Around the long table of the host were seated, at respectable intervals, a dozen or more gentlemen, who gazed stolidly at each other from time to time, while the host himself smiled broadly upon them all from that end of the room where the lift and the smell of cooking exercise their calling—the one to spoil the appetite, the other to pander to it when spoilt.
Of these dozen gentlemen we have only to deal with one—a man of broad, high forehead, of colorless eyes, of a mask-like face, who consumed what was put before him with as little noise as possible. Known in Paris as “Ce bon Vassili,” this traveller. But in Paris one does not always use the word bon in its English sense of “good.”
M. Vassili was evidently desirous of attracting as little attention as circumstances would allow. He was obviously doing his best to look like one who travelled in the interest of braid or buttons. Moreover, when Claude de Chauxville entered the table d’hôte room, he concealed whatever surprise he may have felt behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. Through the same blue haze he met the Frenchman’s eye, a moment later, without the faintest twinkle of recognition.
These two worthies went through the weird courses provided by a cook professing a knowledge of French cuisine without taking any compromising notice of each other. When the meal was over Vassili inscribed the number of his bedroom in large figures on the label of his bottle of St. Emilion—after the manner of wise commercial-travellers in continental hotels. He subsequently turned the bottle round so that Claude de Chauxville could scarcely fail to read the number, and with a vague and general bow he left the room.
In his apartment the genial Vassili threw more wood into the stove, drew forward the two regulation armchairs, and lighted all the candles provided. He then rang the bell and ordered liqueurs. There was evidently something in the nature of an entertainment about to take place in apartment No. 44 of the Hôtel de Moscou.
Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of the expected visitor.
“Entrez!” cried Vassili; and De Chauxville stood before him, with a smile which in French is called crâne.
“A pleasure,” said Vassili, behind his wooden face, “that I did not anticipate in Tver.”
“And consequently one that carries its own mitigation. An unanticipated pleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune. I make no doubt that you were sorry to see me.”
“On the contrary. Will you sit?”
“I can hardly believe,” went on De Chauxville, taking the proffered chair, “that my appearance was opportune—on the principle, ha! ha! that a flower growing out of place is a weed. Gentlemen of the—eh—Home Office prefer, I know, to travel quietly!” He spread out his expressive hands as if smoothing the path of M. Vassili through this stony world. “Incognito,” he added guilelessly.
“One does not publish one’s name from the housetops,” replied the Russian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, “especially if it happen to be not quite obscure; but between friends, my dear baron—between friends.”
“Yes. Then what are you doing in Tver?” enquired De Chauxville, with engaging frankness.
“Ah, that is a long story. But I will tell you—never fear—I will tell you on the usual terms.”
“Viz?” enquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette.
Vassili accepted the match with a bow, and did likewise. He blew a guileless cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling.
“Exchange, my dear baron, exchange.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied De Chauxville, who knew that Vassili was in all probability fully informed as to his movements past and prospective. “I am going to visit some old friends in this Government—the Lanovitches, at Thors.”
“Ah!”
“You know them?”
Vassili raised his shoulders and made a little gesture with his cigarette, as much as to say, “Why ask?”
De Chauxville looked at his companion keenly. He was wondering whether this man knew that he—Claude de Chauxville—loved Etta Howard Alexis, and consequently hated her husband. He was wondering how much or how little this impenetrable individual knew and suspected.
“I have always said,” observed Vassili suddenly, “that for unmitigated impertinence give me a diplomatist.”
“Ah! And what would you desire that I should, for the same commodity, give you now?”
“A woman.”
There was a short silence in the room while these two birds of a feather reflected.
Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger.
“It was I,” he said, “who crushed that very dangerous movement—the Charity League.”
“I know it.”
“A movement, my dear baron, to educate the muzhik, if you please. To feed him and clothe him, and teach him—to be discontented with his lot. To raise him up and make a man of him. Pah! He is a beast. Let him be treated as such. Let him work. If he will not work, let him starve and die.”
“The man who cannot contribute toward the support of those above him in life is superfluous,” said De Chauxville glibly.
“Precisely. Now, my dear baron, listen to me!” The genial Vassili leaned forward and tapped with one finger on the knee of De Chauxville, as if knocking at the door of his attention.
“I am all ears, mon bon monsieur,” replied the Frenchman, rather coldly. He had just been reflecting that, after all, he did not want any favor from Vassili for the moment, and the manner of the latter was verging on the familiar.
“The woman—who—sold—me—the Charity League papers dined at my house in Paris—a fortnight ago,” said Vassili, with a staccato tap on his companion’s knee by way of emphasis to each word.
“Then, my friend, I cannot—congratulate—you—on the society—in—which you move,” replied De Chauxville, mimicking his manner.
“Bah! She was a princess!”
“A princess?”
“Yes, of your acquaintance, M. le Baron! And she came to my house with her—eh—husband—the Prince Paul Howard Alexis.”
This was news indeed. De Chauxville leaned back and passed
