Zénaïde turned a glance upon her that was at once cold and contemptuous.
“Dare, madame?” she repeated with hauteur; “it would be strange indeed if I feared the anger of Madame Zotof.”
Madame felt the retort keenly, for she knew that Zénaïde was a Russian and a Ramodanofsky, one of a family beside which the Zotofs were as mushrooms. Happily, at this moment I heard steps without, and Pierrot came to the door to usher in M. Zotof. He was flushed and panting from the ascent of the stair, and I saw at a glance that he had heard bad tidings; but, unlike madame his wife, he was always inclined to propitiate, and, I think, had a natural distaste for a quarrel. He responded to my greeting with civility, although I fancied that he was somewhat embarrassed by the recollection of his former visit. Madame Zotof did not give him time or opportunity to speak, but commenced her attack upon him at once.
“M. de Lambert has left Moscow,” she exclaimed, “and they will not tell me where Najine is.”
He started at her first words, and cast a quick glance of interrogation at me.
“Is it true that M. de Lambert has left Moscow?” he asked gravely.
I bowed my head. “He obeyed the order of his Majesty the Czar,” I replied with composure.
“And my niece has gone with him?” Zotof exclaimed. “I assume this, because I have learned that you were all together at a late hour last night.”
Madame interrupted him with a storm of abuse, directed against him for his stupidity, and against her niece, whom she did not spare, putting no curb upon her shrewish tongue, and astonishing even her husband, who stood staring at her as if her mood passed his slow comprehension. But my wife checked her with a gesture of disdain.
“Have done, madame!” she said in a tone of authority. “Your language is an injury to your niece. Najine did indeed leave Moscow with this Frenchman, whom you detest, and she was attended by her woman; but she left it as the wedded wife of Guillaume de Lambert.”