“Fool!” he whispered in my ear; “there are eight hundred men in the nave, you cannot save him. It is death to go down the steps.”
I realized that he had rescued me, but it frenzied me to hear Naryshkin’s death-cry. Already a dozen spears had been struck into his quivering flesh, and he writhed, dying, on the floor of the cathedral. The thought of Zénaïde recalled me to my senses, and I hurried back to her.
“Come,” I said, “the church is in the hands of the mob, and we cannot hide here.”
I unfastened the door, and we emerged upon a quiet scene, for the rioters were all at the front of the building or within it. While I hesitated upon my next step, Zénaïde came nearer to me and grasped my sleeve.
“M. le Vicomte,” she said, “have you seen Mademoiselle Eudoxie? Do you know where she is?”
I started; I had entirely forgotten the good woman.
“She is in the Ramodanofsky house,” I replied; I had been on the point of saying “your father’s house,” but recollected in time not to shock her with the sudden revelation.
“Holy Virgin!” she cried, “they are murdering the boyars; they will go there and kill her. We must save her.”
The truth of what she said had already dawned upon me, but I could not help mademoiselle while Zénaïde was in such peril.
“As soon as you are safe,” I said, “I will go and protect Mademoiselle Eudoxie.”