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. CHAPTER VI. A KITCHEN FEUD. WHEN the postern had finally closed upon mademoiselle, I advanced cautiously through the darkness. It had occurred to me that the outer gate might be closed for the night, in which case I should find myself caught in a trap. The house was dark and quiet now, the boyar’s guest having evidently departed.