It was a relief that I could at least explain matters fully to her, and she would probably repeat it to Zénaïde. I told her of my adventure in the courtyard, and of the shadows on the wall. She was still a little puzzled, for of course I did not speak of Von Gaden’s confidence.
“Did the boyar really strike Zénaïde?” I asked.
“I fear so,” mademoiselle replied, a troubled expression on her face; “they had a stormy interview, at which I was not present, and I saw the red mark on dear Zénaïde’s cheek.”
“He is cruel to her, then?” I said sternly.
Mademoiselle stammered a little. “I cannot say cruel,” she said. “I have been here ten years with Zénaïde, and he has always allowed her to have everything she wished, but without seeming fond of her. He is a strange man. I can almost say that he avoided the sight of the child; but now all these things are changed. He is anxious for her to marry, and of course has his own ends to serve, and cares not at all for Zénaïde’s happiness. I tried to mold her mind to gentle submission, foreseeing this end; but Zénaïde has, they tell me, her father’s will, and she will not be guided; and now the house is in a constant tumult because of this match that she will not hear of.”
“I honor her the more,” I said at once; “no woman should wed Viatscheslav.”
Mademoiselle Eudoxie stared at me in mild surprise, but shrank back in horror when I told her briefly a little of the character of the profligate suitor. She wrung her thin hands.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “what will she do? There is no escape; the authority of the guardian is even more absolute here than in France, and she has no one to fight for her, poor girl!”
“Except you and me, mademoiselle,” I added softly.
The old woman looked at me with a sudden suspicion in her glance, followed by an expression of yet deeper anxiety.