“Fanning her with the feather duster she had been using, the effect of which was to make the lady sneeze vigorously.”
“To-night happens to be her evening out,” she said. “Where she goes I don’t know. She is never late, and when she comes in she takes off her shoes, so as not to make a noise. She will not disturb you. Come, Alex, you have dusted this room enough.”
With a bow, she left us, followed by Alex, who was a little lame, and limped as she walked.
“Broke her leg at hard work, and it was not set right,” Mrs. Browne explained, as she saw us looking after her. “Poor thing, she has been through fire and water, but is strong as an ox. Can pick me up as if I were a little child. Good-morning!”
I was glad when she was gone, with her enumeration of Alex’s virtues. I had taken a prejudice against the old woman, and believed she could hear more than she pretended. That afternoon we moved into our new quarters, and took our first dinner with Mrs. Browne. Everything was homelike, well cooked and well served. The linen was spotless, the china pretty, and the silver real—as Mrs. Browne took pains to inform us, saying she would have no shams about her house, if she knew it.
That night was warm and bright, with a full moon, but I could not sleep for the thoughts crowding so fast upon my brain. Where were Madame Scholaskie and Ivan? And where was Michel Seguin, and should I see him again? I would not ask Mrs. Browne if she knew anything of him. I would wait and let him find me. Attracted by the beauty of the night, I arose at last and went to a window, where I stood looking out, when, just as a clock struck twelve, I saw Alex stealing softly up to the house, and taking off her shoes, as her mistress had said.
“She is not a very early bird, with all her virtues,” I thought; but I heard no sound as she entered the house; and, going to bed, I fell asleep at last, and dreamed of M. Seguin and his dog.
CHAPTER XVI.
MADAME’S DEATH.
The next day I went for a drive with Mrs. Whitney along the Court Quay and the Nevsky Prospect, and past the Seguin house, which had an air of being shut up. The old porter was, however, at his post, and in the third story a window was open, and a bird cage standing in it, with a bird straining his little throat with his song, while near him was a vase of flowers.
“Somebody is home,” I thought. “Zaidee, probably, and that is her room. If so, she will find me.”