THE SOWERS

BY

HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

1895

CONTENTS

CHAP. 

I. A WAIF ON THE STEPPE

II. BY THE VOLGA

III. DIPLOMATIC

IV. DON QUIXOTE

V. THE BARON

VI. THE TALLEYRAND CLUB

VII. OLD HANDS

VIII. SAFE!

IX. THE PRINCE

X. THE MOSCOW DOCTOR

XI. CATRINA

XII. AT THORS

XIII. UNMASKED

XIV. A WIRE-PULLER

XV. IN A WINTER CITY

XVI. THE THIN END

XVII. CHARITY

XVIII. IN THE CHAMPS ÉLYSÉES

XIX. ON THE NEVA

XX. AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP

XXI. A SUSPECTED HOUSE

XXII. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

XXIII. A WINTER SCENE

XXIV. HOME

XXV. OSTERNO

XXVI. BLOODHOUNDS

XXVII. IN THE WEB

XXVIII. IN THE CASTLE OF THORS

XXIX. ANGLO-RUSSIAN

XXX. WOLF!

XXXI. A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT

XXXII. A CLOUD

XXXIII. THE NET IS DRAWN

XXXIV. AN APPEAL

XXXV. ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM

XXXVI. À TROIS

XXXVII. À DEUX

XXXVIII. A TALE THAT IS TOLD

XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE

XL. STÉPAN RETURNS

XLI. DUTY

XLII. THE STORM BURSTS

XLIII. BEHIND THE VEIL

XLIV. KISMET

THE SOWERS

CHAPTER I

A WAIF ON THE STEPPE

"In this country charity covers no sins!"

The speaker finished his remark with a short laugh. He was a big, stoutman; his name was Karl Steinmetz, and it is a name well known in theGovernment of Tver to this day. He spoke jerkily, as stout men do whenthey ride, and when he had laughed his good-natured, half-cynical laugh, he closed his lips beneath a huge gray mustache. So far as one couldjudge from the action of a square and deeply indented chin, his mouthwas expressive at that time--and possibly at all times--of a humorousresignation. No reply was vouchsafed to him, and Karl Steinmetz bumpedalong on his little Cossack horse, which was stretched out at a gallop. 

Evening was drawing on. It was late in October, and a cold wind wasdriving from the north-west across a plain which for sheer dismalness ofaspect may give points to Sahara and beat that abode of mentaldepression without an effort. So far as the eye could reach there was nohabitation to break the line of horizon. A few stunted fir-trees, standing in a position of permanent deprecation, with their backsturned, as it were, to the north, stood sparsely on the plain. The grassdid not look good to eat, though the Cossack horses would no doubt haveliked to try it. The road seemed to have been drawn by some Titanengineer with a ruler from horizon to horizon. 

Away to the south there was a forest of the same stunted pines, where afew charcoal-burners and resin-tappers eked out a forlorn and obscureexistence. There are a score of such settlements, such gloomy forests, dotted over this plain of Tver, which covers an area of nearly twohundred square miles. The remainder of it is pasture, where miserablecattle and a few horses, many sheep and countless pigs, seek their foodpessimistically from God. 

Steinmetz looked round over this cheerless prospect with a twinkle ofamused resignation in his blue eyes, as if this creation were a littlepractical joke, which he, Karl Steinmetz, appreciated at its properworth. The whole scene was suggestive of immense distance, of countlessmiles in all directions--a suggestion not conveyed by any scene inEngland, by few in Europe. In our crowded island we have no conceptionof a thousand miles. How can we? Few of us have travelled five hundredat a stretch. The land through which these men were riding is the homeof great distances--Russia. They rode, moreover, as if they knew it--asif they had ridden for days and were aware of more days in front ofthem. 

