I was pacing the cell. One thing relieved me: Ramodanofsky’s servants had captured them, and therefore it was not probable that Zénaïde had suffered any injury at their hands. I had hoped to learn much more from mademoiselle, but her story had been slow in telling and barren of any clue to Zénaïde’s fate. “Come, mademoiselle,” I said, “we must go at once to Dr. von Gaden’s. Every hour counts.” She rose gladly enough, and then stood looking at me. “Where is the boyar?” she exclaimed suddenly. “How did you come here?” “The Boyar Vladimir Sergheievitch is dead,” I replied quietly, “and the Boyar Feodor is alive again.” She stared at me as if I had lost my senses. Even at that moment, I could not forbear to smile. There was something about mademoiselle that could be amusing even in the midst of tragedy. “Vladimir died by his own act,” I said, and told her briefly of his attempt to poison me, frustrated only by the telltale mirror. “And the Boyar Feodor, Zénaïde’s father, what of him?” she exclaimed, as if she could no longer trust her ears. “He lives,” I replied; “but it will take too long to tell you all here, mademoiselle; we must go away.” “Gladly, Monsieur Philippe,” she replied. “I looked upon this as a living tomb; I had said my prayers, and was composing my mind to die when you came.” While she spoke, we had reached the outer room, and I led the way to the door. It was closed. My heart misgave me at once, but I tried to open it with all my strength, refusing to believe in so wretched a calamity; but it did not yield an inch: it had been fastened on the outside. It was too solid to shake, and though I beat it, and shouted for the knave who let me in, and tried the key in the lock, it was all to no purpose. We were caught like rats in a trap, through my own stupidity. I was ashamed to face mademoiselle, but when I turned despairingly from the door, I saw that she had accepted the inevitable with more resignation. She was kneeling on the floor telling her beads; but I was too anxious to submit to her religion as a consolation. “Is there no other door?” I asked sharply. “We must get out.” She shook her head. “There is no other door, Philippe; and now that the boyar is dead, Polotsky will starve us to death.” “Polotsky!” I exclaimed, with more impatience than courtesy, “Polotsky is safe enough at my house, watched by Pierrot. They must find us here before long; but meanwhile, Zénaïde! Every minute tells! Fool that I was!” She was more calm than I. Her previous experience had schooled her, and she looked at me sadly. “Never trust one of these people,” she said quietly. “Vladimir Sergheievitch never had an honest servant in all the years that I have lived here teaching my poor Zénaïde. They are all thieves and rogues. A rogue never had an honest man to serve him.”