“I have, M. de Brousson,” he replied gravely; “it is as I thought. He was betrayed by Apraxin into the hands of the czar’s officers, and is imprisoned in the Kremlin.”
“That is what Tikhon, Prince Dolgoruky’s equerry, has already confessed,” I said; “but where is he confined?”
“In a cell behind the old torture-room.”
I started. It was a grim place in which to incarcerate an innocent man and a Frenchman. I felt the blood burn in my veins; it was an insult to France.
“Is it possible to communicate with him?” I asked quickly.
Lenk shook his head. “No, it was only by accident that I was enabled to locate him, your Excellency,” he replied, “and no one else would have been so fortunate.”
I looked at him curiously. “You have honeycombed the court secrets, I see,” I remarked quietly; “how is it that you obtain such information and yet go about unsuspected and unapprehended?”
He smiled. “Is it possible that you have been so long in the courts of Europe, monsieur,” he replied, “and yet do not know that treachery is common, that no man is safe in the hands of his friends? There are many, too, who betray through folly. The brain of a fool is like an egg: you can draw out the contents, without breaking the shell.”
I looked at him attentively. I saw that I had been deceived in him, and that there was a shrewd nature behind that broad blunt countenance, and that those small light eyes were keen with intelligence. His face was like a mask, and served his purpose well.
“Tell me,” I said after a pause, “how is this cell situated in which M. de Lambert is confined? Can it be reached? Can a rescue be planned?”