On the red staircase

by Mary Imlay Taylor

I began to divine her project, and my cheek burned. I knew how keen was a girl’s sense of the ridiculous, and it was my last wish to appear absurd before Zénaïde Feodorovna.

“Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” she said, speaking with the assured tone of one whose resolution is formed, “take M. de Brousson down to your apartments, and give him your long mantle and hood and veil, and I will order the carriage for you. You understand, you are ill, and require a consultation with the doctor, and old Konrat can drive the coach.”

“Capital! capital!” exclaimed mademoiselle, clapping her hands with the glee of a child. “You are a witch, Zénaïde! Follow me, Monsieur Philippe; we have no time to lose.”

I protested. I grew hot at the thought of figuring before Zénaïde in petticoats and cloak, like an old woman; but they would not listen to my objections, and finally I reflected that liberty was sweet, even at the cost of a little laughter at my expense, and it was sweeter still to owe it to Zénaïde. So I was smuggled down the stairs into a little anteroom, off Mademoiselle Eudoxie’s quarters, and there left to array myself in a petticoat and hooded mantle. I took much time to do it, being utterly confounded by the multitude of strings and buttons, and feeling myself a fool for my pains. Having finally completed my toilet, to my great confusion, and tapped on mademoiselle’s door, she opened it and bade me enter her boudoir. Zénaïde was there also, and both women viewed me for a moment in silence, and then Zénaïde gave way to mirth. Her laughter, although musical enough, struck a discord on my ear at that moment.

“Pardon me, M. le Vicomte,” she said, her fair face flushed with merriment and her beautiful eyes dancing, “but oh, mademoiselle, look—look at his feet!”

I looked down with a feeling of utter helplessness, and to my consternation saw that mademoiselle’s petticoat came only half-way between knee and ankle, and my booted and spurred feet were in evidence below the too scanty skirt. Even mademoiselle laughed as she realized the effect of my figure, but she was quicker in conceiving a remedy than she had been in contriving an escape. The old woman approached me with the air of a mother about to adjust the clothing of a child, and with a few dexterous touches managed to loosen strings and fasten with pins until the skirt fell over my feet; and, at Zénaïde’s suggestion, she removed my spurs. Then muffling my face in a veil and adjusting my hood, with the air of bestowing a benediction upon the enterprise, Mademoiselle Eudoxie finally handed me over to her pupil’s guidance, while she retired, to remain in concealment until the successful execution of our plot.

Left alone with Zénaïde, I secretly fumed at my absurd appearance, and the necessity for caution. Here was my first opportunity to talk alone to the object of my devotion, and I was absurdly dressed in an old woman’s mantle and petticoat and half suffocated with this atrocity of a veil. I began to realize the difficulties which beset a woman, and to admire the intrepidity of spirit that can not only endure such garments, but do more than that,—resemble an angel in them! Whether or not Zénaïde appreciated my misery I am not sure, but she had sufficient forbearance to restrain her mirth and reply to my remarks with suitable gravity, although more than once I fancied that I saw a gleam of mischief in the blue eyes as they rested upon me. Her manner was demureness itself, and she conducted me through the anteroom and along the hall without a word. As we were descending the stairs, we encountered two servant-maids coming up, and Zénaïde explained to them that Mademoiselle Eudoxie was indisposed and was going to the doctor’s. I noticed that they both regarded me with a slightly bewildered air; but my fair guide passed them as if they were not worth a thought, and I followed as well as I could, but found my petticoats even more difficult to manage than I had supposed. When we reached the lower floor, Zénaïde led me into a small room to await the arrival of the carriage, and going to an escritoire in the corner, she took out a pistol, and after a glance at it, handed it to me.

“It may be that you will have need of it, M. le Vicomte,” she said gravely. “It is loaded; conceal it under your cloak.”

“Is it yours, mademoiselle?” I asked quickly, for something in her manner made me divine the truth.

She bowed her head in assent. “It was my father’s; he brought the two from France.”