“You forget, madame,” I retorted calmly, “that I am not a subject of the czar.”
But she took no further notice of me, checking her husband as he was about to reply.
“Waste no more time, Zotof,” she exclaimed in a shrill tone; “there are fleet horses yet in Moscow. You are a man, and can pursue this runaway.”
And she hurried him from the room and from the house. We could hear her belaboring him with her sharp tongue all the way down the stairs, and even in the street below the windows. Zénaïde stood watching them as they departed, and turned to me with anxiety on her face.
“Do you think there is danger of their overtaking M. de Lambert?” she asked.
I shook my head. “It is not probable; he has the advantage of a fair start, and all is arranged for the relays of horses.”
“Why did you tell them that he was going to Versailles?” she went on, still troubled; “I thought to hear you mislead them.”
“And so I did,” I replied, smiling; “they go, indeed, to Versailles, but by a circuitous route. Mentchikof and I planned it all. They go direct to Poland, and so through Sweden to France.”
“And they will pursue on the straight road to France?” exclaimed Zénaïde, with relief.
“Exactly, madame,” I replied gently, “and meanwhile much time is lost, for they will quarrel twenty times upon the way to the czar.”