“Speak without reserve,” he said at once; “we are all friends.”
But Lykof came forward.
“M. le Vicomte is right,” he said, with a dignity of manner that made his tall figure suddenly imposing. He stood in the center of the room, the light full on his scarred cheek and broad brow and keen eyes,—a man of iron.
“I owe you, at least, the truth, M. de Brousson,” he said slowly; “no one has a better right to inquire into the fate of Zénaïde than I, for I am her father, Feodor Sergheievitch Ramodanofsky.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
FEODOR SERGHEIEVITCH RAMODANOFSKY.
I took a step backward and stared at him in surprise. My feelings were strangely confused, and in that first moment I did not realize how completely the situation was transformed by this revelation; the only thought that presented itself to me was that I saw Zénaïde’s father. The boyar’s strong face was without its mask of repose, and was full of deep emotion. Before I had collected myself he spoke again.
“I am greatly indebted to you, M. le Vicomte,” he said. “I owe you my life, for it is probable that Polotsky would have murdered me that night; and now Von Gaden tells me that I owe you my daughter’s escape from a loathsome and degrading marriage.”
“I pray that she may have escaped,” I said, “but this disappearance alarms me greatly.”
“We have just learned it,” Von Gaden remarked. “Ramodanofsky had but now decided to announce his identity to his daughter, when my wife told us of your discovery.”
I explained to them my abortive attempt to learn something at the Ramodanofsky house, and of Pierrot’s suspicion that Polotsky knew more than the other servants, but would not reveal it.