Mademoiselle Eudoxie looked at her in a kind of panic.
“Your uncle, Zénaïde!” she said hastily.
The young girl’s eyes flashed with sudden fire.
“These are my own apartments,” she replied, with a touch of hauteur, “and my uncle will scarcely intrude here again to-night.”
I knew, however, that they were in a dilemma, and that my presence there was contrary to usage and propriety. I was the more willing to depart, since I felt that Mademoiselle Eudoxie was not only a protection to Zénaïde, but a medium of communication. I had not found courage to explain my errand.
“I will not intrude longer upon your hospitality, mademoiselle,” I said to Zénaïde; “but perhaps another time I may speak with Mademoiselle Eudoxie and with—you.”
A mischievous smile gleamed suddenly in Zénaïde’s blue eyes.
“Mademoiselle Varien, light this gentleman down the stairs,” she said quietly. “And you, M. de Brousson, have my thanks for—for your kind solicitude,” she added, blushing deeply and holding out her hand.
I bowed low over it, and in some blundering way bade her adieu, and went with Mademoiselle Eudoxie along the corridor, bearing the light for her, and feeling both exultant and foolish at the termination of my enterprise. At the end of the passage we stumbled upon a servant, who stared not a little at the sight of a stranger lighting the governess down the stairs. When we reached the lower floor, and were alone, mademoiselle plucked at my cloak.
“Monsieur Philippe,” she said, her short-sighted eyes trying to search my face, “how did you happen to come here to-night?”