and we make the tea as we can, when we have any.
But I remember that I once pawned it, years ago, for five marks."

"That would make thirty," said Vjera promptly.

"I do not believe they would lend so much on it now, though it is good
metal. It is a little battered, besides being leaky."

"Let us get it," said Vjera, beginning to walk briskly on. "I have
something, too, though I do not know what it is worth. It is an old skin
of a wolf--my father killed it inside the village, just before we came
away."

"A wolf skin!" exclaimed Schmidt. "That may be worth something, if it is
good."

"I am afraid it is not very good," answered Vjera doubtfully. "The hair
comes out. I think it must have been a mangy wolf. And there is a bad hole
on one side."

"It was probably badly cured," said the Cossack, who understood furs. "But
I can mend the hole in five minutes, so that nobody will see it."

"We will get it, too. But I am afraid that it will not be nearly enough to
make up the twenty-five marks. They could not possibly give us twenty
marks for the skin, could they?"

"No, indeed, unless you could sell it to some one who does not understand
those things. And the samovar will not bring five, as I said. We must find
something else."

"Let us get the samovar first," said Vjera decisively. "I will wait
downstairs till you get it, and then you will wait for me where I live,
and after that we will go together. I may find something else. Indeed, I
must, or we shall not have enough."

They walked rapidly through the deepening shadows towards Schmidt's home.
Vjera moved, as people do, who are possessed by an idea which must be put
into immediate execution, her head high, her eyes full of light, her lips
set, her step firm. Her companion was surprised to find that he needed to
walk fast in order to keep by her side. He looked at her often, as he had
looked all day, with an expression that showed at once much interest,
considerable admiration and some pity. If he had not been lately brought
to some new opinion concerning the girl he would certainly not have
entered into her wild scheme for calming the Count's excitement without at
least arguing the case lengthily, and discussing all the difficulties
which presented themselves to his imagination. As it was, he felt himself
carried away by a sort of enthusiasm in her cause, which would have led
him to make even greater sacrifices than he had it in his power to offer.
So strong was this feeling that he felt called upon to make a sort of
apology.

"I am sorry I cannot do more to help you," he said regretfully. "It is
very little I know, but then, you see I am not alone in the world, Vjera.
There are others to be thought of. And besides, I have just paid the rent,
and there are no savings left."

"Dear Herr Schmidt," answered Vjera gratefully, "you are doing too much
already--but I cannot help taking all you give me, though I can thank you
for it with all my heart."

They did not speak again during the next few minutes, until they reached
the door of the house in which the Cossack lived.

"I shall only need a moment," he said, as he dived into the dark entrance.

He lost so little time, that it seemed to Vjera as though the echo of his
steps had not died away upon the stairs before she heard his footfall
again as he descended. This time, however, there was a rattle and clatter
of metal to be heard as well as his quick tread and the loud creaking of
his coarse, stiff shoes. He emerged into the street with the body of the
samovar under one arm. The movable brass chimney of the machine was
sticking out of one of his pockets, and in his left hand he had its little
tray, with the rings and other pieces belonging to the whole. Amongst
those latter objects, which he grasped tightly in his fingers, there
figured also the fragment of a small spoon of which the bowl had been
broken from the handle.

"It is silver," he said, referring to the latter utensil, as he held up
the whole handful before Vjera's eyes. "But if we can find a jeweller's
shop open, we will sell it. We can get more for it in that way. And now
your wolf's skin, Vjera. And be sure to bring me a needle and some strong
thread when you come down. I can mend the hole by the gaslight in the
street, for Homolka would not understand it if he saw me going to your
room, you know."

She helped him to put all the smaller things into his pockets, so that he
had only the samovar itself, and its metal tray to carry in his hands, and
then they went briskly on towards Vjera's lodging.

"Do you think we shall get three marks for the little spoon?" she asked,
constantly preoccupied by her calculations.

"Oh yes," Schmidt answered cheerfully. "We may get five. It is good
silver, and they buy silver by weight."

A few moments later she stood still before a narrow shop which was lighted
within, though there was no lamp in the windows. It was that of a small
watchmaker and jeweller, and a few silver watches and some cheap chains
and trinkets were visible behind the glass pane.

"Perhaps he may buy the spoon," suggested Vjera, anxious to lose no time.

Without a word Schmidt entered the shop, while the girl stood outside. In
less than five minutes he came out again with something in his hand.

"Three and a half," he said, handing her the money.

"I had hoped it would be worth more," she answered, putting the coins with
the rest.

"No. He weighed it with silver marks. It weighed just four of them, and he
said he must have half a mark to make it worth his while."

"Very well," said Vjera, "it is always something. I have twenty-eight and
a half now."

When they reached her lodging Schmidt set down the samovar upon the
pavement and made himself a cigarette, while he waited for her. She was
gone a long time, as it seemed to him, and he was beginning to wonder
whether anything had happened, when she suddenly made her appearance,
noiseless in her walk, as always. The old wolf's skin was hung over one
shoulder, and she carried besides a limp-looking brown paper parcel, tied
with a bit of folded ribband. As he caught sight of her face in the light
of the street lamp, Schmidt fancied that she was paler than before, and
that her cheek was wet.

"I am sorry I was so long," she said. "The little sister cried because I
would not stay, and I had to quiet her. Here is the skin. Do you see? I am
afraid this is a very big hole--and the hair comes out in handfuls. Look
at it."

"It was a very old wolf," remarked the Cossack, holding the skin up under
the gaslight.

"Does that make it worth less?" asked Vjera anxiously.

"Not of itself; on the contrary. And I can mend the hole, if you have the
thread and needle. The worst thing about it all is the way the hairs fall
out. I am afraid the moths have been at it, Vjera." He shook his head
gravely. "I am afraid the moths have done a great deal of damage."

"Oh, if I had only known--I would have been so careful! And to think that
it might have been worth something."

"It is worth something as it is, but at the pawnbroker's they will not
lend much on it." He took the threaded needle, which she had not
forgotten, and sitting down upon the edge of the pavement spread the skin
upon his knees with the fur downwards. Then he quickly began to draw the
hole together, sewing it firmly with the furrier's cross stitch, and so
neatly that the seam looked like a single straight line on the side of the
leather, while it was quite invisible in the fur on the other.

"What is the other thing you have brought?" he inquired without looking up
from his work. The light was bad, and he had to bend his eyes close to the
sewing.

"It is something I may be able to sell," said Vjera in a rather unsteady
voice.

"Silver?" asked Schmidt, cheerfully.

"Oh no--not silver--something dearer," she said, almost under her breath.
"I am afraid it is very hard for you to see," she added quickly,
attempting to avoid his questions. "Do you not think that I could hold a
match for you, to make a little more light? You always have some with
you."

"Wait a moment--yes--I have almost finished the seam--here is the box.
Now, if you can hold the match just there, just over the needle, and keep
it from going out, I can finish the end off neatly."

Vjera knelt down beside him and held the flickering bit of wood as well as
she was able. They made a strange picture, out in the unfrequented street,
the dim glare of the gaslight above them, and the redder flame of the
match making odd tints and shadows in their faces. Vjera's shawl had
slipped back from her head and her thick tress of red-brown hair had found
its way over her shoulder. An artist, strolling supperwards from his
studio, came down their side of the way. He stopped and looked at them.

"Has anything happened?" he asked kindly. "Can I be of any use?"

Vjera looked up with a frightened glance. The Cossack paid no attention to
the stranger.

"Oh no, thank you--thank you, sir, it is nothing--only a little piece of
work to finish."

The artist gave one more look and passed on, wishing that he could have
had pencil and paper and light at his command for five minutes.

"There," said Schmidt triumphantly. "It is done, and very well done. And
now for the pawn-shop, Vjera!"

Vjera took the skin over her arm and her companion picked up the samovar
with its tray, and they moved on again. Vjera's face was pale and sad, but
she seemed more confident of success than ever, and her step was elastic
and hopeful. Johann Schmidt's curiosity was very great, as has been seen
on previous occasions. He did his best to control it, for some time, only
trying to guess from the general appearance of the limp parcel what it
might contain. But his ingenuity failed to solve the problem. At last he
could bear it no longer. They were entering the street where the
pawnbroker's shop was situated when his resolution broke down.

"Is it a piece of lace?" he asked at a venture. "If it is, you know, and
if it is good, it may be worth all the other things together."

"No. It is not a piece of lace," answered the girl. "I will tell you what
it is, if we do not get enough without it."