The companion of Karl Steinmetz looked like an Englishman. He was youngand fair and quiet. He looked like a youthful athlete from Oxford orCambridge--a simple-minded person who had jumped higher or run quickerthan anybody else without conceit, taking himself, like St. Paul, as hefound himself and giving the credit elsewhere. And one finds that, afterall, in this world of deceit, we are most of us that which we look like. You, madam, look thirty-five to a day, although your figure is stillyouthful, your hair untouched by gray, your face unseamed by care. Youmay look in your mirror and note these accidents with satisfaction; youmay feel young and indulge in the pastimes of youth without effort. Butyou are thirty-five. We know it. We who look at you can see it forourselves, and, if you could only be brought to believe it, we think noworse of you on that account. 

The man who rode beside Karl Steinmetz with gloomy eyes and a vaguesuggestion of flight in his whole demeanor was, like reader and writer, exactly what he seemed. He was the product of an English public schooland university. He was, moreover, a modern product of those seats ofathletic exercise. He had little education and highly developedmuscles--that is to say, he was no scholar but essentially agentleman--a good enough education in its way, and long may Britons seekit!

This young man's name was Paul Howard Alexis, and Fortune had made him aRussian prince. If, however, anyone, even Steinmetz, called him prince, he blushed and became confused. This terrible title had brooded over himwhile at Eton and Cambridge. But no one had found him out; he remainedPaul Howard Alexis so far as England and his friends were concerned. InRussia, however, he was known (by name only, for he avoided Slavonicsociety) as Prince Pavlo Alexis. This plain was his; half the Governmentof Tver was his; the great Volga rolled through his possessions; sixtymiles behind him a grim stone castle bore his name, and a tract of landas vast as Yorkshire was peopled by humble-minded persons who cringed atthe mention of his Excellency. 

All this because thirty years earlier a certain Princess Natásha Alexishad fallen in love with plain Mr. Howard of the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. With Slavonic enthusiasm (for the Russian is the mostromantic race on earth) she informed Mr. Howard of the fact, and dulymarried him. Both these persons were now dead, and Paul Howard Alexisowed it to his mother's influence in high regions that theresponsibilities of princedom were his. At the time when this title wasaccorded to him he had no say in the matter. Indeed, he had little sayin any matters except meals, which he still took in liquid form. Certainit is, however, that he failed to appreciate his honors as soon as hegrew up to a proper comprehension of them. 

Equally certain is it that he entirely failed to recognize theenviability of his position as he rode across the plains of Tver towardthe yellow Volga by the side of Karl Steinmetz. 

"This is great nonsense, " he said suddenly. "I feel like a Nihilist orsome theatrical person of that sort. I do not think it can be necessary, Steinmetz. "

"Not necessary, " answered Steinmetz in thick guttural tones, "butprudent. "

This man spoke with the soft consonants of a German. 

"Prudent, my dear prince. "

"Oh, drop that!"

"When we sight the Volga I will drop it with pleasure. Good Heavens! Iwish I were a prince. I should have it marked on my linen, and sit up inbed to read it on my nightshirt. "

"No, you wouldn't, Steinmetz, " answered Alexis, with a vexed laugh. "Youwould hate it just as much as I do, especially if it meant running awayfrom the best bear-shooting in Europe. "

Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders. 

"Then you should not have been charitable--charity, I tell you, Alexis, covers no sins in this country. "

"Who made me charitable? Besides, no decent-minded fellow could beanything else here. Who told me of the League of Charity, I should liketo know? Who put me into it? Who aroused my pity for these poor beggars?Who but a stout German cynic called Steinmetz?"

"Stout, yes--cynic, if you will--German, no!"

The words were jerked out of him by the galloping horse. 

"Then what are you?"

Steinmetz looked straight in front of him, with a meditation in hisquiet eyes which made a dreamy man of him. 

"That depends. "

Alexis laughed. 

