by R.E. Francillion, author of "King or Knave?," "Olympia," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
An infantry corps on service in the Caucasus one day received a fresh acquisition in the person of a certain Lieutenant Mouraneff, who, despite his being a novelty to comrades weary to death of one another's company, made anything but a good impression.
As is well known, the Caucasus was at that quite recent period a kind of military purgatory, to which officers were sent who had got into hot water or fallen under a cold shadow elsewhere, so that they might redeem their position, if exceedingly lucky, by some brilliant action; or, if they had no better than common luck, by hard, tedious, and obscure work until they became too old or worn out for redemption to be of any service to them. In the circumstances, therefore, it was not considered good manners to ask questions, or to expect the most intimate of comrades to tell his real story; and this had, at any rate, one advantage, inasmuch as every man came pretty soon to be rated at his real value rather than according to his previous reputation. It was wonderful what really good fellows some very bad fellows turned out to be when they thus left their bad name behind them; and, on the other hand, it was equally wonderful how very poorly some famously good fellows came out when there was nothing to live for but duty during four-and-twenty hours of every day.
There was a vague impression that Lieutenant Mouraneff had got into his trouble about woman, which naturally those who had fallen into theirs for other reasons affirmed to be a matter of course, so that they also might have might have a chance of a similar impeachment when their backs were turned. This was not to his discredit: especially as he was better off than most of his comrades, and was found not wholly incapable of lending small sums on their exceedingly unsatisfactory security. What did tell against him was an idea that he was not so brave a man as a soldier ought to be.
How such a notion got about I know not: how do such notions get a beginning? For nobody has a chance of showing cowardice in battle, and Lieutenant Mouraneff's manners and appearance were certainly not such as to warrant any such scandal. He was exceptionally big and strong; and, if he was some- what given to bluster, that is no more a sign of want of courage nowadays than it was in the Homeric age.
"All the same," growled Major Gref, a veteran who had come to look upon human life as composed of two elements—fighting Circassians and drinking brandy—"that big fellow has the heart of a chicken. I've not studied mankind forty years without knowing the signs."
"Mankind! As if one learns mankind in the Caucasus, or womankind either," said the subaltern with whom he was arguing, and who had spent his infancy in the service in St. Petersburg itself to such purpose that he had come to be here. "I'll lay you twenty roubles to five, and that's more than I can afford, that a fellow like that will charge as well--"
"Yes; as well as anybody. That's no test at all. Put him up face to face with a single enemy at twelve paces, one pistol loaded, and neither knowing which has the other's life in his hands. Can a man do that, and keep his forehead cool and dry? That's what I always say."
"Here--lieutenant!" suddenly called the sub-altern. "The major here wants to bet that you won't fight at twelve paces unless you know that you've got the only loaded pistol between the two of you."
Mouraneff stared heavily.
"Does either of you want to try?" asked he, in a voice which showed that he was, at any rate, not afraid of the bottle, and in the manner of one who takes his drink unkindly.
"Not I," laughed the mischief maker. There was nobody present in the rough room of the posthouse but these three and a traveller, obviously a civilian--a very quiet, even gentle-looking young man, whose very presence in that savage and dangerous region gave ground for speculation, especially as he had made attempt to make acquaintance with his chance companions.
Mouraneff glanced from the young officer to the major, and, after a slight skirmish of eyes with the latter, turned his upon the young civilian, who seemed too occupied with his own thoughts even to feel the prolonged stare. A sober man, conscious of his own courage, would have thought nothing of such foolish chaff. Mouraneff, however, had obviously taken the chaff as he had taken his liquor--that is to say, sourly though whether that meant that he was simply not sober, or whether that he was not too conscious of courage of a better sort than the bully's, one cannot venture to say. At any rate, after a full minute of silence, he rose, and swaggered to the table where the mild-looking traveller was sitting absorbed.
"What's your name?" he asked in a sudden voice that rattled the window panes.
So far from starting, the other turned towards him with the slightest of smiles.
"It is a very singular thing," said he, in a voice almost as soft as a woman's, "that I have a very curious trick of forgetting my own name. There is only one way of making me remember it; and you, sir, do not seem, somehow, to have hit upon that way."
"And what way is it? I only know one: a plain question--"
"That is another oddity. I never can remember the way myself; people have to find it out for themselves."
"Oh!" said Mouraneff, fiercely, and dragging up his moustache by both ends; "I suppose you mean that one must go to work through the police. We have no police here. And when a soldier asks a civilian a question, he expects an answer--and a civil one. What's your name, now?"
"Now? Why just the same, I suppose, as it was then."
The stranger spoke so mildly, and so softly, and so gravely besides, that the mischievous subaltern saw some chance of yet better mischief to come. They did not have too much amusement in those parts for a little to go a long way.
"You've met your match for once," he said to Mouraneff.
"Have I?" asked Mouraneff, growing fiercer every moment. "That's what I never have yet, and never will. Fellow, give me your name!"
"Excuse me," said the other. "I prefer to keep it; and--"
"Don't equivocate! You will either give--tell me your name this moment, or you will give me satisfaction for insolence to the uniform I have the honour to wear."
