“This is a matter which cannot concern a stranger, monsieur,” I replied coldly, although in a fever of anger and embarrassment, for I saw that we were on the edge of a dénouement, and dreaded the consequences of a colloquy before such an audience. Ramodanofsky was listening, but took no part in the conversation; his dark brows bent low over his eyes as he lowered at us.
“A servant of yours, M. de Brousson,” Viatscheslav said, with an emphasis on the word servant, “has been seen lurking in the neighborhood of the house; perhaps you can satisfactorily explain his presence there.”
My choler was rising fast. My hand was resting on the hilt of my sword, and I looked Naryshkin straight in the eye; I knew him to be an inveterate coward unless liquor inspired him with temporary bravado.
“Since when has it become necessary for me to account to you for my servants or my conduct, monsieur?” I exclaimed haughtily, and in a clear voice. “You forget that you address a French subject, the Vicomte de Brousson.”
One could have heard a pin drop; even the czarina and Matveief were listening to the dispute; but my blood was up, and it was a matter of indifference to me whether I offended against court etiquette or not.
“Since when has it been the right of French subjects to violate Russian laws, M. le Vicomte?” he retorted angrily. “You will find that the King of France cannot save you from being called to account in Moscow.”
“This passes my patience, monsieur!” I replied coldly. “If you have any grievance against me, you should prefer it at the proper time.”
“I am at your service at any hour, M. de Brousson,” he said, misunderstanding me.
Then, remembering how vile the man was, my anger passed the bounds of prudence. I measured him with my eye, from head to foot, with a glance which made the blood burn under his swarthy skin.
“You mistake me,” I said with mocking suavity; “no gentleman of France would consent to meet you on the field of honor. The sword of a Brousson would be forever contaminated!”