I was referring to the period before the czar turned his eyes in the direction of mademoiselle; and madame, understanding the covert taunt, flushed crimson with anger.
“We waste words, M. de Brousson,” she said; “all this does not tell me where M. de Lambert is, and I have a right to ask to see him.”
“You have a right certainly, madame,” I replied, smiling when I thought of their new relationship, “and I am sorry that I cannot gratify your desire to see him. M. de Lambert has been unfortunate enough, as you know, to fall under the czar’s displeasure, and it was not desirable for him to remain longer as a member of my party. Therefore he has departed.”
She stood a moment looking at me, her thoughts coming too rapidly for her to entirely grasp the situation, although she began to see it with growing distinctness. Her face was crimson, and her breath came short.
“He has departed?” she repeated vaguely. “M. de Lambert has left Moscow? You do not mean that he has gone on his way to France?” she added, with almost a scream.
I smiled and bowed gravely. “Yes, madame,” I said quietly, “M. de Lambert is now on his way to Versailles.”
“That Frenchman has gone—has left Moscow?” she cried; and then she went to my wife, grasping her arm almost with violence. “Woman,” she exclaimed fiercely, “where is my niece?”
Zénaïde shook off her hand with a haughty gesture.
“I must tell you plainly, madame,” she said, “that I am not responsible for your niece. Mademoiselle Zotof is able to act for herself.”
“You are both trifling with me,” madame cried with passion. “There is some mystery behind all this—and I will have my niece. You shall not defy me—you dare not!”