ZÉNAÏDE.
UNDER Zénaïde’s startled and half-frightened gaze, I felt myself a
fool. My ardent knight-errantry dwindled, and I stood revealed, a rash
intruder on the privacy of a Russian household.
Zénaïde was the first to recover her self-possession; she had divined
my nationality, for she addressed me in French.
“Monsieur has made some strange error,” she said in a dignified way,
“and stumbled upon the private quarter of the house. His errand is with
my uncle, no doubt.”
I was at loss to explain my blundering ardor.
“Mademoiselle,” I stammered, feeling my face burn, “I had cause to
think you were in need of assistance--I--pardon me, I do but increase
my awkwardness.”
She looked at me strangely, a new emotion dyeing her cheek with
scarlet.
“Monsieur is kind,” she said a little haughtily; “I am indebted to my
uncle’s friend, I presume, monsieur--”
She paused, and her eyes sought mine with a keen interrogation. I stood
erect; something in her tone stung me.
“I am not your uncle’s friend, Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky,” I said a
little defiantly; “I am a stranger to him, a French gentleman, Philippe
de Brousson.”
There was a startled cry from the farther side of the room, where the
other woman had remained; she came across now, staring at me strangely.
“Philippe de Brousson!” she cried in a high French voice. “It is
Philippe, little Philippe!”
It was my turn to stare in blank astonishment. She was a tall angular
woman, with near-sighted eyes, and gray curls dancing on her temples.
I did not know her, but it was evident that she recognized me with
ecstasy. Zénaïde was looking at her with a reflection of my amazement.
“Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” she said warningly, “you are very
short-sighted; you may have made another mistake.”
The name struck me at once as familiar, and I looked at the woman with
a sudden vague recollection.
“You know me, Monsieur Philippe?” she said, regarding me with a smile
on her quaint thin face; “you remember old Eudoxie Varien, who taught
you and little Marie, the saints rest her soul!”
It was the governess who had watched over my little sister and me in
the old château, the Tour de Brousson. I remembered her very well now,
and grasped her hand warmly, a thousand memories of childhood and my
dead sister thronging into my mind.
“If we had met at any other moment, Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” I said, “I
should have known you at once.”
The tears were shining in the good woman’s eyes, and with a sudden
impulse, she stood on tip-toe and kissed my cheek.
“Oh, little Philippe!” she exclaimed tremulously. “Forgive an old
woman, M. de Brousson; you bring back the happiest hours of my life. Do
you remember the rose-garden behind the château, and the day the hawk
was killed?”
I remembered it well, and in that far country, in the upper room of a
Russian boyar’s house, the perfume of the roses of Provence seemed
to float upon my senses; and I saw again the gray château with its
graceful turrets and neat, beautiful garden, with its hedges and its
terraces. Childhood passes so swiftly, and never again returns the
light heart, the innocent mind! Mademoiselle Eudoxie and I looked long
at each other, and my childish affection for the kindly governess awoke
in a genuine regard for this faded woman.
Recollecting myself, I turned to apologize to Mademoiselle
Ramodanofsky, but she was regarding me with quite a different
expression; my strange entrance was evidently forgotten, and she was
smiling as she looked at Mademoiselle Eudoxie’s flushed and tearful
face.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” I said; “I trespass upon your courtesy, but
this meeting was as unexpected as my entrance here.”
“I rejoice to see Mademoiselle Eudoxie so happy,” Zénaïde replied
graciously; and then, after a moment’s hesitation, “Will M. de Brousson
be seated?”
Mademoiselle Eudoxie looked at her in a kind of panic.
“Your uncle, Zénaïde!” she said hastily.
The young girl’s eyes flashed with sudden fire.
“These are my own apartments,” she replied, with a touch of hauteur,
“and my uncle will scarcely intrude here again to-night.”
I knew, however, that they were in a dilemma, and that my presence
there was contrary to usage and propriety. I was the more willing
to depart, since I felt that Mademoiselle Eudoxie was not only a
protection to Zénaïde, but a medium of communication. I had not found
courage to explain my errand.
“I will not intrude longer upon your hospitality, mademoiselle,” I said
to Zénaïde; “but perhaps another time I may speak with Mademoiselle
Eudoxie and with--you.”
A mischievous smile gleamed suddenly in Zénaïde’s blue eyes.
“Mademoiselle Varien, light this gentleman down the stairs,” she said
quietly. “And you, M. de Brousson, have my thanks for--for your kind
solicitude,” she added, blushing deeply and holding out her hand.
I bowed low over it, and in some blundering way bade her adieu, and
went with Mademoiselle Eudoxie along the corridor, bearing the light
for her, and feeling both exultant and foolish at the termination of my
enterprise. At the end of the passage we stumbled upon a servant, who
stared not a little at the sight of a stranger lighting the governess
down the stairs. When we reached the lower floor, and were alone,
mademoiselle plucked at my cloak.
“Monsieur Philippe,” she said, her short-sighted eyes trying to search
my face, “how did you happen to come here to-night?”
It was a relief that I could at least explain matters fully to her, and
she would probably repeat it to Zénaïde. I told her of my adventure in
the courtyard, and of the shadows on the wall. She was still a little
puzzled, for of course I did not speak of Von Gaden’s confidence.
