“It is so innocent and simple—I know. I have the same feeling myself,” concurred Steinmetz courteously.
“Do you ride about the country much alone?” asked Paul, while the servants were setting before this uninvited guest a few more substantial delicacies.
“Ah, no, prince! This is my first attempt, and if it had not procured me this pleasure I should say that it will be my last.”
“It is easy to lose yourself,” said Paul; “besides”—and the two friends watched the Frenchman’s face closely—“besides, the country is disturbed at present.”
De Chauxville was helping himself daintily to pâté de foie gras.
“Ah, indeed! Is that so?” he answered. “But they would not hurt me—a stranger in the land.”
“And an orphan, too, I have no doubt,” added Steinmetz, with a laugh. “But would the muzhik pause to enquire, my very dear De Chauxville?”
“At all events, I should not pause to answer,” replied the Frenchman, in the same, light tone. “I should evacuate. Ah, mademoiselle,” he went on, addressing Maggie, “they have been attempting to frighten you, I suspect, with their stories of disturbed peasantry. It is to keep up the lurid local color. They must have their romance, these Russians.”
And so the ball was kept rolling. There was never any lack of conversation when Steinmetz and De Chauxville were together, nor was the talk without sub-flavor of acidity. At length the centre of attention himself diverted that attention. He inaugurated an argument over the best cross-country route from Osterno to Thors, which sent Steinmetz out of the room for a map. During the absence of the watchful German he admired the view from the window, and this strategetic movement enabled him to say to Etta aside:
“I must see you before I leave the house; it is absolutely necessary.”
Not long after the return of Steinmetz and the final decision respecting the road to Thors, Etta left the room, and a few minutes later the servant announced that the baron’s horse was at the door.
De Chauxville took his leave at once, with many assurances of lasting gratitude.
“Kindly,” he added, “make my adieux to the princess; I will not trouble her.”
Quite by accident he met Etta at the head of the state staircase, and expressed such admiration for the castle that she opened the door of the large drawing-room and took him to see that apartment.
“What I arranged for Thursday is for the day after tomorrow—Tuesday,” said De Chauxville, as soon as they were alone. “We cannot keep them back any longer. You understand—the side door to be opened at seven o’clock. Ah! who is this?”
They both turned. Steinmetz was standing behind them, but he could not have heard De Chauxville’s words. He closed the door carefully, and came forward with his grim smile.
“À nous trois!” he said, and the subsequent conversation was in the language in which these three understood each other best.
De Chauxville bit his lip and waited. It was a moment of the tensest suspense.
“À nous trois!” repeated Steinmetz. “De Chauxville, you love an epigram. The man who overestimates the foolishness of others is himself the biggest fool concerned. A lame horse—the prince’s generosity—making your adieux. Mon Dieu! you should know me better than that after all these years. No, you need not look at the door. No one will interrupt us. I have seen to that.”
His attitude and manner indicated a complete mastery of the situation, but whether this assumption was justified by fact or was a mere trick it was impossible to say. There was in the man something strong and good and calm—a manner never acquired by one who has anything to conceal. His dignity was perfect. One forgot his stoutness, his heavy breathing, his ungainly size. He was essentially manly, and a presence to be feared. The strength of his will made itself felt.
He turned to the princess with the grave courtesy that always marked his attitude toward her.
“Madame,” he said, “I fully recognize your cleverness in raising yourself to the position you now occupy. But I would remind you that that position carries with it certain obligations. It is hardly dignified for a princess to engage herself in a vulgar love intrigue in her own house.”
“It is not a vulgar love intrigue!” cried Etta, with blazing eyes. “I will not allow you to say that! Where is your boasted friendship? Is this a sample of it?”
Karl Steinmetz bowed gravely, with outspread hands.
“Madame, that friendship is at your service, now as always.”
De Chauxville gave a scornful little laugh. He was biting the end of his mustache as he watched Etta’s face. For a moment the woman stood—not the first woman to stand thus—between two fears. Then she turned to Steinmetz. The victory was his—the greatest he had ever torn from the grasp of Claude de Chauxville.
“You know,” she said, “that this man has me in his power.”
“You alone. But not both of us together,” answered Steinmetz.
De Chauxville looked uneasy. He gave a careless little laugh.
“My good Steinmetz, you allow your imagination to run away with you. You interfere in what does not concern you.”
“My very dear De Chauxville, I think not. At all events, I am going to continue to interfere.”
Etta looked from one to the other. She had at the first impulse gone over to Steinmetz. She was now meditating drawing back. If De Chauxville kept cool all might yet be well—the dread secret of the probability of Sydney Bamborough being alive might still be withheld from Steinmetz. For the moment it would appear that she was about to occupy the ignominious position of the bone of contention. If these two men were going to use her as a mere excuse to settle a lifelong quarrel of many issues, it was probable that there would not be much left of her character by the time that they had finished.
She had to decide quickly. She decided to assume the role of peacemaker.
“M. de Chauxville was on the point of going,” she said. “Let him go.”
“M. de Chauxville is
