“What do you want me to do?” repeated Etta.
De Chauxville paused.
“Merely,” he answered lightly, “to leave open a door—a side door. I understand that there is a door in the old portion of the castle leading up by a flight of stairs to the smoking-room, and thence to the new part of the building.”
Etta did not answer. De Chauxville glanced at his watch and walked to the window, where he stood looking out. He was too refined a person to whistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time.
“This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursday evening,” he said, turning round and slowly coming toward her.
“And I refuse to do it,” said Etta.
“Ah!”
Etta sprung to her feet and faced him—a beautiful woman, a very queen of anger. Her blazing eyes were on a level with his.
“Yes,” she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till she seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. “Yes; I refuse to betray my husband—”
“Stop! He is not your husband!”
Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Her fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of her majestic stature.
“What do you mean?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”
“Sydney Bamborough is your husband,” said the Frenchman, without taking his dull eyes from her face.
“He is dead!” she hissed.
“Prove it!”
He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose of easy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion of their interview.
“Prove it, madame!” he said again.
“He died at Tver,” she said; but there was no conviction in her voice. With her title and position to hold to, she could face the world. Without these, what was she?
“A local newspaper reports that the body of a man was discovered on the plains of Tver and duly buried in the pauper cemetery,” said De Chauxville indifferently. “Your husband—Sydney Bamborough, I mean—was, for reasons which need not be gone into here, in the neighborhood of Tver at the time. A police officer, who has since been transferred to Odessa, was of the opinion that the dead man was a foreigner. There are about twelve thousand foreigners in Tver—operatives in the manufactories. Your husband—Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu—left Tver to proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to avoid the emissaries of the Charity League, who were looking out for him at the western frontier. He will be due at one of the treaty ports in China in about a month. Upon the supposition that the body discovered on the plains of Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity of becoming a princess. It was enterprising. I admire your spirit. But it was dangerous. I, madame, can suppress Sydney Bamborough when he turns up. I have two arrows in my quiver for him; one is the Charity League, the other the Russian Government, who want him. Your husband—I beg your pardon, the prince—would perhaps take a different view of the case. It is a pretty story. I will tell it to him unless I have your implicit obedience.”
Etta stood dry-lipped before him. She tried to speak, but no words came from her lips.
De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knew that he loved her. There is no defining love, nor telling when it merges into hatred.
“Thursday evening, before dinner,” said De Chauxville.
And he left her standing on the hearthrug, her lips moving and framing no words.
XXXIV
An Appeal
“Have you spoken to the princess?” asked Steinmetz, without taking the cigar from his lips.
They were driving home through the forest that surrounded Osterno as the sea surrounds an island. They were alone in the sleigh. That which they had been doing had required no servant. Paul was driving, and consequently the three horses were going as hard as they could. The snow flew past their faces like the foam over the gunwale of a boat that is thrashing into a ten-knot breeze. Yet it was not all snow. There were flecks of foam from the horses’ mouths mingled with it.
“Yes,” answered Paul. His face was set and hard, his eyes stern. This trouble with the peasants was affecting him more keenly than he suspected. It was changing the man’s face—drawing lines about his lips, streaking his forehead with the marks of care. His position can hardly be realized by an Englishman unless it be compared to that of the captain of a great sinking ship full of human souls who have been placed under his care.
“And what did she say?” asked Steinmetz.
“That she would not leave unless we all went with her.”
Steinmetz drew the furs closer up round him.
“Yes,” he said, glancing at his companion’s face, and seeing little but the eyes, by reason of the sable collar of his coat, which met the fur of his cap; “yes, and why not?”
“I cannot leave them,” answered Paul. “I cannot go away now that there is trouble among them. What it is, goodness only knows! They would never have got like this by themselves. Somebody has been at them, and I don’t think it is the Nihilists. It is worse than that. Some devil has been stirring them up, and they know no better. He is still at it. They are getting worse day by day, and I cannot catch him. If I do, by God! Steinmetz, I’ll twist his neck.”
Steinmetz smiled grimly.
“Yes,” he answered, “you are capable of it. For me, I am getting tired of the muzhik. He is an inveterate, incurable fool. If he is going to be a dangerous fool as well, I should almost be
