“Madame forgets,” interposed Zénaïde, suavely, “that if she cannot control her own niece, it is certainly not in our power to do so; that is demanding a good deal of two strangers.”
The other woman turned upon her with a flash of temper. “Perhaps, Madame de Brousson,” she said hotly, “you can also repudiate your knowledge of M. de Lambert’s persistent pursuit of Mademoiselle Zotof.”
My wife smiled, her composure still unruffled. “I do not venture to account for the love affairs of M. de Brousson’s suite,” she said suavely; “it is customary in France for the families of the two young people to manage these matters.”
“And customary for French people out of France to aid and abet a young gallant in his pursuit of another man’s niece,” Madame Zotof retorted sharply.
“I really cannot say, madame,” Zénaïde replied with naïveté, “for, you know, I am myself a Russian.”
Madame Zotof stood biting her lip, too angry to keep up the play of words, and her husband was red with impatience. I regarded the scene with intense enjoyment. It was a fair match between two women, and Zénaïde, having the better command of her temper and the sharper wit, was lashing her opponent to fury. Meanwhile every moment’s delay was precious to mademoiselle. Zotof took matters into his own hands; he went to Zénaïde, and looked at her with almost an appeal in his eyes.
“Madame,” he said, “be kind enough to produce my niece.”
Madame de Brousson threw out her hands with a comic gesture of despair.
“M. Zotof,” she exclaimed, “I am not a magician! Mademoiselle is not here.”
“I should like to look behind you in those rooms,” cried Madame Zotof, pointing her finger at the door that led into the other apartments.