"I only thought," explained the Cossack, "that if we were going to try and
pawn it, I had better know--"

"We cannot pawn it," said Vjera decisively. "It will have to be sold. Let
us go in together." She spoke the last words as they reached the door of
the pawn-shop.

"I could save you the trouble," Schmidt suggested, offering to take the
wolf's skin. But Vjera would not give it up. She felt that she must see
everything done herself, if only to distract her thoughts from more
painful matters.

The place was half full of people, most of them with anxious faces, and
all having some object or other in their hands. The pawn-shops do their
best business in the evening. A man and a woman, both advanced in middle
age, well fed, parsimoniously washed and possessing profiles of an outline
disquieting to Christian prejudices, leaned over the counter, handled the
articles offered them, consulted each other in incomprehensible
monosyllables, talked volubly to the customers in oily undertones and from
time to time counted out small doses of change which they gave to the
eager recipients, accompanied by little slips of paper on which there were
both printed and written words. The room was warm and redolent of poverty.
A broad flame of gas burned, without a shade, over the middle of the
counter.

In spite of their unctuous tones the Hebrew and his wife did their
business rapidly, with sharpness and decision. Either one of them would
have undertaken to name the precise pawning value of anything on earth
and, possibly, of most things in heaven, provided that the universe were
brought piecemeal to their counter. Both Vjera and Schmidt had been made
acquainted by previous necessities with the establishment. Vjera held her
paper parcel in her hand. The other things were laid together upon the
counter. The Hebrew woman glanced at the samovar, felt the weight of it
and turned it once round.

"Leaky," she observed in her smooth voice. "Old brass. One mark and a
half." Her husband put out his hand, touched the machine, lifted it, and
nodded.

"Only a mark and a half!" exclaimed Vjera. "And the skin, how much for
that?"

"It is a genuine Russian wolf," Schmidt put in. "And it is very large."

"Moth-eaten," said the Jewess. "And there is a hole in the side. Five
marks."

Schmidt held the fur up to the light and blew into it with a professional
air, as furriers do.

"Look at that!" he cried, persuasively. "Why, it is worth twenty!"

The Hebrew lady, instead of answering extended a fat thumb and a plump,
pointed forefinger, and pinching a score of hairs between the two, pulled
them out without effort, and then held them close to the Cossack's eyes.

"Five marks," she repeated, getting the money out and preparing to fill in
a couple of pawn-tickets.

"Make it ten, with the samovar!" entreated Vjera. The Jewess smiled.

"Do you think the samovar is of gold?" she inquired. "Six and a half for
the two. Take it or leave it."

Vjera looked at Schmidt anxiously as though to ask his opinion.

"They will not give more," he said, in Russian.

The girl took the money and the flimsy tickets and they went out into the
street. Vjera hesitated as to the direction she should take, and Schmidt
looked to her as though awaiting her orders.

"Twenty-eight and a half and six and a half are thirty-five," she said,
thoughtfully. "And we have nothing more to give, but this. I must sell it,
Herr Schmidt."

"Well, what is it?" he asked, glad to know the secret at last.

"It is my mother's hair. She cut it off herself when she knew she was
dying and she told me to sell it if ever I needed a little money."

The girl's voice trembled violently, and she turned her head away. Schmidt
was silent and very grave. Then Vjera began to move on again, clutching
the precious thing to her bosom and drawing her shawl over it.

"The best man for this lives in the Maffei Strasse," said Schmidt after a
few minutes.

"Show me the way." Vjera turned as he directed. At that moment she would
have lost herself in the familiar streets, had he not been there to guide
her.

The hairdresser's shop was brilliantly lighted, and as good fortune would
have it, there were no customers within. With an entreating glance which
he obeyed, Vjera made Schmidt wait outside.

"Please do not look!" she whispered. "I can bear it better alone." The
good fellow nodded and began to walk up and down.

As Vjera entered the shop, the chief barber in command waltzed forward, as
hairdressers always seem to waltz. At the sight of the poor girl, however,
he assumed a stern appearance which, to tell the truth, was out of
character with his style of beauty. His rich brown locks were curled and
anointed in a way that might have aroused envy in the heart of an Assyrian
dandy in the palmy days of Sardanapalus.

"Do you buy hair?" asked Vjera, timidly offering her limp parcel.

"Oh, certainly, sometimes," answered the barber. The youth in
attendance--the barber tadpole of the hairdresser frog--abandoned the
cleansing of a comb and came forward with a leer, in the hope that Vjera
might turn out to be pretty on a closer inspection. In this he was
disappointed.

The man took the parcel and laid it on one of the narrow marble tables
placed before a mirror in a richly gilt frame. He pushed aside the blue
glass powder-box, the vial of brilliantine and the brushes. Vjera untied
the bit of faded ribband herself and opened the package. The contents
exhaled a faint, sickly odour.

A tress of beautiful hair, of unusual length and thickness, lay in the
paper. The colour was that which is now so much sought after, and which
great ladies endeavour to produce upon their own hair, when they have any,
by washing it with extra-dry champagne, while little ladies imitate them
with a humble solution of soda. The colour in question is a reddish-brown
with rich golden lights in it, and it is very rare in nature.

The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression.

"The colour is not so bad," he remarked, as though suggesting that it
might have been very much better.

"Surely, it is very beautiful hair!" said Vjera, her heart almost breaking
at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom.

Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and
smelt it. Then he laid it down again and took the thicker end, which was
tied tightly with a ribband, in his hands, pulling at the short lengths of
hair which projected beyond the knot. They broke very easily, with an odd,
soft snap.

"It is worth nothing at all," said the barber decisively. "It is a pity,
for it is a very pretty colour."

Vjera started, and steadied herself against the back of the professional
chair which stood by the table.

"Nothing?" she repeated, half stupid with the pain of her disappointment.
"Nothing? not even fifteen marks?"

"Nothing. It is rotten, and could not be worked. The hairs break like
glass."

Vjera pressed her left hand to her side as though something hurt her. The
tadpole youth grinned idiotically and the barber seemed anxious to end the
interview.

With a look of broken-hearted despair the girl turned to the table and
began to do up her parcel again. Her shawl fell to the ground as she
moved. Then the tadpole nudged his employer and pointed at Vjera's long,
red-brown braid, and grinned again from ear to ear.

"Is it fifteen marks that you want?" asked the man.

"Fifteen--yes--I must have fifteen," repeated Vjera in dull tones.

"I will give it to you for your own hair," said the barber with a short
laugh.

"For my own?" cried Vjera, suddenly turning round. It had never occurred
to her that her own tress could be worth anything. "For my own?" she
repeated as though not believing her ears.

"Yes--let me see," said the man. "Turn your head again, please. Let me
see. Yes, yes, it is good hair of the kind, though it has not the gold
lights in it that the other had. But, to oblige you, I will give you
fifteen for it."

"But I must have the money now," said Vjera, suspiciously. "You must give
me the money now, to take with me. I cannot wait."

The barber smiled, and produced a gold piece and five silver ones.

"You may hold the money in your hand," he said, offering it to her, "while
you sit down and I do the work."

Vjera clutched the coins fiercely and placed herself in the big chair
before the mirror. She could see in the glass that her eyes were on fire.
The barber loosened a screw in the back of the seat and removed the block
with the cushion, handing it to his assistant.

"The scissors, and a comb, Anton," he said briskly, lifting at the same
time the heavy tress and judging its weight. The reflection of the steel
flashed in the mirror, as the artist quickly opened and shut the scissors,
with that peculiar shuffling jingle which only barbers can produce.

"Wait a minute!" cried Vjera, with sudden anxiety, and turning her head as
though to draw away her hair from his grasp. "One minute--please--fifteen
and thirty-five are really fifty, are they not?"

The tadpole began to count on his fingers, whispering audibly.

"Yes," answered the barber. "Fifteen and thirty-five are fifty."

The tadpole desisted, having already got into mathematical difficulties in
counting from one hand over to the other.

"Then cut it off quickly, please!" said poor Vjera, settling herself in
the chair again, and giving her head to the shears.

In the silence that followed, only the soft jingle of the scissors was
heard.

"There!" exclaimed the hairdresser, holding up a hand-mirror behind her.
"I have been generous, you see. I have not cut it very short. See for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Vjera. "You are very kind." She saw nothing, indeed, but
she was satisfied, and rose quickly.