"Yes, I know. In Germany you are a German, in Russia a Slav, in Poland aPole, and in England any thing the moment suggests. "

"Exactly so. But to return to you. You must trust to me in this matter. I know this country. I know what this League of Charity was. It was abigger thing than any dream of. It was a power in Russia--the greatestof all--above Nihilism--above the Emperor himself. Ach Gott! It was awonderful organization, spreading over this country like sunlight over afield. It would have made men of our poor peasants. It was God's work. If there is a God--bien entendu--which some young men deny, because Godfails to recognize their importance, I imagine. And now it is all done. It is crumbled up by the scurrilous treachery of some miscreant. Ach! Ishould like to have him out here on the plain. I would choke him. Formoney, too! The devil--it must have been the devil--to sell that secretto the Government!"

"I can't see what the Government wanted it for, " growled Alexis moodily. 

"No, but I can. It is not the Emperor; he is a gentleman, although hehas the misfortune to wear the purple. No, it is those about him. Theywant to stop education; they want to crush the peasant. They are afraidof being found out; they live in their grand houses, and support theirgrand names on the money they crush out of the starving peasant. "

"So do I, so far as that goes. "

"Of course you do! And I am your steward--your crusher. We do not denyit, we boast of it, but we exchange a wink with the angels--eh?"

Alexis rode on in silence for a few moments. He sat his horse as Englishfoxhunters do--not prettily--and the little animal with erect head andscraggy neck was evidently worried by the unusual grip on his ribs. ForRussians sit back, with a short stirrup and a loose seat, when they aretravelling. One must not form one's idea of Russian horsemanship fromthe erect carriage affected in the Newski Prospect. 

"I wish, " he said abruptly, "that I had never attempted to do any good;doing good to mankind doesn't pay. Here I am running away from my ownhome as if I were afraid of the police! The position is impossible. "

Steinmetz shook his shaggy head. 

"No. No position is impossible in this country--except the Czar's--ifone only keeps cool. For men such as you and I any position is quiteeasy. But these Russians are too romantic--too exaltés--they give way toa morbid love of martyrdom: they think they can do no good to mankindunless they are uncomfortable. "

Alexis turned in his saddle and looked keenly into his companion's face. 

"Do you know, " he said, "I believe you founded the Charity League?"

Steinmetz laughed in his easy, stout way. 

"It founded itself, " he said; "the angels founded it in heaven. I hope acommittee of them will attend to the eternal misery of the dog whobetrayed it. "

"I trust they will, but in the meantime I stick to my opinion that it isunnecessary for me to leave the country. What have I done? I do notbelong to the League; it is composed entirely of Russian nobles; I don'tadmit that I am a Russian noble. "

"But, " persisted Steinmetz quietly, "you subscribe to the League. Fourhundred thousand rubles--they do not grow at the roadside. "

"But the rubles have not my name on them. "

"That may be, but we all--_they all_--know where they are likely to comefrom. My dear Paul, you cannot keep up the farce any longer. You are notan English gentleman who comes across here for sporting purposes; you donot live in the old Castle of Osterno three months in the year becauseyou have a taste for mediaeval fortresses. You are a Russian prince, andyour estates are the happiest, the most enlightened in the empire. Thatalone is suspicious. You collect your rents yourself. You have no Germanagents--no German vampires about you. There are a thousand thingssuspicious about Prince Pavlo Alexis if those that be in high placesonly come to think about it. They have not come to think aboutit--thanks to our care and to your English independence. But that isonly another reason why we should redouble our care. You must not be inRussia when the Charity League is picked to pieces. There will betrouble--half the nobility in Russia will be in it. There will beconfiscations and degradations: there will be imprisonment and Siberiafor some. You are better out of it, for you are not an Englishman; youhave not even a Foreign Office passport. Your passport is your patent ofnobility, and that is Russian. No, you are better out of it. "

"And you--what about you?" asked Paul, with a little laugh--the laughthat one brave man gives when he sees another do a plucky thing. 

