“Ah, then money still has its virtue, has it?” I exclaimed, seeing a gleam in the thick cloud of trouble.
Michaud shuffled his feet in the weeds and stood looking down without answering, and then suddenly he lifted his head and looked at me—squarely—for the first time since he had released the fat chamberlain.
“M. le Marquis, I have somewhat to tell you,” he said slowly. “Last night, as I hid under the portico of the banqueting-hall, I saw the palace guards under that man—the stout man—you know whom I mean?” I nodded. “He who was imprisoned in Maître le Bastien’s house. They came by, bringing a lady, veiled and muffled, and afterwards one of their number, who speaks a little French,—the man I bribed—told me that she was taken from our quarters and—was the Princess Daria.”
I drew a deep breath, and then I took two roubles and put them into Michaud’s hand.
“To repay your loss,” I said, “and to thank you; your good deed outweighs your evil.”
But Maître le Bastien shook his head. “’Tis ill news, M. le Marquis,” he said ponderously, “and an ill wind that will blow nobody good.”
“No news can be worse than bad news, monsieur,” I replied, as lightly as I could, though, I confess, my heart sank. “At least I know now where to look.”
He regarded me in despair. “You cannot dream, monsieur, of going there?” he exclaimed, pointing toward the Kremlin with a shudder of repulsion.
I nodded gaily, as if I thought it a light matter.
“Ay, and at once,” I said.