“Did the boyar really strike Zénaïde?” I asked.
“I fear so,” mademoiselle replied, a troubled expression on her face;
“they had a stormy interview, at which I was not present, and I saw the
red mark on dear Zénaïde’s cheek.”
“He is cruel to her, then?” I said sternly.
Mademoiselle stammered a little. “I cannot say cruel,” she said. “I
have been here ten years with Zénaïde, and he has always allowed her to
have everything she wished, but without seeming fond of her. He is a
strange man. I can almost say that he avoided the sight of the child;
but now all these things are changed. He is anxious for her to marry,
and of course has his own ends to serve, and cares not at all for
Zénaïde’s happiness. I tried to mold her mind to gentle submission,
foreseeing this end; but Zénaïde has, they tell me, her father’s will,
and she will not be guided; and now the house is in a constant tumult
because of this match that she will not hear of.”
“I honor her the more,” I said at once; “no woman should wed
Viatscheslav.”
Mademoiselle Eudoxie stared at me in mild surprise, but shrank back
in horror when I told her briefly a little of the character of the
profligate suitor. She wrung her thin hands.
“Alas!” she exclaimed, “what will she do? There is no escape; the
authority of the guardian is even more absolute here than in France,
and she has no one to fight for her, poor girl!”
“Except you and me, mademoiselle,” I added softly.
The old woman looked at me with a sudden suspicion in her glance,
followed by an expression of yet deeper anxiety.
“You were ever too hot-blooded and hasty, Philippe,” she said, but I
detected a note of tender sympathy in her voice. “You and I would but
make an evil case worse. I see no help for Zénaïde. Peter was elected
to-day, and the Naryshkins are in power.”
I drew closer to her. “Is there any one about?” I said.
She started as if she had been shot, and looked nervously behind her. I
smiled, knowing what a coward mademoiselle always was. She assured me
now that we were out of earshot.
“Then I may speak of forbidden subjects,” I said. “Take heart,
mademoiselle; the struggle may not be over. No one believes that the
Streltsi will support Peter Alexeivitch, and if the Miloslavskys rise,
who knows what may not happen? Certainly the Naryshkins will be thrust
aside, and this old boyar will never barter his niece to an exile or a
fugitive!”
“Now the saints grant that it may be so!” exclaimed mademoiselle,
piously. “But I have little hope that Zénaïde can escape; he is urging
on a hasty marriage.”
I was not so despondent; I thought of Von Gaden, and a plan was already
forming in my mind. I told her where my quarters were.
“If there is any trouble here,” I said earnestly, “find some means of
sending me a message.”
Then, seeing the doubt and perplexity in her face, I went on
impressively: “It is your duty, dear mademoiselle,” I said; “you must
not connive at this sacrifice. You must save Zénaïde if you can, and
do not despise my help; I may find more means of assistance than you
dream of. Where there is a will, there is a way! Therefore, be sure to
inform me if any danger threatens Mademoiselle Ramodanofsky.”
I saw at once that I had impressed her; Mademoiselle Eudoxie was
naturally one of those women who cling to any man as a better protector
than their own wits, and she evidently had an exaggerated conception
of my importance. At least, she promised readily enough to keep me
informed if she could find a trusty messenger, but told me of a surer
means of communication by observing her window, which overlooked the
lane on the other side of the wing. There was a romance about it all,
which I saw was delightful to the gentle old maid, who had lived only
in the reflection of the romances of others. She went with me to the
postern, and bade me a tender and half tearful adieu. She closed the
door behind me, and I had advanced a few steps, when I heard her open
it again hastily, and come running after me. I turned, expecting some
important information which she had forgotten. She laid a trembling
hand on my arm, and approached her lips close to my ear.
“Monsieur Philippe,” she whispered, “forgive me for speaking out, but I
have lived ten years in Russia, and I know their ways. Do not fall in
love with her!”
I drew myself up haughtily; I was angry.
“If you intend any inference derogatory to Mademoiselle Zénaïde--” I
began.
“No--no!” she cried hastily, almost tearfully. “What a traitor you must
think me! Zénaïde is the dearest girl in the world; the sweetest I ever
knew, save one, and that was your own dead sister, Philippe. But these
Russians!” she looked over her shoulder as if she saw a ghost, “they
would kill you, dear boy!”
I laughed under my breath; but still I remembered where I stood, and
the murdered Feodor.
“I will risk it, Mademoiselle Eudoxie,” I said lightly. “I would risk
it gladly to win Zénaïde Feodorovna!”
“Alas!” exclaimed the old maid, tearfully. “I feared it--I feared it!
You were ever so, Monsieur Philippe: quick as a flash, and hot-headed.
No good can come of it!”
“Nonsense, mademoiselle!” I cried almost gayly; “I have not touched
her heart yet. Go back, or some one will find us here whispering, and
then, indeed, there will be a bloody catastrophe.”
Remembering that prudence is the better part of valor, she retreated,
but shaking her head in melancholy foreboding, the last words that I
heard being--
“Poor Zénaïde!--poor Philippe!”
And the conjunction of names, instead of pointing mademoiselle’s
warning, thrilled me with an absurd happiness.