This is the lesson of some new writers, and Catrina Lanovitch had, fortunately enough, lacked the opportunity of learning it.
She only knew that she loved Paul, and that what she wanted was Paul’s love to go with her all through her life. She was not self-analytical, nor subtle, nor given to thinking about her own thoughts. Perhaps she was old-fashioned enough to be romantic. If this be so, we must bear with her romance, remembering that, at all events, romance serves to elevate, while realism tends undoubtedly toward deterioration.
Catrina hated Etta Sydney Bamborough with a simple half-barbaric hatred because she had gained the love of Paul Alexis. Etta had taken away from her the only man whom Catrina could ever love all through her life. The girl was simple enough, unsophisticated enough, never to dream of compromise. She never for a moment entertained the cheap, consolatory thought that in time she would get over it; she would marry somebody else, and make that compromise which is responsible for more misery in this world than ever is vice. In her great solitude, growing to womanhood as she had in the vast forest of Tver, she had learned nearly all that she knew from the best teacher, Nature; and she held the strange, effete theory that it is wicked for a woman to marry a man she does not love, or to marry at all for any reason except love. St. Paul and a few others held like theories, but nous avons changé tout cela.
“Where does she live?” asked Catrina.
“In London.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments. They were walking slowly, and they presently heard the footsteps of Karl Steinmetz and the servant close behind them.
“I wonder,” said Catrina, half to herself, “whether she loves you?”
It was a question, but not one that a man can answer. Paul said nothing, but walked gravely on by the side of this woman, who knew that even if Etta Sydney Bamborough should try she could never love him as she herself did.
When Karl Steinmetz joined them they were silent.
“I suppose,” he said in English, “that we may rely upon the discretion of the Fräulein Catrina?”
“Yes,” answered the girl; “you may, so far as Osterno is concerned. But I would rather that you did not visit our people here. It is too dangerous in several ways.”
“Ah!” murmured Steinmetz, respectfully acquiescent. He was looking straight in front of him, with an expression of countenance which was almost dense. “Then we must bow to your decision,” he went on, turning toward the tall man striding along at his side.
“Yes,” said Paul simply.
Steinmetz smiled grimly to himself. It was one of his half-cynical theories that women hold the casting vote in all earthly matters, and when an illustration such as this came to prove the correctness of his deductions, he only smiled. He was not by nature a cynic—only by the force of circumstances.
“Will you come to the castle?” asked the girl at length, and Steinmetz by a gesture deferred the decision to Paul.
“I think not tonight, thanks,” said the latter. “We will take you as far as the gate.”
Catrina made no comment. When the tall gateway was reached she stopped, and they all became aware of the sound of horses’ feet behind them.
“What is this?” asked Catrina.
“Only the starosta bringing our horses,” replied Steinmetz. “He has discovered nothing.”
Catrina nodded and held out her hand.
“Good night,” she said, rather coldly. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” reflected Steinmetz. He said nothing, however, when he shook hands.
They mounted their horses and rode back the way they had come. For half an hour no one spoke. Then Paul broke the silence. He only said one word:
“D⸺n.”
“Yes,” returned Steinmetz quietly. “Charity is a dangerous plaything.”
XIV
A Wire-Puller
The Palace of Industry—where, with a fine sense of the fitness of the name, the Parisians amuse themselves—was in a blaze of electric light and fashion. The occasion was the Concours Hippique, an ultra-equine fête, where the lovers of the friend of man, and such persons as are fitted by an ungenerous fate with limbs suitable to horsey clothes, meet and bow. In France, as in a neighboring land (less sunny), horsiness is the last refuge of the diminutive. It is your small man who is ever the horsiest in his outward appearance, just as it is your very plain young person who is keenest at the Sunday-school class.
When a Frenchman is horsey he never runs the risk of being mistaken for a groom or a jockey, as do his turfy compeers in England. His costume is so exaggeratedly suggestive of the stable and the horse as to leave no doubt whatever that he is an amateur of the most pronounced type. His collar is so white and stiff and portentous as to make it impossible for him to tighten
