De Chauxville stared at him with a dropping lip. He gulped down something in his throat. His hand was stealing round under the fur jacket to a pocket at the back of his trousers.
“Let me out!” he hissed.
There was a gleam of bright metal in the sunlight that poured in through the window. De Chauxville raised his arm sharply, and at the same instant Steinmetz threw a book in his face. A loud report, and the room was full of smoke.
Steinmetz placed one hand on the table and, despite his weight, vaulted it cleanly. This man had taken his degree at Heidelberg, and the Germans are the finest gymnasts in the world. Moreover, muscle, once made, remains till death. It was his only chance, for the Frenchman had dodged the novel, but it spoiled his aim. Steinmetz vaulted right on to him, and De Chauxville staggered back.
In a moment Steinmetz had him by the collar; his face was gray, his heavy eyes ablaze. If anything will rouse a man, it is being fired at point-blank at a range of four yards with a .280 revolver.
“Ach!” gasped the German; “you would shoot me, would you?”
He wrenched the pistol from De Chauxville’s fingers and threw it into the corner of the room. Then he shook the man like a garment.
“First,” he cried, “you would kill Paul, and now you try to shoot me! Good God! what are you? You are no man. Do you know what I am going to do with you? I am going to thrash you like a dog!”
He dragged him to the fireplace. Above the mantelpiece a stick-rack was affixed to the wall, and here were sticks and riding-whips. Steinmetz selected a heavy whip. His eyes were shot with blood; his mouth worked beneath his mustache.
“So,” he said, “I am going to settle with you at last.”
De Chauxville kicked and struggled, but he could not get free. He only succeeded in half choking himself.
“You are going to swear,” said Steinmetz, “never to approach the princess again—never to divulge what you know of her past life.”
The Frenchman was almost blue in the face. His eyes were wild with terror.
And Karl Steinmetz thrashed him.
It did not last long. No word was spoken. The silence was only broken by their shuffling feet, by the startling report of each blow, by De Chauxville’s repeated gasps of pain.
The fur jacket was torn in several places. The white shirt appeared here and there. In one place it was stained with red.
At last Steinmetz threw him huddled into one corner of the room. The chattering face, the wild eyes that looked up at him, were terrible to see.
“When you have promised to keep the secret you may go,” said Steinmetz. “You must swear it.”
De Chauxville’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. Steinmetz poured some water into a tumbler and gave it to him.
“It had to come to this,” he said, “sooner or later. Paul would have killed you; that is the only difference. Do you swear by God in heaven above you that you will keep the princess’s secret?”
“I swear it,” answered De Chauxville hoarsely.
Steinmetz was holding on to the back of a high chair with both hands, breathing heavily. His face was still livid. That which had been white in his eyes was quite red.
De Chauxville was crawling toward the revolver in the corner of the room, but he was almost fainting. It was a question whether he would last long enough to reach the firearm. There was a bright patch of red in either liver-colored cheek; his lips were working convulsively. And Steinmetz saw him in time. He seized him by the collar of his coat and dragged him back. He placed his foot on the little pistol and faced De Chauxville with glaring eyes. De Chauxville rose to his feet, and for a moment the two men looked into each other’s souls. The Frenchman’s face was twisted with pain. No word was said.
Such was the last reckoning between Karl Steinmetz and the Baron Claude de Chauxville.
The Frenchman went slowly toward the door. He faltered and looked round for a chair. He sat heavily down with a little exclamation of pain and exhaustion, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. The scented cambric diffused a faint, dainty odor of violets. He sat forward with his two hands on his knees, swaying a little from side to side. Presently he raised his handkerchief to his face. There were tears in his eyes.
Thus the two men waited until De Chauxville had recovered himself sufficiently to take his departure. The air was full of naked human passions. It was rather a gruesome scene.
At last the Frenchman stood slowly up, and with characteristic thought of appearances fingered his torn coat.
“Have you a cloak?” asked Steinmetz.
“No.”
The German went to a cupboard in the wall and selected a long riding-cloak, which he handed to the Frenchman without a word.
Thus Claude de Chauxville walked to the door in a cloak which had figured at many a Charity League meeting. Assuredly the irony of Fate is a keener thing than any poor humor we have at our command. When evil is punished in this present life there is no staying of the hand.
Steinmetz followed De Chauxville through the long passage they had traversed a few minutes earlier and down the broad staircase. The servants were waiting at the door with the horse put at the Frenchman’s disposal by Paul.
De Chauxville mounted slowly, heavily, with twitching lips. His face was set and cold now. The pain was getting bearable, the wounded vanity was bleeding inwardly. In his dull eyes there was a gleam of hatred and malice. It was the face of a man rejoicing inwardly over a deep and certain vengeance.
“It is well!” he was muttering between his clenched