"I! Oh, I am all right! I am nobody; I am hated of all the peasantsbecause I am your steward and so hard--so cruel. That is my certificateof harmlessness with those that are about the Emperor. "

Paul made no answer. He was not of an argumentative mind, being a largeman, and consequently inclined to the sins of omission rather than tothe active form of doing wrong. He had an enormous faith in KarlSteinmetz, and, indeed, no man knew Russia better than this cosmopolitanadventurer. Steinmetz it was who pricked forward with all speed, wearinghis hardy little horse to a drooping semblance of its former self. Steinmetz it was who had recommended quitting the travelling carriageand taking to the saddle, although his own bulk led him to prefer theslower and more comfortable method of covering space. It would almostseem that he doubted his own ascendency over his companion and master, which semblance was further increased by a subtle ring of anxiety in hisvoice while he argued. It is possible that Karl Steinmetz suspected thelate Princess Natásha of having transmitted to her son a smallhereditary portion of that Slavonic exaltation and recklessness ofconsequence which he deplored. 

"Then you turn back at Tver?" enquired Paul, at length breaking a longsilence. 

"Yes; I must not leave Osterno just now. Perhaps later, when the winterhas come, I will follow. Russia is quiet during the winter, very quiet. Ha, ha!"

He shrugged his shoulders and shivered. But the shiver was interrupted. He raised himself in his saddle and peered forward into the gatheringdarkness. 

"What is that, " he asked sharply, "on the road in front?"

Paul had already seen it. 

"It looks like a horse, " he answered--"a strayed horse, for it has norider. "

They were going west, and what little daylight there was lived on thewestern horizon. The form of the horse, cut out in black relief againstthe sky, was weird and ghostlike. It was standing by the side of theroad, apparently grazing. As they approached it, its outlines becamemore defined. 

"It has a saddle, " said Steinmetz at length. "What have we here?"

The beast was evidently famishing, for, as they came near, it neverceased its occupation of dragging the wizened tufts of grass up, rootand all. 

"What have we here?" repeated Steinmetz. 

And the two men clapped spurs to their tired horses. 

The solitary waif had a rider, but he was not in the saddle. One footwas caught in the stirrup, and as the horse moved on from tuft to tuftit dragged its dead master along the ground. 

CHAPTER II

BY THE VOLGA

"This is going to be unpleasant, " muttered Steinmetz, as he cumbrouslyleft the saddle. "That man is dead--has been dead some days; he's stiff. And the horse has been dragging him face downward. God in heaven! thiswill be unpleasant. "

Paul had leaped to the ground, and was already loosening the dead man'sfoot from the stirrup. He did it with a certain sort of skill, despitethe stiffness of the heavy riding-boot, as if he had walked a hospitalin his time. Very quickly Steinmetz came to his assistance, tenderlylifting the dead man and laying him on his back. 

"Ach!" he exclaimed; "we are unfortunate to meet a thing like this. "

There was no need of Paul Alexis' medical skill to tell that this manwas dead; a child would have known it. Before searching the pocketsSteinmetz took out his own handkerchief and laid it over a face whichhad become unrecognizable. The horse was standing over them. It bent itshead and sniffed wonderingly at that which had once been its master. There was a singular, scared look in its eyes. 

Steinmetz pushed aside the enquiring muzzle. 

"If you could speak, my friend, " he said, "we might want you. As it is, you had better continue your meal. "

Paul was unbuttoning the dead man's clothes. He inserted his hand withinthe rough shirt. 

"This man, " he said, "was starving. He probably fainted from sheerexhaustion and rolled out of the saddle. It is hunger that killed him. "

"With his pocket full of money, " added Steinmetz, withdrawing his handfrom the dead man's pocket and displaying a bundle of notes and somesilver. 

There was nothing in any of the other pockets--no paper, no clue of anysort to the man's identity. 

