“You were ever too hot-blooded and hasty, Philippe,” she said, but I detected a note of tender sympathy in her voice. “You and I would but make an evil case worse. I see no help for Zénaïde. Peter was elected to-day, and the Naryshkins are in power.”
I drew closer to her. “Is there any one about?” I said.
She started as if she had been shot, and looked nervously behind her. I smiled, knowing what a coward mademoiselle always was. She assured me now that we were out of earshot.
“Then I may speak of forbidden subjects,” I said. “Take heart, mademoiselle; the struggle may not be over. No one believes that the Streltsi will support Peter Alexeivitch, and if the Miloslavskys rise, who knows what may not happen? Certainly the Naryshkins will be thrust aside, and this old boyar will never barter his niece to an exile or a fugitive!”
“Now the saints grant that it may be so!” exclaimed mademoiselle, piously. “But I have little hope that Zénaïde can escape; he is urging on a hasty marriage.”
I was not so despondent; I thought of Von Gaden, and a plan was already forming in my mind. I told her where my quarters were.
“If there is any trouble here,” I said earnestly, “find some means of sending me a message.”
Then, seeing the doubt and perplexity in her face, I went on impressively: “It is your duty, dear mademoiselle,” I said; “you must not connive at this sacrifice. You must save Zénaïde if you can, and do not despise my help; I may find more means of assistance than you dream of. Where there is a will, there is a way! Therefore, be sure to inform me if any danger threatens Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.”
I saw at once that I had impressed her; Mademoiselle Eudoxie was naturally one of those women who cling to any man as a better protector than their own wits, and she evidently had an exaggerated conception of my importance. At least, she promised readily enough to keep me informed if she could find a trusty messenger, but told me of a surer means of communication by observing her window, which overlooked the lane on the other side of the wing. There was a romance about it all, which I saw was delightful to the gentle old maid, who had lived only in the reflection of the romances of others. She went with me to the postern, and bade me a tender and half tearful adieu. She closed the door behind me, and I had advanced a few steps, when I heard her open it again hastily, and come running after me. I turned, expecting some important information which she had forgotten. She laid a trembling hand on my arm, and approached her lips close to my ear.
“Monsieur Philippe,” she whispered, “forgive me for speaking out, but I have lived ten years in Russia, and I know their ways. Do not fall in love with her!”