“You misunderstand, mademoiselle,” I replied; “he was not murdered yonder. He died--by--by accident in his own house yesterday. I witnessed the end. There was none of the violence you feared.” She looked at me wonderingly, evidently unable to grasp the change that had taken place so suddenly: her uncle and her detested betrothed both removed so swiftly from her path. “You witnessed his death, M. de Brousson?” she said slowly; “I do not understand.” Then I told her, as gently as I could, of my search for her, and the visit to Ramodanofsky, and of the fatal cup of _vodka_. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I knew that he kept deadly poisons--eastern poisons--in that cabinet. It is strange how swiftly come the retributions. And the mirror which saved you, I love it so well. It was my mother’s; she brought it with her from France. How little she dreamed that it would save a Frenchman’s life!” And avenge her, I thought, wondering not a little how much Zénaïde recollected of the tragedy of the past. “Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “can you recall your childhood? Do you remember your mother--or your father?” “I cannot tell,” she replied thoughtfully; “my mind is confused about it. I cannot separate what I may remember from what the old servants may have told me. I was so young when my mother died, I could not remember, of course, and I was not so much older at my father’s death.” “At your father’s death,” I repeated slowly; “is your father really dead, then?” She glanced at me in wide-eyed amazement. “Did you not know it, monsieur?” “I knew that your uncle said that he was dead,” I replied quietly, watching her agitated face. She stood still, gazing at me strangely. “Tell me all, M. le Vicomte!” she exclaimed, her breath coming quickly; “you know something--what is it?” “Mademoiselle,” I replied gently, “you know what the Boyar Vladimir was; can you not imagine that he would easily wrong even his own brother?” Her face was very pale. “Yes,” she returned slowly; “but I never dreamed that he had wronged my father. Did--did he have anything to do with his death?” I took both her hands in mine. “Zénaïde Feodorovna,” I said tenderly, “your father is not dead; he lives, and is in Moscow.” I had feared that she might faint, but I had forgotten that to her “father” was but a name. She was deeply moved, but she commanded herself, and in a few moments was walking on beside me. “Where is he now?” she asked after a while, her voice shaken with a new and deep emotion. “He was at his own home, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but now I cannot tell, except that he must be safe, for he is of the Miloslavsky party, and has great influence, I believe, with the Streltsi.”