The two finders of this silent tragedy stood up and looked around them. It was almost dark. They were ten miles from a habitation. It does notsound much; but a traveller would be hard put to place ten miles betweenhimself and a habitation in the whole of the British Islands. This, added to a lack of road or path which is unknown to us in England, madeten miles of some importance. 

Steinmetz had pushed his fur cap to the back of his head, which he wasscratching pensively. He had a habit of scratching his forehead with onefinger, which denoted thought. 

"Now, what are we to do?" he muttered. "Can't bury the poor chap and saynothing about it. I wonder where his passport is? We have here atragedy. "

He turned to the horse, which was grazing hurriedly. 

"My friend of the four legs, " he said, "it is a thousand pities that youare dumb. "

Paul was still examining the dead man with that callousness whichdenotes one who, for love or convenience, has become a doctor. He was adoctor--an amateur. He was a Caius man. 

Steinmetz looked down at him with a little laugh. He noticed thetenderness of the touch, the deft fingering which had something ofrespect in it. Paul Alexis was visibly one of those men who take mankindseriously, and have that in their hearts which for want of a better wordwe call sympathy. 

"Mind you do not catch some infectious disease, " said Steinmetz gruffly. "I should not care to handle any stray moujik one finds dead about theroadside; unless, of course, you think there is more money about him. Itwould be a pity to leave that for the police. "

Paul did not answer. He was examining the limp, dirty hands of the deadman. The fingers were covered with soil, the nails were broken. He hadevidently clutched at the earth and at every tuft of grass, after hisfall from the saddle. 

"Look here, at these hands, " said Paul suddenly. "This is an Englishman. You never see fingers this shape in Russia. "

Steinmetz stooped down. He held out his own square-tipped fingers incomparison. Paul rubbed the dead hand with his sleeve as if it were apiece of statuary. 

"Look here, " he continued, "the dirt rubs off and leaves the hand quitea gentlemanly color. This"--he paused and lifted Steinmetz'shandkerchief, dropping it again hurriedly over the mutilated face--"thisthing was once a gentleman. "

"It certainly has seen better days, " admitted Steinmetz, with a grimhumor which was sometimes his. "Come, let us drag him beneath thatpine-tree and ride on to Tver. We shall do no good, my dear Alexis, wasting our time over the possible antecedents of a gentleman who, forreasons of his own, is silent on the subject. "

Paul rose from the ground. His movements were those of a strong andsupple man, one whose muscles had never had time to grow stiff. He wasan active man, who never hurried. Standing thus upright he was verytall--nearly a giant. Only in St. Petersburg, of all the cities of theworld, could he expect to pass unnoticed--the city of tall men and plainwomen. He rubbed his two hands together in a singularly professionalmanner which sat amiss on him. 

"What do you propose doing?" he asked. "You know the laws of thiscountry better than I do. "

Steinmetz scratched his forehead with his forefinger. 

"Our theatrical friends the police, " he said, "are going to enjoy this. Suppose we prop him up sitting against that tree--no one will run awaywith him--and lead his horse into Tver. I will give notice to thepolice, but I will not do so until you are in the Petersburg train. Iwill, of course, give the ispravnik to understand that your princelymind could not be bothered by such details as this--that you haveproceeded on your journey. "

"I do not like leaving the poor beggar alone all night, " said Paul. "There may be wolves--the crows in the early morning. "

"Bah! that is because you are so soft-hearted. My dear fellow, whatbusiness is it of ours if the universal laws of nature are illustratedupon this unpleasant object? We all live on each other. The wolves andthe crows have the last word. Tant mieux for the wolves and the crows!Come, let us carry him to that tree. "

The moon was just rising over the line of the horizon. All around themthe steppe lay in grim and lifeless silence. In such a scene, where lifeseemed rare and precious, death gained in its power of inspiring fear. It is different in crowded cities, where an excess of human life seemsto vouch for the continuity of the race, where, in a teeming population, one life more or less seems of little value. The rosy hue of sunset wasfading to a clear green, and in the midst of a cloudless sky, Jupiter--very near the earth at that time--shone intense, and brilliantlike a lamp. It was an evening such as only Russia and the great Northlands ever see, where the sunset is almost in the north and the sunriseholds it by the hand. Over the whole scene there hung a clear, transparent night, green and shimmering, which would never be darkerthan an English twilight. 

