Then Paul went to Claude de Chauxville. He stooped down and slipped his skilled fingers inside the torn and mud-stained clothing. Here also was death.
Paul stood upright and looked at them as they lay, silent, motionless, with their tale untold. Maggie and Steinmetz stood watching him. He went to the door, which was of solid oak four inches thick, and examined the fastenings. There had been no damage done to bolt, or lock, or hinge. The door had been opened from the inside. He looked slowly round, measuring the distances.
“What is the meaning of it?” he said at length to Steinmetz, in a dull voice. Maggie winced at the sound of it.
Steinmetz did not answer at once, but hesitated—after the manner of a man weighing words which will never be forgotten by their hearers.
“It seems to me,” he said, with a slow, wise charity, the best of its kind, “quite clear that De Chauxville died in trying to save her—the rest must be only guesswork.”
Maggie had come forward and was standing beside him.
“And in guessing let us be charitable—is it not so?” he said, turning to her, with a twist of his humorous lips.
“I suppose,” he went on, after a little pause, “that Claude de Chauxville has been at the bottom of all our trouble. All his life he has been one of the stormy petrels of diplomacy. Wherever he has gone trouble has followed later. By some means he obtained sufficient mastery over the princess to compel her to obey his orders. The means he employed were threats. He had it in his power to make mischief, and in such affairs a woman is so helpless that we may well forgive that which she may do in a moment of panic. I imagine that he frightened the poor lady into obedience to his command that she should open this door. Before dinner, when we were all in the drawing-room, I noted a little mark of dust on the white silk skirt of her dress. At the time I thought only that her maid had been careless. Perhaps you noticed it, mademoiselle? Ladies note such things.”
He turned to Maggie, who nodded her head.
“That,” he went on, “was the dust of these old passages. She had been down here. She had opened this door.”
He spread out his hands in deprecation. In his quaint Germanic way he held one hand out over the two motionless forms in mute prayer that they might be forgiven.
“We all have our faults,” he said. “Who are we to judge each other? If we understood all, we might pardon. The two strongest human motives are ambition and fear. She was ruled by both. I myself have seen her under the influence of sudden panic. I have noted the working of her great ambition. She was probably deceived at every turn by that man, who was a scoundrel. He is dead, and death is understood to wipe out all debts. If I were a better man than I am, I might speak well of him. But—ach Gott! that man was a scoundrel! I think the good God will judge between them and forgive that poor woman. She must have repented of her action when she heard the clatter of the rioters all round the castle. I am sure she did that. I am sure she came down here to shut the door, and found Claude de Chauxville here. They were probably talking together when the poor mad fools who killed them came round to this side of the castle and found them. They recognized her as the princess. They probably mistook him for the prince. It is what men call a series of coincidences. I wonder what God calls it?”
He broke off, and, stooping down, he drew the lapel of the Frenchman’s cloak gently over the marred face.
“And let us remember,” he said, “that he tried to save her. Some lives are so. At the very end a little reparation is made. In life he was her evil genius. When he died they trampled him underfoot in order to reach her. Mademoiselle, will you come?”
He took Maggie by the arm and led her gently away. She was shaking all over, but his hand was steady and wholly kind.
He led her up the narrow stairs to her own room. In the little boudoir the fire was burning brightly; the lamps were lighted, just as the maid had left them at the first alarm.
Maggie sat down, and quite suddenly she burst into tears.
Steinmetz did not leave her. He stood beside her, gently stroking her shoulder with his stout fingers. He said nothing, but the gray mustache only half concealed his lips, which were twisted with a little smile full of tenderness and sympathy.
Maggie was the first to speak.
“I am all right now,” she said. “Please do not wait any longer, and do not think me a very weak-minded person. Poor Etta!”
Steinmetz moved away toward the door.
“Yes,” he said; “poor Etta! It is often those who get on in the world who need the world’s pity most.”
At the door he stopped.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I will take you home to England. Is that agreeable to you, mademoiselle?”
She smiled at him sadly through her tears.
“Yes, I should like that,” she said. “This country is horrible. You are very kind to me.”
Steinmetz went downstairs and found Paul at the door talking to a young officer, who slowly dismounted and lounged into the hall, conscious of his brilliant uniform—of his own physical capacity to show off any uniform to full advantage.
He was a lieutenant in a Cossack regiment, and as he bowed to Steinmetz, whom Paul introduced, he swung off his high astrakhan cap with a flourish,
