She remained thoughtful, with her hand suspended above the paper; then, bending over, she wrote her message and pushed it toward me.
“It is done, M. le Vicomte,” she said gravely. “I have done for M. de Lambert what I would not do for myself; I have written an untruth—or that which is the same as an untruth. But no harm must come of it, even to a traitor, and I must go with the Swede and your equerry.”
“We will both go, mademoiselle,” I responded cheerfully, “and I apprehend no mischief, for I do not think your quondam fiancé loves an open fight.”
Her lip curled scornfully. “He is a coward,” she said; “he was always a coward. I never knew him, even as a lad, to fight his equal, but always some puny boy who could not strike again, or the child of a serf.”
“And yet,” I remarked thoughtfully, “he dared the wrath of the czar.”
“He must have been flushed with wine,” mademoiselle replied disdainfully; “indeed, I heard my uncle say so.”
“I do not think your uncle loves him,” I said.
“He never did,” she rejoined; “Yury was called my aunt’s nephew and was her favorite. She spoiled him as a child, and even now would champion his cause if she did not see a vision of a greater climax to her ambition. She could not understand my dislike for the miserable boy.”
I looked at mademoiselle and smiled. How hard Madame Zotof must have found it to put a curb upon that proud young spirit, and how eternal must have been the clash between them!
I took her missive to the Swede, and sent him upon his errand. The hour appointed for the tryst was at daybreak, as the night was now far advanced, and it would be impracticable to attempt a meeting before the morning. We all chafed at the delay, but it was inevitable, and we were forced to be content with the progress we had made. Najine sat with us over the fire into the small hours before my wife persuaded her to rest after her long and rapid journey. She was the personification of youth and vigor, determined, energetic, vivacious. I saw clearly the attraction that had won the heart of the czar. Here was a complete contrast to the ignorant and bigoted Eudoxia; to the unfaithful German, Anna Mons; a contrast even greater, too, to the beauty and passion of the Livonian peasant girl. Here was a young woman, beautiful and charming, with a ready wit and a pure mind; spirited, gay, quick-tempered; the very woman to attract and hold the fancy of a man like the czar. I watched her as she sat at my fireside in her simple garb, the cloak laid aside and the outlines of her graceful figure clearly defined, her proud head setting so handsomely on her shoulders, and the color varying on her cheeks as the light varied in her dark blue eyes. My wife and I were opposite to her and observed her, both fascinated by the picture that she made. Zénaïde had always been almost entirely French, by instinct, by education, by inclination, in spite of her Russian birth; but mademoiselle was wholly Russian, and interested me as a type of another nation. She told us of her journey back from Troïtsa, of the hard riding and the dangers of being discovered by some of Zotof’s household or his friends, for she had no doubt that by this time her guardians knew of her flight to her aunt.