“I dare say,” replied Paul carelessly. “But I am not afraid of Claude de Chauxville, or any other man.”
“I am,” said Steinmetz. “He is up to some mischief. I was calling on the Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He was constrained at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which was a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not been there for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived a minute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the very first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had wheedled an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, my friend, why?”
Paul reflected, with a frown.
“We do not want him out there,” he said.
“No; and if he goes there you must remain in England this winter.”
Paul looked up sharply.
“I do not want to do that. It is all arranged,” he said. “Etta was very much against going at first, but I persuaded her to do so. It would be a mistake not to go now.”
Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, “I advise you not to go.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It is too late now. Besides, I have invited Miss Delafield, and she has practically accepted.”
“Does that matter?” asked Steinmetz quietly.
“Yes. I do not want her to think that I am a changeable sort of person.”
Steinmetz rose, and standing with his two hands on the marble rail he looked down into the room below. The music of a waltz was just beginning, and some of the more enthusiastic spirits had already begun dancing, moving in and out among the uniforms and gay dresses.
“Well,” he said resignedly; “it is as you will. There is a certain pleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so d⸺d clever!”
XVIII
In the Champs-Élysées
“You must accept,” Steinmetz repeated to Paul. “There is no help for it. We cannot afford to offend Vassili, of all people in the world.”
They were standing together in the saloon of a suite of rooms assigned for the time to Paul and his party in the Hôtel Bristol in Paris. Steinmetz, who held an open letter in his hand, looked out of the window across the quiet Place Vendôme. A north wind was blowing with true Parisian keenness, driving before it a fine snow, which adhered bleakly to the northern face of a column which is chiefly remarkable for the facility with which it falls and rises again.
Steinmetz looked at the letter with a queer smile. He held it out from him as if he distrusted the very stationery.
“So friendly,” he exclaimed; “so very friendly! ‘Ce bon Steinmetz’ he calls me. ‘Ce bon Steinmetz’—confound his cheek! He hopes that his dear prince will waive ceremony and bring his charming princess to dine quite en famille at his little pied-à-terre in the Champs-Élysées. He guarantees that only his sister, the marquise, will be present, and he hopes that ‘Ce bon Steinmetz,’ will accompany you, and also the young lady, the cousin of the princess.”
Steinmetz threw the letter down on the table, left it there for a moment, and then, picking it up, he crossed the room and threw it into the fire.
“Which means,” he explained, “that M. Vassili knows we are here, and unless we dine with him we shall be subjected to annoyance and delay on the frontier by a stupid—a singularly and suspiciously stupid—minor official. If we refuse, Vassili will conclude that we are afraid of him. Therefore we must accept. Especially as Vassili has his weak points. He loves a lord, ‘Ce Vassili.’ If you accept on some of that stationery I ordered for you with a colossal gold coronet, that will already be of some effect. A chain is as strong as its weakest link. M. Vassili’s weakest link will be touched by your gorgeous notepaper. If ce cher prince and la charmante princesse are gracious to him, Vassili is already robbed of half his danger.”
Paul laughed. It was his habit either to laugh or to grumble at Karl Steinmetz’s somewhat subtle precautions. The word “danger” invariably made him laugh, with a ring in his voice which seemed to betoken enjoyment.
“Of course,” he said, “I leave these matters to you. Let us show Vassili, at all events, that we are not afraid of him.”
“Then sit down and accept.”
That which M. Vassili was pleased to call his little dog-hole in the Champs-Élysées was, in fact, a gorgeous house in the tawdry style of modern Paris—resplendent in gray iron railings, and high gateposts surmounted by green cactus plants cunningly devised in cast iron.
The heavy front door was thrown open by a lackey, and others bowed in the halls as if by machinery. Two maids pounced upon the ladies with the self-assurance of their kind and country, and led the way upstairs, while the men removed fur coats in the hall. It was all very princely and gorgeous and Parisian.
Vassili and his sister the marquise—a stout lady in ruby velvet and amethysts, who invariably caused Maggie Delafield’s mouth to twitch whenever she opened her own during the evening—received the guests in the drawing-room. They were standing on the white fur hearthrug side by side, when the doors were dramatically thrown open, and the servant rolled the names unctuously over his tongue.
Steinmetz, who was behind, saw everything. He saw Vassili’s mask-like face contract with stupefaction when he set eyes on Etta. He saw the self-contained Russian give a little gasp, and mutter an exclamation before he collected himself sufficiently to bow and conceal his face. But he could not see Etta’s face for a moment or two—until the formal greetings were over. When he did see it, he noted that it was as white as