The two living men carried the nameless, unrecognizable dead to aresting-place beneath a stunted pine a few paces removed from the road. They laid him decently at full length, crossing his soil-begrimed handsover his breast, tying the handkerchief down over his face. 

Then they turned and left him, alone in that luminous night. A waif thathad fallen by the great highway without a word, without a sign. Ahalf-run race--a story cut off in the middle; for he was a young manstill; his hair, all dusty, draggled, and bloodstained, had no streak ofgray; his hands were smooth and youthful. There was a vague suspicion ofsensual softness about his body, as if this might have been a man wholoved comfort and ease, who had always chosen the primrose path, hadnever learned the salutary lesson of self-denial. The incipientstoutness of limb contrasted strangely with the drawn meagreness of hisbody, which was contracted by want of food. Paul Alexis was right. Thisman had died of starvation, within ten miles of the great Volga, withinnine miles of the outskirts of Tver, a city second to Moscow, and onceher rival. Therefore it could only be that he had purposely avoided thedwellings of men; that he was a fugitive of some sort or another. Paul'stheory that this was an Englishman had not been received with enthusiasmby Steinmetz; but that philosopher had stooped to inspect the narrow, tell-tale fingers. Steinmetz, be it noted, had an infinite capacity forholding his tongue. 

They mounted their horses and rode away without looking back. But theydid not speak, as if each were deep in his own thoughts. Material hadindeed been afforded them, for who could tell who this featureless manmight be? They were left in a state of hopeless curiosity, as who, having picked up a page with "Finis" written upon it, falls to wonderingwhat the story may have been. 

Steinmetz had thrown the bridle of the straying horse over his arm, andthe animal trotted obediently by the side of the fidgety littleCossacks. 

"That was bad luck, " exclaimed the elder man at length, "d--d bad luck!In this country the less you find, the less you see, the less youunderstand, the simpler is your existence. Those Nihilists, with theirmysterious ways and their reprehensible love of explosives, have madehonest men's lives a burden to them. "

"Their motives were originally good, " put in Paul. 

"That is possible; but a good motive is no excuse for a bad means. Theywanted to get along too quickly. They are pig-headed, exalted, unpractical to a man. I do not mention the women, because when womenmeddle in politics they make fools of themselves, even in England. TheseNihilists would have been all very well if they had been content to sowfor posterity. But they wanted to see the fruits of their labors in onegeneration. Education does not grow like that. It requires a couple ofgenerations to germinate. It has to be manured by the brains of foolsbefore it is of any use. In England it has reached this stage; here inRussia the sowing has only begun. Now, we were doing some good. TheCharity League was the thing. It began by training their starved bodiesto be ready for the education when it came. And very little of it wouldhave come in our time. If you educate a hungry man, you set a devilloose upon the world. Fill their stomachs before you feed their brains, or you will give them mental indigestion; and a man with mentalindigestion raises hell or cuts his own throat. "

"That is just what I want to do--fill their stomachs. I don't care aboutthe rest. I'm not responsible for the progress of the world or the goodof humanity, " said Paul. 

He rode on in silence; then he burst out again in the curt phraseologyof a man whose feeling is stronger than he cares to admit. 

"I've got no grand ideas about the human race, " he said. "A very littlecontents me. A little piece of Tver, a few thousand peasants, are goodenough for me. It seems rather hard that a fellow can't give away of hissurplus money in charity if he is such a fool as to want to. "

Steinmetz was riding stubbornly along. Suddenly he gave a littlechuckle--a guttural sound expressive of a somewhat Germanicsatisfaction. 

