I was, at first, perplexed; then something in his figure suggested a memory, and I knew him. It was Yury Apraxin.
“I am at your service, monsieur,” I said, not a little surprised.
“By your leave, then,” he replied, “I will walk with you to the end of the street.”
“As you will, M. Apraxin,” I said.
He turned and accompanied me along the narrow way. He was a stranger, and I was curious to know what he wanted from me. For a few moments he was silent, and we could hear Pierrot’s even tread close behind us, which made me smile, for I knew that he was on the watch.
“M. de Brousson,” Apraxin said at last, “I am a relative of Mademoiselle Zotof, and, as such, I desire to warn you to restrain your friend M. de Lambert from persecuting her.”
“Persecuting mademoiselle!” I exclaimed with unfeigned astonishment.
“Those were my words, sir,” he replied haughtily. “I pray you tell M. de Lambert that he cannot dog mademoiselle’s footsteps to and from church unobserved, and that if the Councillor Zotof does not interfere, he will have to account to me.”
“You take a high tone, monsieur,” I said tauntingly, for the boy’s insolence annoyed me, “but you forget that a French gentleman is not likely to submit to the dictation of a sulky lad.”
“Your gray hairs should be respected, M. de Brousson,” he said in a choked voice, for he was furious, “but it is unnecessary to insult me. I have a right to protect my fiancée, and I will. No French coxcomb shall pursue her here against her guardian’s wishes.”