Then I told her, as gently as I could, of my search for her, and the visit to Ramodanofsky, and of the fatal cup of vodka.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I knew that he kept deadly poisons—eastern poisons—in that cabinet. It is strange how swiftly come the retributions. And the mirror which saved you, I love it so well. It was my mother’s; she brought it with her from France. How little she dreamed that it would save a Frenchman’s life!”
And avenge her, I thought, wondering not a little how much Zénaïde recollected of the tragedy of the past.
“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “can you recall your childhood? Do you remember your mother—or your father?”
“I cannot tell,” she replied thoughtfully; “my mind is confused about it. I cannot separate what I may remember from what the old servants may have told me. I was so young when my mother died, I could not remember, of course, and I was not so much older at my father’s death.”
“At your father’s death,” I repeated slowly; “is your father really dead, then?”
She glanced at me in wide-eyed amazement. “Did you not know it, monsieur?”
“I knew that your uncle said that he was dead,” I replied quietly, watching her agitated face.
She stood still, gazing at me strangely.
“Tell me all, M. le Vicomte!” she exclaimed, her breath coming quickly; “you know something—what is it?”