“There is generally some personal risk about such resurrections, M. le Vicomte,” he replied composedly; “and I might remark further, that this is a specially unfavorable season for such operations.”
His manner was exasperating me to a point where I knew that I was likely to allow my anger to get the better of my discretion. I rose from my chair, and stood confronting him.
“All this is foreign to my mission, monsieur,” I said with what temper I could command. “Feodor Sergheievitch is as much alive as you are, and demands his daughter at your hands. It is a simple matter for you to give me the desired information, and time presses.”
Vladimir laughed softly to himself, a laugh that did not show in his eyes or relax the expression of his face.
“A very simple matter, M. le Vicomte,” he replied quietly; “but you forget that Mademoiselle Zénaïde is betrothed to the cousin of the czar, and it is possible that there may be a good deal to say about surrendering her to an impostor. It is not probable that you really believe that my brother, the saints rest his soul! is alive and in Moscow?”
Fortunately, the answer that was on my lips was checked by the entrance of a serf bringing the inevitable vodka and caviare that were always served to every guest in a Russian house, and the fact that I was an unwelcome one did not prevent the usual courtesy being tendered to me. The serf, placing the refreshments on the table and filling the cups, withdrew. The boyar invited me to partake, but at the moment I had no thought of accepting his hospitality.
“Of course I know that you are aware of your brother’s presence in Moscow, M. Ramodanofsky,” I said haughtily, “and it seems to me wiser for you to acknowledge his authority over his own daughter. You know him well enough to understand that he will tolerate no interference with his rights, and he demands that you surrender Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky into his hands. Your steward Polotsky is in his custody, and has confessed enough to make the rest easy.”
For the first time, I saw a change, sharp and sudden, in that inscrutable face; whatever the steward knew, it was too much for the master’s peace of mind. I could see the contending emotions in those cruel, narrow eyes, the contraction of the bloodless lips. I waited, seeing that he was hesitating over some new move. In a moment he rose, and going to the French cabinet, fumbled at the drawers. I walked away across the room and waited, willing to give him a little grace. There was something about the man which held my interest, and stayed my anger; was it the courage of despair? Without a word, he came back from the cabinet with some papers in his hands and stood turning them over by the table; what revelation did he contemplate? My curiosity being roused, I watched him, feigning all the while to look out of the window into the court; but from where I was, I could cast a sidelong glance into the French mirror, and see him as he stood there in his dark, rich dress with the lace ruffles at his throat and hands, the gold of the Oriental embroidery on his robe making fantastic arabesques upon the purple velvet, and his white face standing out against the somber background; a forbidding picture, yet not without a certain majestic dignity and power. While I watched, I saw him bend over the cups of vodka, a swift movement followed by instant repose. Then he turned his face towards me.
“Be seated, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “and we will talk this matter over.”
I approached the table and inclined my head as he pushed the cup of vodka towards me.