She tied up the limp parcel with the same old piece of faded ribband, and
a little colour suddenly came into her face as she pressed it to her
bosom. All at once, she lost control of herself, and with a sharp sob the
tears gushed out. She stooped a little and drew her shawl over her head to
hide her face. The tears wet her hands and the brown paper, and fell down
to the greasy marble floor of the shop.

"It will grow again very soon," said the barber, not unkindly. He
supposed, naturally enough, that she was weeping over her sacrifice.

"Oh no! It is not that!" she cried. "I am so--so happy to have kept this!"
Then, without another word, she slipped noiselessly out into the street,
clasping the precious relic to her breast.

CHAPTER XI.

"I have got it--I have got it all!" cried Vjera, as she came up with
Schmidt on the pavement. His quick eye caught sight of the parcel, only
half hidden by her shawl.

"But you have brought the hair away with you," he said, in some anxiety,
and fearing a mistake or some new trouble.

"Yes," she answered. "That is the best of it." Her tears had disappeared
as suddenly as they had come, and she could now hardly restrain the
nervous laughter that rose to her lips.

"But how is that?" asked Schmidt, stopping.

"I gave them my own," she laughed, hysterically. "I gave them my
own--instead. Quick, quick--there is no time to lose. Is it an hour yet,
since I left him?" She ran along, and Schmidt found it hard to keep beside
her without running, too. At last he broke into a sort of jog-trot. In
five minutes they were at the door of the café.

The Count was sitting at a small table near the door, an empty coffee-cup
before him, staring with a fixed look at the opposite wall. There were few
people in the place, as the performances at the theatres had already
begun. Vjera entered alone.

"I have brought you the money," she said, joyfully, as she stood beside
him and laid a hand upon his arm to attract his attention, for he had not
noticed her coming.

"The money?" he said, excitedly. "The fifty marks? You have got it?"

She sat down at the table, and began to count the gold and silver,
producing it from her pocket in instalments of four or five coins, and
making little heaps of them before him.

"It is all there--every penny of it," she said, counting the piles again.

The poor man's eyes seemed starting from his head, as he leaned eagerly
forward over the money.

"Is it real? Is it true?" he asked in a low voice. "Oh, Vjera, do not
laugh at me--is it really true, child?"

"Really true--fifty marks." Her pale face beamed with pleasure. "And now
you can go and pay Fischelowitz at once," she added.

But he leaned back a moment in his chair, looking at her intently. Then
his eyes grew moist, and, when he spoke, his voice quivered.

"May God forgive me for taking it of you," he said. "You have saved me,
Vjera--saved my honour, my life--all. God bless you, dear, God bless you!
I am very, very thankful."

He put the coins carefully together and wrapped them in his silk
handkerchief, and rose from his seat. He had already paid for his cup of
coffee. They went out together. The Cossack had disappeared.

"You have saved my life and my honour--my honour and my life," repeated
the Count, softly and dwelling on the words in a dreamy way.

"I will wait outside," said Vjera as they reached the tobacconist's shop,
a few seconds later.

The Count turned to her and laid both hands upon her shoulders, looking
into her face.

"You cannot understand what you have done for me," he said earnestly.

He stooped, for he was much taller than she, and closing his tired eyes
for a moment, he pressed his lips upon her waxen forehead. Before he had
seen the bright blush that glowed in her cheeks, he had entered the shop.

Akulina was seated in one corner, apparently in a bad humour, for her dark
face was flushed, and her small eyes looked up savagely at the Count. Her
husband was leaning over the counter, smoking and making a series of
impressions in violet ink upon the back of an old letter, with an
india-rubber stamp in which the word "Celebrated Manufactory" held a
prominent place. He nodded familiarly.

"Herr Fischelowitz," said the Count, regaining suddenly his dignity of
manner and bearing, "in the course of the conversation last evening, I
said that I would to-day refund the fifty marks which you once lent to
that atrocious young man who wore green glasses. I daresay you remember
the circumstance?"

"I had quite forgotten it," said Fischelowitz. "Please do not allow it to
trouble you, my dear Count. I never considered you responsible for it, and
of course you cannot--"

"It is a shame!" Akulina broke in, angrily. "You ought to make him pay it
out of what he earns, since he took the Gigerl!"

"Madam," said the Count, addressing her with great civility, "if it is
agreeable to you, we will not discuss the matter. I only reminded Herr
Fischelowitz of what took place because--"

"Because you have no money--of course!" interrupted Akulina.

"On the contrary, because I have brought the money, and shall be obliged
to you if you will count it."

Akulina's jaw dropped, and Fischelowitz looked up in amazement. The Count
produced his knotted handkerchief and laid it on the table.

"I only wish you to understand," he said, speaking to Akulina, "that when
a gentleman gives his word he keeps it. Will you do me the favour to count
the money?"

"Of course, it is no business of ours to find out how he got it," observed
Akulina, rising and coming forward.

"None whatever, madam," answered the Count, spreading out the coins which
had been collected by loving hands from so many sources. "The only
question is, to ascertain whether there are fifty marks here or not."

Fischelowitz stood looking on. He had not yet recovered from his surprise,
and was half afraid that there might be something wrong. But the practical
Akulina lost no time in assuring herself that the sum was complete. As she
realised this fact, her features relaxed into a pleasant smile.

"Well, Count," she said, "we are very much obliged to you for this. It is
very honest of you, for of course, you were not exactly called upon--"

"I understood you to say that I was," replied the Count, gravely.

"Oh, that was yesterday, and I am very sorry if I annoyed you. But let
bygones be bygones! I hope there is no ill-will between us?"

"Oh, none at all," returned the other indifferently. "I have the honour to
wish you a very good evening." Without waiting for more, the Count bowed
and left the shop.

"Akulina," said Fischelowitz, thoughtfully, as the door closed, "that man
is a gentleman, say what you please."

"A pretty gentleman," laughed Akulina, putting the money into the till. "A
gentleman indeed--why, look at his coat!"

"And you are a fool, Akulina," added Fischelowitz, handling his
india-rubber stamp.

"Thank you; but for my foolery you would be fifty marks poorer to-night,
Christian Gregorovitch. A gentleman, pah!"

The Count had drawn Vjera's willing arm through his, and they were walking
slowly away together.

"I must be going home," she said, reluctantly. "The little sister will be
crying for me. I cannot leave her any longer."

"Not till I have thanked you, dear," he answered, pressing her arm to his
side. "But I will go with you to your door, and thank you all the
way--though the way is far too short for all I have to say."

"I have done nothing--it has really cost me nothing." Vjera squeezed her
limp parcel under her shawl, and felt that she was speaking the truth.

"I cannot believe that, Vjera," said the Count. "You could not have found
so much money so quickly, without making some great sacrifice. But I will
give it back to you--"

"Oh no--no," she cried, earnestly. "Make no promises to me. Think what
this promise has cost you. When you have the money, you may give it back
if you choose--but it would make me so unhappy if you promised."

"Would it, child? And yet, my friends are waiting for me, and they have
money for me, too. Then, I will only say that I will give it back to you
as soon as possible. Is that right?"

"Yes--and nothing more than that. And as for thanking me--what have I done
that needs thanks? Would you not have done as much for me if--if, for
instance, I had been ill, and could not pay the rent of the room? And
then--think of the happiness I have had!"

The words were spoken so simply and it was so clear that they were true,
that the Count found it hard to answer. Not because he had nothing to
express, but because the words for the expression could not be found.
Again he pressed her arm.

"Vjera," he said, when they had walked some distance farther, "it is of no
use to speak of this. There is that between you and me which makes speech
contemptible and words ridiculous. There is only one thing that I can do,
Vjera dearest. I can love you, dear, with all my heart. Will you take my
love for thanks--and my devotion for gratitude? Will you, dear? Will you
remember what you promised and what I promised last night? As soon as all
is right, to-morrow, will you be my wife?"

"If it could ever be!" sighed the poor girl, recalled suddenly to the
remembrance of his pitiful infirmity.

"It can be, it shall be and it will be," he answered in tones of
conviction. "They are waiting for me now, Vjera, in my little room--but
they may wait, for I will not lose a moment of your dear company for them
all. They are waiting for me with the money and the papers and the orders.
I have waited long for them, they can afford to have a little patience
now. And to-morrow, at this time, we shall be together, Vjera, in the
train--I will have a special carriage for you and me, and then, a night
and a day and another night and we shall be at home--for ever. How happy
we shall be! Will you not be happy with me, darling? Why do you sigh?"

"Did I sigh?" asked Vjera, trying to laugh a little.

