“To what end, M. le Vicomte?” asked Zénaïde, quietly, a strangely resolute expression about her mouth.
I was embarrassed; it was no part of my intention to reveal my scheme for Ramodanofsky’s defeat, but I recognized the significance of her question; she had seen at a glance that all that was to be gained was a possible delay. It was not usual in Russia to oppose the guardian’s wishes in regard to the marriage of his charge, and I knew that she considered that the situation was desperate.
“Mademoiselle,” I said firmly, meeting her eyes with resolution, “there is a matter of which I cannot speak, but which bears immediately upon the case, and leads me to believe that your uncle dare not do violence to your inclinations in the face of the czarevna’s opposition, and he has deeply offended Sophia by his connection with this business of the packet. Trust me, mademoiselle, to unravel the tangled skein. At least, any delay would be better than marriage to-morrow with Viatscheslav!”
She threw back her head with a motion of proud disdain.
“M. de Brousson,” she said slowly, “I will never marry that man!”
Mademoiselle Eudoxie gave way to her grief and sobbed behind her handkerchief.
“She will kill herself!” she moaned; “that is the way she goes on!”
“Mademoiselle,” I said quietly, looking at Zénaïde, “a carriage is waiting in the lane; we have not much time to lose. I pray you get your cloak, and Mademoiselle Eudoxie will accompany us to Dr. von Gaden’s house.”
“Do come, dear Zénaïde,” pleaded her companion, looking up over the top of her handkerchief, her eyes red and swollen.
“I would go gladly enough, Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” Zénaïde replied frankly, “if I knew that I should gain my liberty at last, and if I did not fear being a most unwelcome and burdensome guest in the good doctor’s house.”