Mentchikof’s cheek flushed; he resented instantly the covert thrust, but restrained his temper.
“We will hope for a happy issue, M. de Brousson,” he replied haughtily, “and I doubt not that we shall succeed, if Mademoiselle Zotof is sincere in her desire to release her lover.”
“Do not doubt her sincerity, monsieur,” I returned calmly, “and I will do my best to achieve a happy result, and will communicate with mademoiselle as soon as possible;” and with a few more formal words, I withdrew.
Leaving the apartment, I walked slowly down the long salon beyond, and had my hand on the door at the farther end, when I heard the rustle of a woman’s skirt behind me, and turned to find Catherine Shavronsky at my elbow. She had never looked more charming; her face, though pale, was animated, and a roguish smile curved her beautiful lips and kindled the fire in her large dark eyes. She stopped a little way from me, and held up her finger with a gesture of mock rebuke.
“Alas, M. l’Ambassadeur!” she said archly, “how will you be able to find mademoiselle? The czar cannot find her, Madame Zotof cannot find her, and you—you do not know where she is. How can your message reach her? Ah, M. le Vicomte—M. le Vicomte!”
She stood there laughing, and shaking her finger at me. I made her a profound bow.
“Mademoiselle,” I replied, smiling, “you forget for whom she will be summoned. Love will find out the way!”
And with that I went out at the door; but she came and stood upon the threshold, and called to me as I went down the corridor.
“That cannot be, M. l’Ambassadeur,” she cried, “for they say that love is blind!”