He hardly noticed the question, but began to talk again, as he had talked
on the previous evening, describing all that he meant to do, and all that
they would do together. Vjera heard and tried not to listen. Her joy was
all gone. The great, overwhelming pleasure she had felt in dispelling his
anxiety and in averting what had seemed a near and terrible catastrophe,
gave place to the old, heartrending pity for him, as he rambled on in his
delusion. She had hoped that, as it was late on Wednesday evening, the
time of it was passed and that, for another week, he would talk no more of
his friends and his money and his return to fortune. But the fixed idea
was there still, as dominant as ever. Her light tread grew weary and her
head sank forward as she walked. For one short hour she had felt the glory
of sacrificing all she had to give, to her love. Are there many who have
felt as much, with as good reason, in a whole lifetime?

But the hour was gone, taking with it the reality and leaving in its place
a memory, fair, brilliant, and dear as the tress of golden hair Vjera was
carrying home in her parcel, but as useless perhaps and as valueless in
the world of realities as that had proved to be.

They reached her door and stopped in their walk. She looked up sadly into
his eyes, as she held out her hand. He hesitated a moment, and then threw
both his arms round her and drew her to his heart and kissed her
passionately again and again. She tried to draw back.

"Oh no, no!" she cried. "It cannot be so to-morrow--why should you kiss me
to-day?" But he would not let her go. She loved him, though she knew he
was mad, and she let her head fall upon his shoulder, and allowed herself
to believe in love for a moment.

Suddenly she felt that he was startled by something.

"Vjera!" he cried. "Have you cut off your beautiful hair? What have you
done, child? How could you do it?"

"It was so heavy," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "It made my
head ache--it is best so."

But he was not satisfied, for he guessed something of the truth, and the
pain and horror that thrilled him told him that he had guessed rightly.

"You have cut it off--and you have sold it--you have sold your hair for
me--" he stammered in a broken voice.

She hung her head a little.

"I always meant to cut it off. I did not care for it, you know. And
besides," she added, suddenly looking up again, "you will not love me
less, will you? They said it would grow again--you will not love me less?"

"Love you less? Ah, Vjera, that promise I may make at least--never--to the
end of ends!"

"And yet," she answered, "if it should all be true--if it only should--you
could not--oh, I should not be worthy of you--you could never marry me."

The Count drew back a step and held out his right hand, with a strangely
earnest look in his weary eyes. She laid her fingers in his almost
unconsciously. Then, as though he were in a holy place, he took off his
hat, and stood bareheaded before her.

"If I forsake you, Vjera," he said very solemnly, "if I forsake you ever,
in riches or in poverty, in honour or in disrepute, may the God of heaven
forsake me in the hour of my death."

He swore the great oath deliberately, in a strong, clear voice, and then
was silent for a moment, his eyes turned upwards, his attitude unchanged.
Then he raised the poor girl's thin hand to his lips and kissed it, three
times, reverently, as devout persons kiss the relics of departed saints.

"Good-night, Vjera," he said, quietly. "We shall meet to-morrow."

Vjera was awed by his solemn earnestness, and strongly moved by his
action.

"Good-night," she answered, lovingly. "Heaven bless you and keep you
safe." She looked for a last time into his face, as though trying to
impress upon her mind the memories of that fateful evening, and then she
withdrew into the house, shutting the street door behind her.

The Count stood still for several minutes, unconsciously holding his hat
in his hand. At last he covered his head and walked slowly away in the
direction of his home. By degrees his mind fell into its old groove and he
hastened his steps. From time to time, he fancied that some one was
following him at no great distance, but though he glanced quickly over his
shoulder he saw no one in the dimly-lighted street. The door of the house
in which he lived was open, and he ran up the stairs at a great pace, sure
that by this time his friends must be waiting for him in his room. When he
reached it, all was dark and quiet. The echo of his own footsteps seemed
still to resound in the staircase as he closed his door and struck a
match. He found his small lamp in a corner, lighted it with some
difficulty, set it on the table and sat down. There, beside him, propped
up against two books, was the piece of paper on which he had written the
few words for his friends, in case they came while he was out. He took it
up, looked over it absently and began to fold it upon itself again and
again.

"Dear Vjera!" he exclaimed, in a low caressing tone, as he smoothed the
folded strip between his fingers.

He was thinking, and thinking connectedly, of all that had just taken
place, and wondering how it was that he had been able to accept such a
sacrifice from one so little able to sacrifice anything. It seemed as
though it should have been impossible for him to let the poor little
shell-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him
right again in his own eyes.

"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.

And he was right. There are secret humiliations to which no man would
submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the
sting and the poison. The man of heart, who does not love but is loved in
spite of himself, fears to accept a sacrifice, lest in so doing he should
seem to declare his readiness to do as he is done by, from like motives.
But when love is on both sides there is no such drawing back from love's
responsibilities. The sacrifice is accepted not only with gratitude, but
with joy, as a debt of which the repayment by sacrifice again constitutes
in itself a happiness. And thus, perhaps, it is that they love best who
love in sorrow and in want, in worldly poverty and in distress of soul,
for they alone can know what joy it is to receive, and what yet infinitely
greater joy lies in giving all when all is sorely needed.

But as the Count dwelt on the circumstances he saw also what it was that
Vjera had done, and he wondered how she could have found the strength to
do it. He did not, indeed, say to himself that for his sake she had parted
with her only beauty, for he had never considered whether she were
good-looking or not. The bond between them was of a different nature, and
would not have been less strong had Vjera been absolutely ugly instead of
being merely, what is called, plain. He would have loved her as well, had
she been a cripple, or deformed, just as she loved him in spite of his
madness. But he knew well enough how women, even the most wretched, value
their hair when it is beautiful, what care they bestow upon it and what
consolation they derive from the rich, silken coil denied to fairer women
than themselves. There is something in the thought of cutting off the
heavy tress and selling it which appeals to the pity of most people, and
which, to women themselves, is full of horror. A man might have felt the
same in those days when long locks were the distinctive outward sign of
nobility in man, and perhaps the respect of that obsolete custom has left
in the minds of most people a sort of unconscious tradition. However that
may be, we all feel that in one direction, at least, a woman's sacrifice
can go no further than in giving her head to the shears.

The longer the Count thought of this, the more his gratitude increased,
and the more fully he realised at what great cost poor Vjera had saved him
from what he considered the greatest conceivable dishonour, from the shame
of breaking his word, no matter under what conditions it had been given.
He could, of course, repay her the money, so soon as his friends arrived,
but by no miracle whatever could he restore to her head the only beauty it
had ever possessed. He had scarcely understood this at first, for he had
been confused and shaken by the many emotions which had in succession
played upon his nervous mind and body during the past twenty-four hours.
But now he saw it all very clearly. He had taken only money, which he
would be able to restore; she had given a part of herself, irrevocably.

So deeply absorbed was he in his thoughts that the clocks struck many
successive quarters without rousing him from his reverie, or suggesting
again to him the fixed idea by which his life was governed on that day of
the week. But as midnight drew near, the prolonged striking of the bells
at every quarter at last attracted his attention. He started suddenly and
rose from his seat, trying to count the strokes, but he had not heard the
first ones and was astray in his reckoning. It was very late, that was
certain, and not many minutes could elapse before the door would open and
his friends would enter. He hastily smoothed his hair, looked to the flame
of his bright little lamp and made a trip of inspection round the room.
Everything was in order. He was almost glad that they were to come at
night, for the lamplight seemed to lend a more cheerful look to the room.
The Turkey-red cotton counterpane on the bed looked particularly well, the
Count thought. During the next fifteen minutes he walked about, rubbing
his hands softly together. At the first stroke of the following quarter he
stood still and listened intently.

Four quarters struck, and then the big bell began to toll the hour. It
must be eleven, he thought, as he counted the strokes. Eleven--twelve--he
started, and turned very white, but listened still, for he knew that he
should hear another clock striking in a few seconds. As the strokes
followed each other, his heart beat like a fulling-hammer, giving a
succession of quick blows, and pausing to repeat the rhythmic tattoo more
loudly and painfully than before. Ten--eleven--twelve--there was no
mistake. The day was over. It was midnight, and no one had come. The room
swam with him.

