We were now approaching the Ramodanofsky house, and I looked at the gloomy exterior with a new sensation; how soon would it receive its true master? Von Gaden’s thoughts were now more practical.
“You must be cautious, M. le Vicomte,” he said; “although I feel assured that Vladimir will not offer open violence on account of your station, and the estimation in which you are held in high places. Secret attacks are in his line, and Feodor tells me he has already warned you. Vladimir will be aware that your coming is known, and will scarcely take violent measures; but beware of him, he is a desperate and a relentless man; more smooth and courtly than his brother, but the deeper traitor.”
I touched my sword. “I have a friend with me,” I said quietly; “but I anticipate no trouble, beyond the difficulty of obtaining any satisfaction.”
“We cannot tell,” Von Gaden replied; “but for Zénaïde’s sake be cautious. I do not myself believe that he will attempt to do anything until he finds out what his brother intends to do, and I fear no injury to the young girl; it would profit him nothing, and would bring down the wrath of the czarina upon him. He is far too adroit and diplomatic to ruin his own game. But be cautious, M. le Vicomte, be cautious!”
And with this warning in my ears, I left him, and passing on, entered the courtyard gates and stood before the boyar’s door.
CHAPTER XX.
A FRIENDLY CUP.
I had repeated my summons twice before it was answered by a solemn-looking servant, who hesitated before admitting me. But I assumed an air of authority, and that, with my foreign title, seemed to have weight, for he finally conducted me into the large room, through the window of which I had witnessed Ramodanofsky’s consultation with Viatscheslav; and I could scarcely forbear a smile when I thought of the irregular manner in which I had first gained my knowledge of the interior of this house. The apartment in which I stood was singularly gloomy, although furnished with considerable luxury and refinement. There were indications of the time when Zénaïde’s mother had been brought home a bride. Here was a cabinet that I recognized at once as French, and a clock, and especially a long, narrow mirror opposite, which reflected the gloomy interior, the rich hangings, and the polished table in the center of the room. Beside this table stood a large carved chair, which was, I fancied, the boyar’s favorite seat. It seemed as if not even a rare ray of Russian sunlight penetrated here; somber, rich, forbidding, it was a spot that neither suggested nor encouraged hospitality.
I had waited only a few moments, when a low door at the further end of the room was opened, and Vladimir Sergheievitch advanced towards me. He had a dignity and grace of bearing that suggested a painful contrast to the more heroic brother; this man had profited by his life at court and his stolen wealth. He had, too, a repose of manner that showed a far greater amount of self-control than Feodor possessed. I saw also a resemblance in the two faces, although Vladimir’s eyes were more restless and uncertain, his lips thinner and more bloodless, and the peculiarity of his black, pointed eyebrows did not mar the nobility of the elder boyar’s wide forehead. Now, as he came towards me with a scowl over his eyes, his black brows struck down sharply to the bridge of his nose in two oblique lines. An evil face and a sinister eye! He responded to my salutation easily, and asked me to be seated as calmly as if he had never played a part in my imprisonment, and was not an accessory to Viatscheslav’s insolence at the palace. I debated in my mind whether it was best to begin the interview in a hostile manner or not, and after a moment’s reflection, accepted the chair that he had indicated. He opened the conversation with perfect composure.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, M. le Vicomte?” he asked quietly, a gleam of sinister amusement showing in his eyes.
“I have a mission to perform, monsieur,” I replied, “otherwise—”