“I should like,” she remarked, eying me keenly, “to know where M. de Lambert is at this moment.”
I smiled. “Madame asks too much of me,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I am not omniscient.”
“You have a devil of diplomacy, monsieur,” she retorted sharply; then turning on her stout and slow moving lord, “Come, come, Zotof, we have been fools long enough; the day is breaking.”
But he let her go out, and then, pausing on the threshold, looked back at me.
“I may have seemed discourteous, M. l’Ambassadeur,” he said too low for her ears; “but women will be women, and we came at the command of—of one in authority.”
“Of the czar, monsieur,” I replied with a frankness that made him wince. “I understand, and bear you no ill-will; but, M. Zotof, no Frenchman endures such impertinence with patience; therefore let this be the last time that either you or madame your wife trespass upon my hospitality after such a fashion;” and with this I closed the door sharply in his face.
CHAPTER XVII.
MENTCHIKOF.
An hour after daybreak, Touchet came to me with the information that one of the imperial equerries was in waiting. I had been endeavoring to snatch a few hours’ rest, but roused myself at once, and throwing on some clothing went out into the salon and received the czar’s messenger. He was a young fellow, who had been instructed to see me before delivering his document,—a packet with the imperial seal. I was not surprised, on opening it, to find M. de Lambert’s passports, with a formal note to me requesting that the young man be sent at once to France.
“M. de Lambert is absent,” I said to the equerry, “but as soon as he returns I will inform him of the czar’s pleasure.”
The Russian seemed satisfied with my assurance, and with a few civil words departed, evidently having been instructed to serve his notice with all due respect to me.