Then, as in a vision of horror, he saw himself standing there, as he had
stood many times before, listening for the last stroke, and suddenly
awaking from the dream to the crushing disappointment of the reality. For
one brief and terrible moment his whole memory was restored to him and he
knew that his madness was only madness, and nothing more, and that it
seized him in the same way, week by week, through the months and the
years, leaving him thus on the stroke of twelve each Wednesday night, a
broken, miserable, self-deceived man. As in certain dreams, we dream that
we have dreamed the same things before, so with him an endless calendar of
Wednesdays was unrolled before his inner sight, all alike, all ending in
the same terror of conscious madness.

He had dreamed it all, there was no one to come to him in his distress, no
one would ever enter that lonely room to bring back to him the treasures
of a glorious past, for there was no one to come. It had all been a dream
from beginning to end and there was no reality in it.

He staggered to his chair and sat down, pressing his lean hands to his
aching temples and rocking himself to and fro, his breath hissing through
his convulsively closed teeth. Still the fearful memory remained, and it
grew into a prophetic vision of the future, reflecting what had been upon
the distant scenery of what was yet to be. With that one deadly stroke of
the great church bell, all was gone--fortune, friends, wealth, dignity.
The majestic front of the palace of his hopes was but a flimsy, painted
tissue. The fire that ran through his tortured brain consumed the gaudy,
artificial thing in the flash and rush of a single flame, and left behind
only the charred skeleton framework, which had supported the vast canvas.
And then, he saw it again and again looming suddenly out of the darkness,
brightening into beauty and the semblance of strength, to be as suddenly
destroyed once more. With each frantic beat of his heart the awful
transformation was renewed. For dreams need not time to spin out their
intolerable length. With each burning throb of his raging blood, every
nerve in his body, every aching recess of his brain, was pierced and
twisted, and pierced again with unceasing agony.

Then a new horror was added to the rest. He saw before him the poor Polish
girl, her only beauty shorn away for his sake, he saw all that he had
promised in return, and he knew that he had nothing to give her, nothing,
absolutely, save the crazy love of a wretched madman. He could not even
repay her the miserable money which had cost her so dear. Out of his
dreams of fortune there was not so much as a handful of coin left to give
the girl who had given all she had, who had sold her hair to save his
honour. With frightful vividness the truth came over him. That honour of
his, he had pledged it in the recklessness of his madness. She had saved
it out of love, and he had not even--but no--there was a new memory
there--love he had for her, passionate, tender, true, a love that had not
its place among the terrors of the past. But--was not this a new dream, a
new delusion of his shaken brain? And if he loved her, was it not yet more
terrible to have deceived the loved one, more monstrous, more infamous,
more utterly damnable? The figure of her rose before him, pitiful, thin,
weak, with outstretched hands and trusting eyes--and he had taken of her
all she had. Neither heart, nor body, nor brain could bear more.

"Vjera! God! Forgive me!" With the cry of a breaking heart the poor Count
fell forward from his seat and lay in a heap, motionless upon the floor.

Only his stiffening fingers, crooked and contorted, worked nervously for a
few minutes, scratching at the rough boards. Then all was quite still in
the little room.

There was a noise outside, and some one opened the door. The Cossack stood
upon the threshold, holding his hand up against the lamp, for he was
dazzled as he entered from the outer darkness of the stairs. He looked
about, and at first saw nothing, for the Count had fallen in the shadow of
the table.

Then, seeing where he lay, Johann Schmidt came forward and knelt down, and
with some difficulty turned his friend upon his back.

"Dead--poor Count!" he exclaimed in a low voice, bending down over the
ghastly face.

The pale eyes were turned upward and inward, and the forehead was damp.
Schmidt unbuttoned the threadbare coat from the breast. There was no
waistcoat under it--nothing but a patched flannel shirt. A quantity of
papers were folded neatly in a flat package in the inner pocket. Schmidt
put down his head and listened for the beatings of the heart.

"So it is over!" he said mournfully, as he straightened himself upon his
knees. Then he took one of the extended hands in his, and pressed it, and
looked into the poor man's face, and felt the tears coming into his eyes.

"You were a good man," he said in sorrowful tones, "and a brave man in
your way, and a true gentleman--and--I suppose it was not your fault if
you were mad. Heaven give you peace and rest!"

He rose to his feet, debating what he should do.

"Poor Vjera!" he sighed. "Poor Vjera--she will go next!"

Once more, he looked down, and his eye caught sight of the papers
projecting from the inner pocket of the coat, which was still open and
thrown back upon the floor. It has been noticed more than once that Johann
Schmidt was a man subject to attacks of quite irresistible curiosity. He
hesitated a moment, and then came to the conclusion that he was as much
entitled as any one else to be the Count's executor.

"It cannot harm him now," he said, as he extracted the bundle from its
place.

One of the letters was quite fresh. The rest were evidently very old,
being yellow with age and ragged at the edges. He turned over the former.
It was addressed to Count Skariatine, at his lodging, and it bore the
postmark of a town in Great-Russia, between Petersburg and Moscow. Schmidt
took out the sheet, and his face suddenly grew very dark and angry. The
handwriting was either in reality Akulina's, or it resembled it so closely
as to have deceived a better expert than the Cossack.

The missive purported to be written by the wife of Count Skariatine's
steward, and it set forth in rather servile and illiterate language that
the said Count Skariatine and his eldest son were both dead, having been
seized on the same day with the smallpox, of which there had been an
epidemic in the neighbourhood, but which was supposed to have quite
disappeared when they fell ill. A week later and within twenty-four hours
of each other they had breathed their last. The Count Boris Michaelovitch
was now the heir, and would do well to come home as soon as possible to
look after his possessions, as the local authorities were likely to make a
good thing out of it in his absence.

The Cossack swore a terrific oath, and stamped furiously on the floor as
he rose to his feet. It was evident to him that Akulina had out of spite
concocted the letter, and had managed to have it posted by some friend in
Russia. He was not satisfied with one expletive, nor with many. The words
he used need not be translated for the reader of the English language. It
is enough to say that they were the strongest in the Cossack vocabulary,
that they were well selected and applied with force and precision.

Johann Schmidt was exceedingly wroth with the tobacconist's wife, for it
was clear that she had caused the Count's untimely death by her abominable
practical joke. He went and leaned out of the window, churning and
gnashing the fantastic expressions of his rage through his teeth.

Suddenly there was a noise in the room, a distinct, loud noise, as of
shuffling with hands and feet. The Cossack's nerves were proof against
ghostly terrors, but as he turned round he felt that his hair was standing
erect upon his head.

The Count was on his feet and was looking at him.

CHAPTER XII.

"I thought you were dead!" gasped the Cossack in dismay.

There was no answer. The Count did not appear to hear Schmidt's voice nor
to see his figure. He acted like a man walking in his sleep, and it was by
no means certain to the friend who watched him that his eyes were always
open. As though nothing unusual had happened, the Count calmly undressed
himself and got into bed. Three minutes later he was sound asleep and
breathing regularly.

For a long time Johann Schmidt stood transfixed with wonder in his place
at the open window. At last it dawned upon him that his friend had not
been really dead, but had fallen into some sort of fit in the course of
his lonely meditations, from which he had been awakened by the Cossack's
terrific swearing. Why the latter had seemed to be invisible and inaudible
to him, was a matter which Schmidt did not attempt to solve. It was clear
that the Count was alive, and sleeping like other people. Schmidt
hesitated some time as to what he should do. It was possible that his
friend might wake again, and find himself desperately ill. He had been so
evidently unlike himself, that Schmidt had feared he would become a raving
maniac in the night, and had entered the house at his heels, seating
himself upon the stairs just outside the door to wait for events, with the
odd fidelity and forethought characteristic of him. The Count's cry had
warned him that all was not right and he had entered the room, as has been
seen.

He determined to wait some time longer, to see whether anything would
happen. Meanwhile, he thrust Akulina's letter into his pocket, reflecting
that as it was a forgery it would be best that the Count should not have
it, lest he should be again misled by the contents. He sat down and
waited.

Nothing happened. The clocks chimed the quarters up to one in the morning,
a quarter-past, half-past--Schmidt was growing sleepy. The Count breathed
regularly and lay in his bed without moving. Then, at last, the Cossack
rose, looked at his friend once more, blew out the lamp, felt his way to
the door and left the room. As he walked home through the quiet streets he
swore that he would take vengeance upon Akulina, by producing the letter
and reading it in her husband's presence, and before the assembled
establishment, before the Count made his appearance. It was indeed not
probable that he would come at all, considering all that he had suffered,
though Schmidt knew that he generally came on Thursday morning, evidently
weary and exhausted, but unconscious of the delusion which had possessed
him during the previous day. Possibly, he was subject to a similar fit
every Wednesday night, and had kept the fact a secret. Schmidt had always
wondered what happened to him at the moment when he suddenly forgot his
imaginary fortune and returned to his everyday senses.

