Von Gaden plucked his robe. “You cannot do it, boyar,” he said calmly; “it will ruin every well-laid plan to move now. The czarina will support Viatscheslav, and this is the hour when Sophia Alexeievna can do least for you. If you go to Vladimir’s house, you will risk your own life, and then the wretched fate of your daughter will be assured. Listen to reason, my old friend; we must find some other way.” I had stood a little aside to let them talk; but now I turned to the boyar and found his stern eyes already on my face. “M. Ramodanofsky,” I said quietly, “permit me to undertake this service for you. I will go direct to the boyar’s house, and he will scarcely refuse admittance. I can demand, in your name, to be informed of your daughter’s fate, and if it is not told voluntarily, mayhap I can force it from him.” Feodor Sergheievitch did not immediately reply; but I saw that Von Gaden approved my proposal. “It is the plan most likely to succeed,” he said thoughtfully, “and in any case, you will probably learn something.” “M. le Vicomte,” the boyar said, turning to me with a dignity which became him well, “I am beholden to you, and it seems that it is best to accept your services. You understand the risk you take for a stranger?” he added, his keen eye searching my face. I felt the blood burn on my cheek, but I spoke plainly; it was well to have an understanding between us. “M. Ramodanofsky,” I said deliberately, “while I am glad to be of service to you in your hour of need, it is for the sake of Mademoiselle Zénaïde that I assume this peril, and I am willing to abide by the consequences.” For a moment he was startled by the candor of my reply, and then I saw something like a smile in his cold eyes. “She will perhaps be able to thank you more effectively than I can,” he said quietly; “but remember, M. le Vicomte, that very soon I shall declare myself, and she will be no longer considered as the heiress of the wealthy Vladimir, but the daughter of a prisoner and an exile, without title or dowry--all forfeited to the crown.” I made an obeisance. “M. Ramodanofsky,” I said, “Mademoiselle Zénaïde will ever remain the same, and were she the daughter of the poorest convict in Russia, she would still hold the same place in the regard of Philippe de Brousson.” The cloud lifted from his face, and he held out his hand with a gesture that revealed the courtly grace which must have been his before the years of exile dwarfed and thwarted every natural impulse. “I thank you, M. le Vicomte,” he said, with a grand air; “Zénaïde has at least one friend in her extremity.” As our hands met, I felt a warmer regard for the man than ever before. The fact that he was Zénaïde’s father was borne in upon me, and I carried away with me the memory of that strange illumination of the stern face. We left him at my quarters to await my return, Von Gaden walking with me towards Vladimir’s house.