For one second the traveller almost imperceptibly coloured.
"You mean that you wish me to exchange a shot with you? It seems brutal that I should have to refuse a second request; but--no. I have business which I must not risk--business of more consequence than my reputation for courage among men whom I shall never meet nor hear of again. Good-night, messieurs. I will not say au revoir."
Evidently a more ideal object for a bully who wished to prove his courage at small risk could not have been sent by fortune. As the stranger rose--
"I'll tell you your name: it is Coward! " exclaimed Mouraneff, at the same moment slapping him smartly on the cheek with his open palm.
"That's going too far!" cried the major, starting up with an oath. "Lieutenant Mouraneff, I —"
"Your name is Mouraneff?" asked the traveller, more quietly than ever, but deadly pale, except where his cheek was reddened with the sting of the blow. "I told you there was one way to make me tell my name: you have managed to find another. Here is my name," he said, handing Mouraneff his card. "Will either of you gentlemen," he asked, looking from the major to the subaltern, "act as my friend? For I am travelling alone."
"That I will," said the major, sharply. "I am Major Gref. This is Prince Alexis Luboff, who will doubtless act for Mouraneff, so that such an affair as this mayn't go further than we can keep it from going."
"I thank you, Major Gref," said the stranger; "and I am the challenger, mind. I refused his challenge; he will not refuse mine. You will kindly convey the cartel of Paul Arenz to Lieutenant Dmitri Ivanovitch Mouraneff."
But a wonderful change had been wrought upon Mouraneff. It seemed as if by the traveller's card all the fierceness had gone out of him. He positively looked scared. But he recovered himself, and broke into rough, strange laughter, as if he were trying to be genial, and failing.
"Bah!" said he, holding out his hand to Paul Arenz. "As if you three fellows didn't see I was joking, to punish their wager and to try your mettle. Let's send for some brandy."
"Good-night, again, messieurs," said Arenz, with a bow. "And this time I will say au revoir!" He left the room, followed by the major, while Luboff and Mouraneff remained behind.
II.
After about an hour the major came back, looking very grave.
"You need not go, lieutenant," he said to Mouraneff. "There's something here I don't understand. As I considered you entirely in the wrong, I advised my principal to content himself with the apology you were ready--very ready, indeed--to give just now."
"Of course I will," said Mouraneff, eagerly. He was quite sober now. "It was only a stupid joke."
"So stupid that it's a joke no more. This Arenz insists upon fighting, as is his right, he being the person aggrieved--eh, Luboff? And I, not only as his second, but as the officer in command here, decide that, for the honour of the service, you must fight: there's nothing else to be done. I'm sorry if you don't like the prospect, lieutenant, but it will be a lesson to you another time, when you want to bluster, not to choose a quiet man whom you don't know."
"It is ridiculous!" began Mouraneff.
"I'm afraid I must agree with Major Gref," said Luboff, gravely. "You have given provocation in the name of the corps; in the name of the corps you must give satisfaction too."
"At six to- morrow, at the birch by the ravine--you know the place, Luboff--will that do?" asked the major, rising with a yawn.
"Perfectly, major. And I'll give the doctor a hint that he may as well take a morning stroll that way."
* * * * *
Left to himself, nobody ever more bitterly repented of a mortal sin than Mouraneff of having betrayed himself to Paul Arenz, of all men in the world. To avoid this very man, though he had never seen him, he had hidden himself in the Caucasus, and he knew that, so surely as he lived to-night, his hand would tremble so to-morrow that he would be at his enemy's mercy.
Had he only made friends with the traveller, and learned his name quietly, he could have baffled the other's search; for that Arenz was seeking him and his life he was assured. Could he not escape, even now? No; he felt already that his efforts to avoid the duel were half regarded by his brother officers as signs of cowardice: that he was being tested, and that failure to meet his enemy face to face would mean ruin, contempt, and dishonour all his days.
He could not even try to sleep, with the man who knew the secret of his life within the same four walls. He went out into the silent moonlight, and rambled on and on, endeavouring to bring himself, without the too perilous help of brandy, into a state of nerves in which he could think and reason. The moonlight fell full upon the peaks of snow which almost overhung the valley. Why should he not saddle his horse and ride away among the mountains? Why should he not throw himself among the Circassians as a deserter, and so make his way across the Turkish frontier? Why should he not do anything rather than let the pistol of Paul Arenz render him either a corpse or a craven?
He was striding along the edge of the ravine, at the bottom of which, some sixty feet below, rushed a roaring mass of black foam, when he started, as if a ghost had risen before him, conjured up by his own heart. For there, facing him in the narrow path, where there was scarce room for two men to pass one another, was he of whom heart and brain were filled with fear and hate, Paul Arenz, no longer looking mild and gentle, but strong and stern. He seemed even to have grown taller than he was two hours before.
"I am no spirit—yet," said Arenz, scornfully, as if he could read the other's mind. "If I were, I should have been with you before now. I would have been with you sooner than your conscience; though, may be, I am that already, flesh and blood as I am. It was not conscience, but fate, that made you betray yourself to me to-night. Heaven first maddens those whom it is preparing to destroy!"
