Soublaieff, who was in the farm-yard when his master rode into it, ran forward to hold his horse, and Pierre Olsdorf dismounted.
"I am glad to find you here," said he to the farmer, "I was afraid you might be away somewhere in the fields. I have something serious to say to you. How is your daughter?"
"Well, prince," replied Soublaieff. "She and I are at your orders. What is the matter? Forgive my presumption, but you seem troubled and preoccupied."
"I am. You shall know the cause afterward. Meanwhile I am come to ask a favor of you."
"A favor from me! A master so good as you are asks it of a servant who would give the last drop of his blood to him? Speak, prince, speak!"
"Will you trust Vera to me?"
"Trust Vera to you?"
"To take her to Paris."
The farmer grew pale. The tenderness of a father struggled within him against blind devotion for his master. In the past he had besought the prince not to take from him his daughter to place her at the château. And now it was a question not of a separation of a few leagues but of a journey to France. He hesitated.
"Come, make up your mind to it," Pierre Olsdorf went on. "I want Vera; she alone, with your good will, can do me a great service."