“M. le Vicomte,” he said in a subdued voice, “begging your pardon, we had better go to your quarters.”
“What do you mean, knave?” I exclaimed sharply, stopping short.
“Nothing, my lord,” he replied calmly, “except that I think it probable that that Russian devil of M. Ramodanofsky’s has roasted the other one by this time.”
“You fool!” I cried. “Did you leave Polotsky at Michael’s mercy?”
Pierrot’s stolidity was never shaken.
“You were in peril, M. le Vicomte,” he said doggedly, “and I cared not a rap whether he roasted forty Russians or not, so long as I saved you. The fellow is a vile knave anyway, and might as well be dead as alive; only I thought your excellency might object to his cooking him at your quarters.”
“You rogue!” I cried angrily. “Go at once and protect the wretch until I come; I have not a moment to lose now.”
With considerable reluctance he obeyed, walking off slowly, and looking back more than once over his shoulder.
I went on rapidly, turning my face towards the Kremlin. If Homyak had returned from his errand, he would be about the palace, and I was determined to find him.