The Black Cross | Page 3

the boy, "so was I, and look at the time if
you please; the House will be in an uproar!"
The older man hurried towards the already righted sleigh: "Most
unfortunate," he fumed, "and to-night of all nights! The entire concert
will be at a standstill. The rug, Pierre, quick the rug! Are the horses
ready? Hurry, you great lumbering son of an ox!"
The boy had already leaped into the troïka and was wrapping the fur
robes about his knees. "We shall put in an appearance about the same
time, sir," he called back carelessly over his shoulder. "You won't miss
anything, not a note, if that will comfort you. Hey, Bobo, go ahead!
The concert can't begin without me."
"Without you," interrupted the other, "eh, what--you? Týsyacha
chertéi[2]! What do you mean?"
The master of the black sleigh stood up suddenly and threw back his
cloak with a haughty gesture. He was in uniform and his breast
glittered with orders. His cap fell back from his face, and his eyes,
small and black and crossed, his beaked nose, his grey upturned
mustache, showed distinctly in the moonlight. The face was known to

every Russian, young and old, rich and poor--the Grand-Duke Stepan.
The youth made a low obeisance; then he tossed the hair away from his
brows and laughed: "True, your highness," he said with mock humility,
"I should have said--'until we both get there,' of course. Your pardon,
sire."
The Duke leaned forward: "Stop--!" he exclaimed, "Your
face--certainly somewhere I have seen it--Wait!"
The driver of the troïka reined in the panting horses three abreast. They
pawed the snow, still prancing a little and trembling, their bits flecked
with foam. The youth saluted with one hand carelessly, while with the
other he grasped the dark, oblong object that was not a bomb.
"Au revoir, your Grace," he cried, "You have seen me before and you
will see me again, to-night, if this arm of mine recovers--" He
laughed:--"I am Velasco."
As he spoke the horses leaped forward and the troïka, darting across the
moonlight of the Square, disappeared into the shadows behind the
Mariínski.
The Duke gazed after it petrified: "Velasco!" he said, "And I all but
twisted his wrist!--Ye gods!
"Go on, Pierre, go on!"
The Theatre was superbly lighted, crowded from the pit to the gallery,
from the orchestra chairs to the Bel-Etage with the cream of St.
Petersburg aristocracy.
It was like a vast garden of colour.
The brilliant uniforms of the officers mingled with the more delicate
hues of ecru and rose, sky-blue and palest heliotrope of the loggias.
Fans waved here and there over the house, fluttering, flashing like
myriads of butterfly wings. The stage was filled with the black and

white of the orchestra and the musicians sat waiting, the conductor
gnawing his long mustache in an agony of doubt and bewilderment.
Gradually a hush stole over the House. The fans waved less regularly;
the uniforms and the more delicate hues whispered together, glancing
first at a box on the first tier, which was still empty, and then at the
stage door and back again.
Where was the Grand-Duke Stepan, and where was the star, the idol,
the young god, who was to charm their hearts with his four
strings?--for whom they had paid fifteen roubles, twenty--twenty-five
until there wasn't a seat left, not even standing room; only the
crimson-curtained Imperial Loggia in the centre, solitary, significant.
The time passed; the minutes dragged slowly.
Suddenly the curtains moved. An usher appeared and placed a chair.
Another moment of silence; then a tall, grey-haired, military figure
stepped to the front of the loggia and bowed to right and to left; his
eyes, small and black and crossed, glancing haughtily over the throng.
"At last!"--The applause was mechanical, in strict accordance with
etiquette, but there was a relieved note in it and the thousands of
straining eyes leaped back to the stage, eager and watchful.
All at once a small door in the wings opened slightly and a slim boyish
figure strode across the boards, a mane of dark hair falling over his
brows.
"Velasco!" A roar went up from the House--"Velasco!
Ah--h--viva--Velas--co!"
Instantly, with a tap of his baton, the conductor motioned for silence,
and then, with the first downward beat, the orchestra began the
introduction to the concerto.
The young Violinist stood languidly, his Stradivarius tucked under his
arm, the bow held in a slim and graceful hand. His dark eyes roamed
over the brilliant spectacle before him, from tier to tier, from top to

bottom. He had seen it all before many times; but never so beautiful, so
vast an audience, such a glory of colour, such closeness of attention.
Raising his violin, with a strange, dreamy swaying of his young body,
Velasco