She cast a strange glance at him over her picture.
“Do you suppose I wish to have it replaced?” she asked scornfully.
“I thought so, madame,” he replied, in evident perplexity.
“Well, I didn’t!” she said acidly, and she looked at the locket viciously. “Have I not evidence here?” she added.
Maître le Bastien caught my eye, and an expression of deep concern clouded his face. To both of us came terrible misgivings; the woman—jealous, powerful, and malicious—was hatching some mischief; what, we could not easily divine. We stood looking at her, both stricken dumb, and feeling the helplessness of our position in her hands, and she eyed us fiercely and keenly, a gleam of amusement on her face. No one spoke, and for a few moments there was profound silence and then—suddenly an uproar in the corridor. The czarevna turned her head sharply and listened, alert and eager, and Maître le Bastien and I listened, too, for we had an intuition of some impending catastrophe. We heard doors slam and feet skurrying across the ante-room, and then a puffing, gasping sound that smote my ear with singular familiarity.
The door burst open, and unannounced and without formality, the fat chamberlain, Kourbsky, my prisoner of the turret, rushed in, puffing and panting, his face scarlet, and behind him came two soldiers guarding two formidable prisoners; the apprentice, Michaud, and our fat cook, Advotia.
XII: ADVOTIA AS AN INTERPRETER
IN spite of the uproar attending the hasty entrance of the chamberlain and his captives, the czarevna sat unmoved, her fierce eyes fastened on them.
As soon as he could articulate, Kourbsky pointed at me, with a finger that trembled with rage.
“Arrest that villain!” he sputtered; “chain him, scourge him! He—he locked me in a turret room—your highness, he—he left me a prisoner, and here I find him fawning on your feet! He is a deep, a dangerous rogue, O Sophia Alexeievna; he stops at nothing, he—he——”