The morning dawned at last, and it was Thursday. As there was no necessity
for liberating the Count from arrest to-day, Akulina roused her husband
with the lark, gave him his coffee promptly and sent him off to open the
shop and catch the early customer. Before the shutters had been up more
than a quarter of an hour, and while Fischelowitz was still sniffing the
fresh morning air, Johann Schmidt appeared. His step was brisk, his brow
was dark and his boots creaked ominously. With a very brief salutation he
passed into the back shop, slipped off his coat and set to work with the
determination of a man who feels that he must do something active as a
momentary relief to his feelings.

Next came Vjera, paler than ever, with great black rings under her tired
eyes, broken with the fatigues and anxieties of the previous day, but
determined to double her work, if that were possible, in order to make up
for the money she had borrowed of Schmidt and, through him, of Dumnoff. As
she dropped her shawl, Fischelowitz caught sight of the back of her head,
and broke into a laugh.

"Why, Vjera!" he cried. "What have you done? You have made yourself look
perfectly ridiculous!"

The poor girl turned scarlet, and busied herself at her table without
answering. Her fingers trembled as she tried to handle her glass tube. The
Cossack, whose anger had not been diluted by being left to boil all night,
dropped his swivel knife and went up to Fischelowitz with a look in his
face so extremely disagreeable that the tobacconist drew back a little,
not knowing what to expect.

"I will tell you something," said Schmidt, savagely. "You will have to
change your manners if you expect any of us to work for you."

"What do you mean?" stammered Fischelowitz, in whom nature had omitted to
implant the gift of physical courage, except in such measure as saved him
from the humiliation of being afraid of his wife.

"I mean what I say," answered the Cossack. "And if there is anything I
hate, it is to repeat what I have said before hitting a man." His fists
were clenched already, and one of them looked as though it were on the
point of making a very emphatic gesture. Fischelowitz retired backwards
into the front shop, while Vjera looked on from within, now pale again and
badly frightened.

"Herr Schmidt! Herr Schmidt! Please, please be quiet! It does not matter!"
she cried.

"Then what does matter?" inquired the Cossack over his shoulders, "If
Vjera has cut off her hair," he said, turning again to Fischelowitz, "she
has had a good reason for it. It is none of your business, nor mine
either."

So saying he was about to go back to his work again.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "Upon my word! I do not
understand what has got into the fellow."

"You do not understand?" cried Schmidt, facing him again. "I mean that if
you laugh at Vjera I will break most of your bones."

At that moment Akulina's stout figure appeared, entering from the street.
The Cossack stood still, glaring at her, his face growing white and
contracted with anger. He was becoming dangerous, as good-tempered men
will, when roused, especially when they have been brought up among people
who, as a tribe, would rather fight than eat, at any time of day, from
pure love of the thing. Even Akulina, who was not timid, hesitated as she
stood on the threshold.

"What has happened?" she inquired, looking from Schmidt to her husband.

The latter came to her side, if not for protection, as might be
maliciously supposed, at least for company.

"I cannot understand at all," said Fischelowitz, still edging away.

"You understand well enough, I think, and as for you, Frau Fischelowitz, I
have something to talk of with you, too. But we will put it off until
later," he added, as though suddenly changing his mind.

The Count himself had appeared in the doorway behind Akulina. Both she and
her husband stood aside, looking at him curiously.

"Good-morning," he said, gravely taking off his hat and inclining his head
a little. He acted as though quite unconscious of what had happened on the
previous day, and they watched him as he quietly went into the room
beyond, into which the Cossack had retired on seeing him enter.

He hung up his hat in its usual place, nodding to Schmidt, who was
opposite to him. Then, as he turned, he met Vjera's eyes. It was a supreme
moment for her, poor child. Would he remember anything of what had passed
on the previous day? Or had he forgotten all, his debt, her saving of him
and the sacrifice she had made? He looked at her so long and so steadily
that she grew frightened. Then all at once he came close to her, and took
her hand and kissed it as he had done when they had last parted, careless
of Schmidt's presence.

"I have not forgotten, dear Vjera," he whispered in her ear.

Schmidt passed them quickly and again went out, whether from a sense of
delicacy, or because he saw an opportunity of renewing the fight outside,
is not certain. He closed the door of communication behind him.

Vjera looked up into the Count's eyes and the blush that rarely came, the
blush of true happiness, mounted to her face.

"I have not forgotten, dearest," he said again. "There is a veil over
yesterday--I think I must have been ill--but I know what you did for me
and--and--" he hesitated as though seeking an expression.

For a few seconds again the poor girl felt the agony of suspense she knew
so well.

"I do not know what right a man so poor as I has to say such a thing,
Vjera," he continued. "But I love you, dear, and if you will take me, I
will love you all my life, more and more. Will it be harder to be poor
together than each for ourselves, alone?"

Vjera let her head fall upon his shoulder, happy at last. What did his
madness matter now, since the one memory she craved had survived its
destroying influence? He had forgotten his glorious hopes, his imaginary
wealth, his expected friends, but he had not forgotten her, nor his love
for her.

"Thank God!" she sighed, and the happy tears fell from her eyes upon the
breast of his threadbare coat.

"But we must not forget to work, dear," she said, a few moments later.

"No," he answered. "We must not forget to work."

As she sat down to her table he pushed her chair back for her, and put
into her hands her little glass tube, and then he went and took his own
place opposite. For a long time they were left alone, but neither of them
seemed to wonder at it, nor to hear the low, excited tones of many voices
talking rapidly and often together in the shop outside. Whenever their
eyes met, they both smiled, while their fingers did the accustomed
mechanical work.

When Schmidt entered the outer shop for the second time, he found the
tobacconist and his wife conversing in low tones together, in evident fear
of being overheard. He came and stood before them, lowering his voice to
the pitch of theirs, as he spoke.

"It is no fault of yours that the Count was not found dead in his bed this
morning," he began, fixing his fiery eyes on Akulina.

"What? What? What is this?" asked Fischelowitz excitedly.

"Only this," said the Cossack, displaying the letter he had brought from
the Count's rooms. "Nothing more. Your wife has succeeded very well. He is
quite mad now. I found him last night, helpless, in a sort of fit, stiff
and stark on the floor of his room. And this was in his pocket. Read it,
Herr Fischelowitz. Read it, by all means. I suppose your wife does not
mind your reading the letters she writes."

Fischelowitz took the letter stupidly, turned it over, saw the address,
and took out the folded sheet. Akulina's face expressed a blank amazement
almost comical in its vacuity. For once, she was taken off her guard. Her
husband read the letter over twice and examined the handwriting curiously.

"A joke is a joke, Akulina," he said at last. "But you have carried this
too far. What if the Count had died?"

"I would like to know what I am accused of," said Akulina, "and what all
this is about."

"I suppose you know your own handwriting," observed the Cossack, taking
the letter from the tobacconist's hands and holding it before her eyes.
"And if that is not enough to drive the poor man to the madhouse I do not
know what is. Perhaps you have forgotten all about it? Perhaps you are
mad, too?"

Akulina read the writing in her turn. Then she grew very angry.

"It is an abominable lie!" she exclaimed. "I never had anything to do with
it. I do not know whence this letter comes, and I do not care. I know
nothing about it."

"I suppose no one can prevent your saying so, at least," retorted the
Cossack.

"It is very queer," observed Fischelowitz, suddenly thrusting his hands
into his pockets and beginning to whistle softly as he looked through the
shop window.

"When I tell you that it is not my handwriting, you ought to be
satisfied--" Akulina began.

"And yet none of us are," interrupted the Cossack with a laugh. "Strange,
is it not?"

Dumnoff now came in, and a moment later the insignificant girl, who began
to giggle foolishly as soon as she saw that something was happening which
she could not understand.

"None of us are satisfied," continued Johann Schmidt, taking the letter
from Akulina. "Here, Dumnoff, here Anna Nicolaevna, is this the
Chosjaika's handwriting or not? Let everybody see and judge."

"It is outrageous!" exclaimed Akulina, trying to get possession of the
letter again.

"You see how she tries to get it," laughed the Cossack, savagely. "She
would be glad to tear it to pieces--of course she would."

