Taking the precaution to remove the key from the lock, I walked in without ceremony. For a moment I thought that I had been duped, for the cell was empty; then I saw that it had another door, which stood ajar, and I struck the hilt of my sword upon it with a blow that made an echo in the gloomy place. Instantly there was a sound in the inner room, and Mademoiselle Eudoxie’s startled face appeared at the door. At the sight of me, she uttered a plaintive shriek and fell fainting in my arms. Cursing my luck and her folly, I carried her into the other cell and laid her on the rough couch there. Finding some water, I dashed it liberally in her face, and was relieved to see signs of recovery. My conscience reproached me for my anger, too, when I saw how white and miserable she looked, like a woman who had endured much; even her wiry little curls hung limp and dishevelled. She recovered almost as quickly as she had fainted, and when fully conscious, clung to my hand with feverish energy.
“How did you find me?” she moaned. “I had given up all hope, and expected to die here in the cellar, if that awful man did not kill me outright. And oh, tell me! where is Zénaïde?”
“That is the question that I was about to put to you, mademoiselle,” I replied gloomily; “I hoped devoutly that you could tell me where to find her.”
“Alas!” she cried, looking at me with new anxiety, “I have not seen her since we were so roughly parted, and I have constantly hoped that she escaped.”
She was quivering all over with nervous excitement, and I saw that I must be patient with her. I sat down beside her.
“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, as gently as if she had been a child, “tell me as clearly as you can all that happened after I left you at Von Gaden’s house. Only in this way can you help me to save Zénaïde.”
Thus adjured, she tried to collect her thoughts. “I have been through so much, Monsieur Philippe,” she said, pressing her hands over her eyes, “it seems as if I could hardly think. Madame von Gaden was very kind to us, and gave us three rooms opening into each other; and in the corner of the farther one was a curtained alcove. Zénaïde is very quick, and she noticed this at once, and examining it, told me that there must be a secret door there. It was an evil hour when she found it, for she never rests until she finds out all about her surroundings; she worked at it until, in some way, she found the spring and opened it. I was terribly frightened, and did not want to stay, for I began to distrust the Von Gadens, but she laughed; she has such faith in you, Philippe, that she would not believe that you would put us in a dangerous place. And after a while we went to sleep, and were not disturbed. It was not until after breakfast, the next morning, that anything happened; and then, while she and I were talking, we were startled by a tap on the secret door. Zénaïde rose to answer it; she was always fearless, and would not listen to my remonstrance. She went to the panel and asked who was there. Immediately a voice said, ‘A private message from the Vicomte de Brousson to Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.’ ‘How shall we know that you come from the Vicomte?’ asked Zénaïde, promptly, although I clung to her, and begged to be allowed to call Madame von Gaden. ‘I have M. de Brousson’s signet, mademoiselle,’ replied the voice behind the panel—”
“My signet!” I exclaimed, interrupting her.
“Yes, Monsieur Philippe,” she replied tearfully, “your signet! And the knave had it, too, for I recognized it myself.”
“Fool that I was!” I exclaimed. “It is partly my fault, then, for I ought to have told you that my signet was stolen on the night in which I was dragged here and imprisoned. But go on, mademoiselle; tell me all.”