"You are under some mistake, Paul Arenz!" exclaimed Mouraneff. "I had no more to do with your brother's death than--"
"It was you, and no other, who plundered, betrayed, and murdered him; for though he seemed to die by his own hand, it was by yours before Heaven. And--"
"Prove it!" cried Mouraneff. "I defy you to prove it! I defy you to connect my name with his!"
"You are counting upon the silence of the grave. You thought all the letters that passed between you were destroyed; and they are in my hands--every one. I have not condemned you without trial. And to-morrow, so surely as there is justice in Heaven, sentence will follow execution. My hand will be as firm as yours will tremble!"
"You have the letters? No; I will not meet you to-morrow. I cannot. Let it be enough that I will go where I shall never be heard of again. I will give you half my fortune. I--"
"What? You think that justice is to be bought as cheaply as your own soul? You will either meet me to-morrow, or you pay him and me with what, I suppose, the most infamous of cowards counts dearer than life loss of name and repute for honour. The basest of mankind have no pardon for treachery such as yours. There are some things that roubles cannot buy!"
"But I repent. I have lived in agonies of remorse! Will nothing move you? I swear to you that I deserve your sympathy, your pity. My life will be a better vengeance for you than my death--a thousand times! My conscience--"
"Ah! conscience has come to you now: it and I together? Remorse--you!"
"I swear--"
"Silence! You have said enough. We meet to-morrow: nothing can hinder it. Rather than that, I will come back from the grave!"
"Then go there!" cried Mouraneff, clutching Paul Arenz by the throat and exerting the full strength of a desperate man.
One dull splash, and the body of Paul Arenz had vanished in the black and furious foam.
II.
"They are strangely late," said Prince Alexis, looking at his watch for the sixth time.
"Perhaps they have overslept," said Mouraneff.
"Impossible. Don't you know the major better than that? There must be something wrong, either with my watch or with the sun."
There did not look much the matter with the sun, however: it was the moon, not he, who had seen what had been done last night higher up the ravine. He had risen brightly, in an almost cloudless sky, and the flush was still lingering on the mountain snows. Mouraneff no longer looked troubled; all the bluster of last night had left him, and the prince was wondering how a man who could wait on the ground quietly could ever have been suspected of being less brave than befitted a soldier of the Czar.
Nerves cannot be put to a more decisive test than continued suspense after that minute is past to which they have been timed and strung. Those of Mouraneff, thought his second, must be of steel. For he, usually moody and morose, chatted cheerfully, as if it were a matter of course to begin the day with a duel.
At length, however, two figures were seen approaching from the village. One was the major, red and breathless with the pace at which he had come; the other the surgeon, who had chanced to meet him on the way.
"Ten thousand pardons," said the major, "for being late; but I had understood that I was to call for my principal, and--but where is he? Isn't he here?"
"Is he not with you?" asked Mouraneff's friend.
The two stared at one another, while Mouraneff walked up and down, humming a tune.
"There is no mistake," said the major at last. "He knew the spot. It was impossible to miss the way."
"How long do you propose waiting, major?" asked the prince.
"If I may interfere," said Mouraneff, "it seems to me that we have been made fools of. When a man lets you insult him without even wincing, then when there's no help for it gives you a swaggering challenge, and then doesn't choose to stand fire--look here, major, I apologise to the corps for having allowed myself to quarrel with a coward. It shall never happen again."
"And I accept your apology, lieutenant," cried the major, breaking out into sudden anger. "I, too, have been tricked into being the friend of a coward of a civilian--fooled by a--"
"Look!" exclaimed the prince. "Look there!"
Across the ravine, but well within pistol shot, stood Paul Arenz, with head uncovered, with clothes all disordered, his face stained with clotted blood: more like a corpse done to death by violence than a living man. But, even where they stood, they could feel that his eyes were alive. He said no word, but raised his right hand, and a sunbeam flashed across the ravine from a barrel of steel.
The major, whose wits moved slowly in a narrow groove, could only stare amazed at so new an incident in a duel. The prince cried out--
"Take aim, Mouraneff--the villain is going to fire--"
"Stop!" thundered the major, finding voice at last. "This is irregular--this is--"
Still the silent form of Paul Arenz covered Mouraneff with a steady aim, but as if to give his enemy full time.
The others were so occupied with that strange and rigid form, with the gleaming barrel and the glowing eyes, that they saw nothing of what was beside them. But before the major had finished his words they were startled with a terrible cry.
"Back from the grave--he said it--he has come!" cried the murderer.
As if it were a signal, there was a slight puff of smoke from across the ravine, but there was no sound of a shot: may be it was drowned by the noise of the water; may be by Mouraneff's hoarse cry. Mouraneff's hand went to his heart. He sprang into the air as if he had received his death wound; and before the others could reach out their arms he had plunged into the ravine.
* * * * *
It is said that no ghost has ever appeared to more than one pair of eyes. And so it may be that Paul Arenz was not a ghost after all, even though not one of the three remaining pairs of eyes that then saw him ever met with him again.