“She has sent her card, and hopes you will take it for a call. She goes out very little, except to drive. She is quite old—seventy-five. I hope you will come.”
Katy and Jack looked their eagerness, and I felt constrained to accept, feeling a little anxious to see the inside of Nicol’s house again.
“Thanks. And now I must be off, as I am very busy.”
“Hunting for Ivan?” Jack asked, with the recklessness of a boy.
“No,” Michel replied. “I can find him when I want him. Good-by.”
What did he mean? Did he really know where Ivan was? I hoped not, for my sympathy was with the woman whose face had worn such a look of despair when the gendarme appeared.
Katy was very silent all day, and very nervous, and once I saw tears in her eyes, as she stood looking out upon the snow-clad streets.
“Do you think Siberia much colder than it is here?” she asked, turning from the window, with a shiver.
I guessed then that she was thinking of Ivan, and his possible fate, if he were in the city. It was time now to dress for the grand dinner, which, I felt sure, would be grand, if there were only three guests present. Nor was I mistaken. At half-past six the two black horses and handsome sleigh in which we had seen madame came for us, and we were soon in the reception room of the Seguin house, which had undergone a great transformation since I was there three years before. Everything was in perfect order, showing the presence of a mistress, who met us at the door of the drawing room, stately and grand, in velvet and satin and lace and diamonds, and whose manner was that of a queen receiving her subjects, as she gave us the tips of her fingers. I felt that she was examining me critically with her sharp, black eyes. But I did not care. I knew I was a very presentable, and even handsome, woman. My dress was in perfect taste, and fitted me as only a French modiste could fit, and I felt fully madame’s equal in everything. My assurance must have impressed her, for she unbent a little. She was not rude; she was simply cold and distant and patronizing in her manner. I felt that in some way she did not approve of me, although she made an effort to be gracious. When dinner was announced, M. Seguin took me to the handsomely appointed table, with its profusion of flowers, its solid silver service and cut glass, with many courses, elaborately served by a waiter who knew his business perfectly. Close behind madame’s chair Zaidee stood—but it was a transformed Zaidee, whom I would never have recognized. Baths and clean clothes and comb and brush had done wonders for her, and, as she smiled a greeting to me, I said, involuntarily: “How do you do, Zaidee? I am glad to see you here.”
It was bad taste, of course, according to madame’s standard of etiquette, and her black eyes flashed a look of surprise and rebuke, while in her mind she put it down as a piece of American democracy for which she had no use. Zaidee knew enough not to answer me, but her bright eyes, which saw everything, twinkled, as she straightened herself behind her mistress’ chair, where she stood like an automaton through the dinner.