Presently the door opened, and Etta came into the room with the indomitable assurance which characterized her movements and earned for her a host of feminine enemies.
“Mme. la Comtesse,” she said, with her most gracious smile, taking the limp hand offered to her by the Countess Lanovitch.
Catrina stood in the embrasure of the window, hating her.
Paul followed on his wife’s heels, scarcely concealing his boredom. He was not a society man. Catrina came forward and exchanged a formal bow with Etta, who took in her plainness and the faults of her dress at one contemptuous glance. She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figure for no figure at all. Paul was shaking hands with the countess. When he took Catrina’s hand her fingers were icy, and twitched nervously within his grasp.
The countess was already babbling to Etta in French. The Princess Howard Alexis always began by informing Paul’s friends that she knew no Russian. For a moment Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone. When the countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy her voice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated any other conversation that might be going on in the room.
“I wish you happiness,” said Catrina, and no one heard her but Paul. She did not raise her eyes to his, but looked vaguely at his collar. Her voice was short and rather breathless, as if she had just emerged from deep water.
“Thank you,” answered Paul simply.
He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife. Catrina’s thoughts followed his. A man is at a disadvantage in the presence of the woman who loves him. She usually sees through him—a marked difference between masculine and feminine love. Catrina looked up sharply and caught his eyes resting on Etta.
“He does not love her—he does not love her!” was the thought that instantly leaped into her brain.
And if she had said it to him he would have contradicted her flatly and honestly, and in vain.
“Yes,” the countess was saying with lazy volubility; “Paul is one of our oldest friends. We are neighbors in the country, you know. He has always been in and out of our house like one of the family. My poor husband was very fond of him.”
“Is your husband dead, then?” asked Etta in a low voice, with a strange haste.
“No; he is only in Siberia. You have perhaps heard of his misfortune—Count Stépan Lanovitch.”
Etta nodded her head with the deepest sympathy.
“I feel for you, countess,” she said. “And yet you are so brave—and mademoiselle,” she said, turning to Catrina. “I hope we shall see more of each other in Tver.”
Catrina bowed jerkily and made no reply. Etta glanced at her sharply. Perhaps she saw more than Catrina knew.
“I suppose,” she said to the countess, with that inclusive manner which spreads the conversation out, “that Paul and Mlle. de Lanovitch were playmates?”
The reply lay with either of the ladies, but Catrina turned away.
“Yes,” answered the countess; “but Catrina is only twenty-four—ten years younger than Paul.”
“Indeed!” with a faint, cutting surprise.
Indeed Etta looked younger than Catrina. On a l’âge de son coeur, and if the heart be worn it transmits its weariness to the face, where such signs are ascribed to years. So the little stab was justified by Catrina’s appearance.
While the party assembled were thus exchanging social amenities, a past master in such commerce joined them in the person of Claude de Chauxville.
He smiled his mechanical, heartless smile upon them all, but when he bowed over Etta’s hand his face was grave. He expressed no surprise at seeing Paul and Etta, though his manner betokened that emotion. There was no sign of this meeting having been a prearranged matter, brought about by himself through the easy and innocent instrumentality of the countess.
“And you are going to Tver, no doubt?” he said almost at once to Etta.
“Yes,” answered that lady, with a momentary hunted look in her eyes. It is strange how an obscure geographical name may force its way into our lives, never to be forgotten. Queen Mary of England struck a note of the human octave when she protested that the word “Calais” was graven on her heart. It seemed to Etta that “Tver” was written large wheresoever she turned, for the conscience looks through a glass and sees whatever may be written thereon overspreading every prospect.
“The prince,” continued De Chauxville, turning to Paul, “is a great sportsman, I am told—a mighty hunter. I wonder why Englishmen always want to kill something.”
Paul smiled, without making an immediate answer. He was not the man to be led into the danger of repartee by such as De Chauxville.
“We have a few bears left,” he said.
“You are fortunate,” protested De Chauxville. “I shot one when I was younger. I was immensely afraid, and so was the bear. I have a great desire to try again.”
Etta glanced at Paul, who returned De Chauxville’s bland gaze with all the imperturbability of a prince.
The countess’s cackling voice broke in at this juncture, as perhaps De Chauxville had intended it to do.
“Then why not come and shoot ours?” she said. “We have quite a number of them in the forests at Thors.”
“Ah, Mme. la Comtesse,” he answered, with outspread, deprecatory hands, “but that would be taking too great an advantage of your hospitality and your well-known kindness.”
He turned to Catrina, who received him with a half-concealed frown. The countess bridled and looked at her daughter with obvious maternal meaning, as one who was saying, “There—you bungled your prince, but I have procured you a baron.”
“The abuse of hospitality is the last refuge of the needy,” continued De Chauxville oracularly. “But my temptation is strong; shall I yield to it, mademoiselle?”
Catrina smiled unwillingly.
“I would rather leave it to your own conscience,” she said. “But I fail to see the danger you anticipate.”
“Then I accept, madame,” said De Chauxville, with the engaging frankness which ever had a false ring in it.
If the whole affair had been
