“This is indeed a pleasure, mademoiselle,” she said easily, “and it is the first time I have seen you since your illness.”
The young girl clung to Zénaïde’s hand with the first signs of weakness that I had seen about her.
“Madame de Brousson and you, M. le Vicomte,” she said in a low voice, “I know you think me demented to come here, and at this hour, but I have need of advice, of help. I am sore beset, and yet I fear my visit here will be only an embarrassment to you both. I am unfortunate.”
“And we are fortunate, mademoiselle,” I replied gallantly, “to have so fair a visitor. In all things you may command me.”
She gave me a keen glance, as if she had already learned to sift men’s souls, and was slow to give her confidence, but I saw that my wife had won her heart. It was to Zénaïde that she mainly addressed herself, as if she felt sure, at least, of a woman’s sympathy.
“I am not without natural affection for my uncle, madame,” she said quietly, as if collecting her thoughts. “I would gladly submit to his guidance, but his mind is full of dreams of greatness, and he forgets my personal happiness, or believes that it can be assured by the fulfilment of his wishes.”
She paused as if choosing her words, and I looked around to see that Pierrot had withdrawn and her woman was standing by the door watching us, as if she doubted the wisdom of her mistress’s action.
“He has determined to marry me,” mademoiselle continued, looking still at my wife; “and I will not yield, even if it is—” She paused and, glancing at me, framed the words with her lips, “the czar.”
Madame de Brousson was holding her hand and patting it gently, while I sat and looked at her beautiful young face and the spirited pose of her head. To advise her seemed impossible. She read my thoughts, and glanced from my face to my wife’s.
“I will not marry him!” she cried passionately. “I have no desire to share the fate of Eudoxia.”