"I wish you would all go about your business," said Fischelowitz with an
approach to asperity.

Akulina was furious, but she did not know what to do. Everybody began
talking together.

"Of course it is the Barina's handwriting," said Dumnoff confidently. He
supposed it was always safe to follow Schmidt's lead, when he followed any
one.

"Of course it is," chimed in the insignificant Anna.

"You--you minx--you flatter-cat, you little serpent!" cried Akulina,
speaking three languages at once in her excitement. "Go--get along--go to
your work--"

"No, no, stay!" exclaimed the Cossack authoritatively. "Do you know what
this is?" he asked of all present again. "Our good mistress, here, has for
some reason or other been trying to make the Count worse by having sham
letters posted to him from home--"

"It is a lie! A base, abominable lie! Turn the man out, Christian
Gregorovitch! Turn him out, or send for the police."

"Turn him out yourself," answered the tobacconist phlegmatically.

"Posted to him from home," continued the Cossack, "and telling him that
his father and brother are dead and that he has come into property and the
like. What do you think of that?"

"It is a shame," growled Dumnoff, beginning to understand.

The girl laughed foolishly.

"I swear to you," began Akulina, crimson with anger. "I swear to you by
all--"

"Customers, customers!" exclaimed Fischelowitz in a stage whisper. "Quiet,
I tell you!" He made a rush for the other side of the counter, and briskly
assumed his professional smile. The others fell back into the corners.

Two gentlemen in black entered the shop. The one was a stout,
angry-looking person of middle age, very dark, and very full about the
lower part of the face, which was not concealed by the closely cut black
beard. His companion was a diminutive little man, very thin and very
spruce, not less than fifty years old. His face was entirely shaved and
was deeply marked with lines and furrows. A pair of piercing grey eyes
looked through big gold-rimmed spectacles. As he took off his hat, a few
thin, sandy-coloured locks fluttered a little and then settled themselves
upon the smooth surface of his cranium, like autumn leaves falling upon a
marble statue in a garden.

"Herr Fischelowitz?" inquired the larger of the two customers, touching
his hat but not removing it.

"At your service," answered the tobacconist. "Cigarettes?" he inquired.
"Strong? Light? Kir, Samson, Dubec?"

"I am the new Russian Consul," said the stranger. "This gentleman is just
arrived from Petersburg and has business with you."

"My name is Konstantin Grabofsky, and I am a lawyer," observed the little
man very sharply.

Fischelowitz bowed till his nose almost came into collision with the
counter. The others in the shop held their peace and opened their eyes.

"And I am told that Count Boris Michaelovitch Skariatine is here,"
continued the lawyer.

"Oh--the mad Count!" exclaimed Akulina with an angry laugh, and coming
forward. "Yes, we can tell you all about him."

"I am sorry," said Grabofsky, "to hear you call him mad, since my business
is with him, Barina, and not with you." His tone was, if possible, more
incisive than before.

"Of course, we know that he is not a Count at all," said Akulina, somewhat
annoyed by his sharpness.

"Do you? Then you are singularly mistaken. I shall be obliged if you will
inform Count Skariatine that Konstantin Grabofsky desires the honour of an
interview with him."

"Go and call him, Akulina," said Fischelowitz, "since the gentleman wishes
to see him."

"Go yourself," retorted his wife.

"Go together, and be quick about it!" said the Consul, who was tired of
waiting.

"And please to say that I wait his convenience," added the lawyer.

Dumnoff moved to Schmidt's side and whispered into his ear.

"Do you think they have come about the Gigerl?" he inquired anxiously. "Do
you think they will arrest us again?"

"Durak!" laughed the Cossack. "How can two Russian gentlemen arrest you in
Munich? This is something connected with the Count's friends. It is my
belief that they have come at last. See--here he is."

The Count now entered from the back shop, calm and collected, as though
not expecting anything extraordinary. The Russian Consul took off his hat
and bowed with great politeness and the Count returned the salutation with
equal civility. Fischelowitz and Akulina stood in the background anxiously
watching events.

The lawyer also bowed and then, turning his face to the light, held his
hand out.

"You have not forgotten me, Count Skariatine?" he said, in a tone of
inquiry.

The Count stared hard at him as he took the proffered hand. Gradually, his
face underwent a change. His forehead contracted, his eyes closed a
little, his eyebrows rose, and an expression of quiet disdain settled
about the lines of his mouth.

"I know you very well," he answered. "You are Doctor Konstantin Grabofsky,
my father's lawyer. Do you come from him to renew the offer you made when
we parted?"

"I have no offer to make," said the little man. "Will you do me the honour
to indicate some place where we may be alone together for a moment?"

"I have no objection to that," replied the Count. "We can go into the
street."

They passed out together, leaving the establishment of Christian
Fischelowitz in a condition of great astonishment. The tobacconist hastily
produced his best cigarettes and entreated the Consul to try one, making
signs to the other occupants of the shop to return to their occupations in
the inner room.

"How long have you known Count Skariatine?" inquired the Consul,
carelessly, when he was alone with Fischelowitz.

"Six or seven years," answered the latter.

"I suppose you know his story? Your wife was good enough to inform us of
that fact, though Doctor Grabofsky has reason to doubt the value of her
information."

"We only know that he calls himself a Count." Fischelowitz held the
authorities of his native country in holy awe, and was almost frightened
out of his senses at being thus questioned by the Consul.

"He is quite at liberty to do so," answered the latter with a laugh. "The
story is simple enough," he continued, "and there is no reason why you
should not know it. The late Count Skariatine had two sons, of whom the
present Count was the younger. Ten years ago, when barely twenty, he
quarrelled with his father and elder brother, and they parted in anger. I
must say that he seems to have acted hastily, though the old gentleman's
views of life were eccentric, to say the least of it. For some reason or
other, the elder brother never married. I have heard it said that he was
crippled in childhood. Be that as it may, he was vindictive and spiteful
by nature, and prevented the quarrel from being forgotten. The younger
brother left the house with the clothes on his back, and steadily refused
to accept the small allowance offered him, and which was his by right. And
now the father and the eldest son are dead--they died suddenly of the
smallpox--and Doctor Grabofsky has come to inform the Count that he is the
heir. There you have the story in a nutshell."

"Then it is all true, after all!" cried Fischelowitz. "We all thought--"

"Thinking, when one knows nothing, is a dangerous and useless pastime,"
observed the Consul. "I will take a box of these cigarettes with me. They
are good."

"Thank you most obediently, Milostivy Gosudar!" exclaimed Fischelowitz,
bowing low. "I trust that the Gospodin Consul will honour me with his
patronage. I have a great variety of tobaccos, Kir, Basma, Samson, Dubec
Imperial, Swary--"

While Fischelowitz was recommending the productions of his Celebrated
Manufactory to the Consul, Grabofsky and the Count were walking together
up and down the smooth pavement outside.

"A great change has taken place in your family," Grabofsky was saying.
"Had anything less extraordinary occurred, I should have written to you
instead of coming in person. Your brother is dead, Count Skariatine."

"Dead!" exclaimed the Count, who had no recollection of the letter
abstracted from his pocket by the Cossack. It had reached him after the
weekly attack had begun, and the memory of it was gone with that of so
many other occurrences.

"Dead," repeated the lawyer sharply, as though he would have made a nail
of the word to drive it into the coffin.

"And how many children has he left?" inquired the Count.

"He died unmarried."

"So that I--"

"You are the lawful heir."

"Unless my father marries again." The colour rose in the Count's lean
cheeks.

"That is impossible."

"Why?"

"Because he is dead, too."

"Then--"

"You are Count Skariatine, and I have the honour to offer you my services
at this important juncture."

The Count breathed hard. The shock, overtaking him when he was in his
normal condition, was tremendous. The colour came and went rapidly in his
features, and he caught his breath, leaning heavily upon the little
lawyer, who watched his face with some anxiety. Akulina's remark about the
Count's madness had made him more careful than he would otherwise have
been in his manner of breaking the news.

"I am not well," said the Count in a low voice. "To-day is Wednesday--I am
never well on Wednesdays."

"To-day is Thursday," answered Grabofsky.

"Thursday? Thursday--" the Count reeled, and would have fallen, but for
the support of the nervous little man's wiry arm.

Then, in the space of a second, took place that strange phenomenon of the
intelligence which is as yet so imperfectly understood. It is called the
"Transfer" in the jargon of the half-developed science which deals with
suggestion and the like. Its effects are strange, sudden and complete,
often observed, never understood, but chronicled in hundreds of cases and
analysed in every seat of physiological learning in Europe. In the
twinkling of an eye, a part or the whole of the intelligence, or of the
sensations, is reversed in action, and this with a logical precision of
which no description can give any idea. It is universally considered as
the first step in the direction of recovery.

The action of the Count's mind was "transferred," therefore, since the
word is consecrated by usage. Fortunately for him, the transfer coincided
with a material change in his fortunes. Had this not been the case it
would have had the effect of making him mad through the whole week, and
sane only from Tuesday evening until the midnight of Wednesday. As it was,
the result was of a contrary nature. Being now in reality restored to
wealth and dignity, he was able to understand and appreciate the reality
during six days, becoming again, in imagination, a cigarette-maker upon
the seventh, a harmless delusion which already shows signs of
disappearing, and from which the principal authorities confidently assert
that he will soon be quite free.

He passed but one moment in a state of semi-consciousness. Then he raised
his head, and stood erect, and to the great surprise of Grabofsky, showed
no further surprise at the news he had just received.

"The fact is," he said, quietly, "I was expecting you yesterday. I had
received a letter from the wife of the steward informing me of the death
of my father and brother. I think your coming to-day must have disturbed
me, as I have some difficulty in recalling the circumstances which
attended our meeting here."

"A passing indisposition," suggested Grabofsky. "Nothing more. The weather
is warm, sultry in fact."

"Yes, it must have been that. And now, we had better communicate the state
of things to Herr Fischelowitz, to whom I consider myself much indebted."

"Our Consul came with me," said the lawyer. "He is in the shop. Perhaps
you did not notice him."

"No--I do not think I did. I am afraid he thought me very careless."

"Not at all, not at all." Grabofsky began to think that there had been
some truth in Akulina's remarks after all, but he kept his opinion to
himself, then and afterwards, a course which was justified by subsequent
events. He and the Count turned towards the shop, and, entering, found
Fischelowitz and the Consul conversing together.

The Count bowed to the latter with much ceremony.

"I fear," he said, "that you must have thought me careless just now. The
suddenness of the news I have received has affected me. Pray accept my
best thanks for your kindness in accompanying Doctor Grabofsky this
morning."

"Do not mention it, Count. I am only too glad to be of service."

"You are very kind. And now, Herr Fischelowitz," he continued, turning to
the tobacconist, "it is my pleasant duty to thank you also. I looked for
these gentlemen yesterday. They have arrived to-day. The change which I
expected would take place has come, and I am about to return to my home.
The memories of poverty and exile can never be pleasant, but I do not
think that I have any just reason to complain. Will it please you, Herr
Fischelowitz, and you, gentlemen, to go into the next room with me? I wish
to take my leave of those who have so long been my companions."

Fischelowitz opened the door of communication and held it back
respectfully for the Count to pass. His ideas were exceedingly confused,
but his instinct told him to make all atonement in his power for his
wife's outbursts of temper. The Count entered first, and the other three
followed him, Grabofsky, the Consul, and Fischelowitz. The little back
shop was very full. To judge from the last accents of Akulina's voice she
had been repaying Johann Schmidt with compound interest, now that the
right was on her side, for the manner in which he had attacked her. As the
Count entered, however, all held their peace, and he began to speak in the
midst of total silence. He stood by the little black table upon which his
lean, stained fingers had manufactured so many hundreds of thousands of
cigarettes.

"Herr Fischelowitz," he began, "I am here to say good-bye to you, to your
good wife, and to my companions. During a number of years you have
afforded me the opportunity of earning an honest living, and I have to
thank you very heartily for the forbearance you have shown me. It is not
your fault if your consideration for me has sometimes taken a passive
rather than an active form. It was not your business to fight my battles.
Give me your hand, Herr Fischelowitz. We part, as we have lived, good
friends. I wish you all possible success."

The tobacconist bowed low as he respectfully shook hands.

"Too much honour," he said.

"Frau Fischelowitz," continued the Count, "you have acted according to
your lights and your beliefs. I bear you no ill-will. I only hope that if
any other poor gentleman should ever take my place you will not make his
position harder than it would naturally be, and I trust that all may be
well with you."

"I never meant it, Herr Graf," said Akulina, awkwardly, as she took his
proffered hand.

He turned to the Cossack.

"Good-bye, Johann Schmidt, good-bye. I shall see you again, before long.
We have always helped each other, my friend. I have much to thank you
for."

"You have helped me, you mean," said the Cossack, in a rather shaky voice.

"No, no--each other, and we will continue to do so, I hope, in a different
way. Good-bye, Dumnoff. You have a better heart than people think."

"Are you not going to take me to Russia, after all?" asked the mujik,
almost humbly.

"Did I say I would? Then you shall go. But not as coachman, Dumnoff. Not
as coachman, I think. Good-bye, Anna Nicolaevna," he said, turning to the
insignificant girl, who was at last too much awed to giggle.

Then he came to Vjera's place. The girl was leaning forward, hiding her
face in her hands, and resting her small, pointed elbows on the table.

"Vjera, dear," he said, bending down to her, "will you come with me, now?"

She looked up, suddenly, and her face was very white and drawn, and wet
with tears.

"Oh no, no!" she said in a low voice. "How can I ever be worthy of you,
since it is really true?"

But the Count put his arm round the poor little shell-maker's waist, and
made her stand beside him in the midst of them all.

"Gentlemen," he said, in his calmly dignified manner, "let me present to
you the Countess Skariatine. She will bear that name to-morrow. I owe you
a confession before leaving you, in her honour and to my humiliation. I
had contracted a debt of honour, and I had nothing wherewith to pay it.
There was but an hour left--an hour, and then my life and my honour would
have been gone together."

Vjera looked up into his face with a pitiful entreaty, but he would go on.

"She saved me, gentlemen," he continued. "She cut off her beautiful hair
from her head, and sold it for me. But that is not the reason why she is
to be my wife. There is a better reason than that. I love her, gentlemen,
with all my heart and soul, and she has told me that she loves me."

He felt her weight upon him, and, looking down, he saw that she had
fainted in his arms, with a look of joy upon her poor wan face which none
there had ever seen in the face of man or woman.

And so love conquered.

                                 The End.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

MR. CRAWFORD'S LAST NOVEL.
KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.
TWO VOLUMES. CLOTH. $2.00.
The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.

PRESS COMMENTS.

"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in _Katharine
Lauderdale_ we have him at his best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._

"A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and full
of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women."--_The
Westminster Gazette._

"It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such breadth
of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework."--_Life._

"Admirable in its simple pathos, its enforced humor, and, above all, in
its truths to human nature.... There is not a tedious page or paragraph in
it."--_Punch._

"It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely
written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined
surroundings."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._

"_Katharine Lauderdale_ is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest
level of his work. In some respects it will probably be regarded as his
best. None of his works, with the exception of _Mr. Isaacs_, show so
clearly his skill as a literary artist."--_San Francisco Evening
Bulletin._

"The book shows the inventive power, the ingenuity of plot, the subtle
analysis of character, the skilfulness in presenting shifting scenes, the
patient working-out of details, the aptitude of deduction, and vividness
of description which characterize the Saracinesca romances."--_New York
Home Journal._

"Nowhere has the author shown more admirable understanding and command of
the novel-writer's art.... Whoever wants an original and fascinating book
can be commended to this one."--_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._

_IN PRESS._
A Sequel to "KATHARINE LAUDERDALE,"
THE RALSTONS.

MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

UNIFORM EDITION OF
F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS.
12mo, Cloth. Price, ONE DOLLAR EACH.

MARION DARCHE.
A STORY WITHOUT COMMENT.

PIETRO GHISLERI.
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
DON ORSINO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
THE THREE FATES.
THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
KHALED.
A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
SANT' ILARIO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca."
GREIFENSTEIN.
WITH THE IMMORTALS.
TO LEEWARD.
A ROMAN SINGER.
AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.
PAUL PATOFF.
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
SARACINESCA.
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
ZOROASTER.
DR. CLAUDIUS.
MR. ISAACS.

MACMILLAN & CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.

2. Typographic errors corrected in original:
   p. 30 hear to heard ("heard the chink")
   p. 129 Schimdt to Schmidt ("cried Schmidt in a tone of decision")
   p. 243 Fischelowizt to Fischelowitz ("Herr Fischelowitz")

End of Project Gutenberg's A Cigarette-Maker's Romance, by F. Marion Crawford