"I don't see how they can stop us, " he said. "The League, of course, isdone; it will crumble away in sheer panic. But here, in Tver, theycannot stop us. "

He clapped his great hand on his thigh with more glee than one wouldhave expected him to feel; for this man posed as a cynic--a despiser ofmen, a scoffer at charity. 

"They'll find it very difficult to stop me, " muttered Paul Alexis. 

It was now dark--as dark as ever it would be. Steinmetz peered throughthe gloom toward him with a little laugh--half tolerance, halfadmiration. 

The country was here a little more broken. Long, low hills, like vastwaves, rose and fell beneath the horses' feet. Ages ago the Volga mayhave been here, and, slowly narrowing, must have left these hills indeposit. From the crest of an incline the horsemen looked down over avast rolling tableland, and far ahead of them a great white streakbounded the horizon. 

"The Volga!" said Steinmetz. "We are almost there. And there, to theright, is the Tversha. It is like a great catapult. Gott! what awonderful night! No wonder these Russians are romantic. What a night fora pipe and a long chair! This horse of mine is tired. He shakes me mostabominably. "

"Like to change?" enquired Paul curtly. 

"No; it would make no difference. You are as heavy as I, although I amwider! Ah! there are the lights of Tver. "

Ahead of them a few lights twinkled feebly, sometimes visible and thenhidden again as they rode over the rolling hillocks. One plain eversuggests another, but the resemblance between the steppes of Tver andthe great Sahara is at times startling. There is in both that roll as ofthe sea--the great roll that heaves unceasingly round the Capes of GoodHope and Horn. Looked at casually, Tver and Sahara's plains are level, and it is only in crossing them that one realizes the gentle up and downbeneath the horses' feet. 

Soon Steinmetz raised his head and sniffed in a loud Teutonic manner. Itwas the reek of water; for great rivers, like the ocean, have theirsmell. And the Volga is a revelation. Men travel far to see a city, butfew seem curious about a river. Every river has, nevertheless, itsindividuality, its great silent interest. Every river has, moreover, itsinfluence, which extends to the people who pass their lives within sightof its waters. Thus the Guadalquivir is rapid, mysterious, untrammelled--breaking frequently from its boundary. And it runs throughAndalusia. The Nile--the river of ages--runs clear, untroubled throughthe centuries, between banks untouched by man. The Rhine--romantic, cultivated, artificial, with a rough subcurrent and a muddy bed--throughGermany. The Seine and the Thames--shallow--shallow--shallow. Andwe--who live upon their banks!

The Volga--immense, stupendous, a great power, an influence two thousandfour hundred miles long. Some have seen the Danube, and think they haveseen a great river. So they have; but the Russian giant is seven hundredmiles longer. A vast yellow stream, moving on to the distant sea--slow, gentle, inexorable, overwhelming. 

All great things in nature have the power of crushing the humanintellect. Russians are thus crushed by the vastness of their country, of their rivers. Man is but a small thing in a great country, and thosewho live by Nile, or Guadalquivir, or Volga seem to hold their lives oncondition. They exist from day to day by the tolerance of their river. 

Steinmetz and Paul paused for a moment on the wooden floating bridge andlooked at the great river. All who cross that bridge, or the railwaybridge higher up the stream, must do the same. They pause and draw adeep breath, as if in the presence of something supernatural. 

They rode on without speaking through the squalid town--the whilom rivaland the victim of brilliant Moscow. They rode straight to the station, where they dined in, by the way, one of the best railway refreshmentrooms in the world. At one o'clock the night express from Moscow to St. Petersburg, with its huge American locomotive, rumbled into the station. Paul secured a chair in the long saloon car, and then returned to theplatform. The train waited twenty minutes for refreshments, and he stillhad much to say to Steinmetz; for one of these men owned a principalityand the other governed it. They walked up and down the long platform, smoking endless cigarettes, talking gravely. 

Steinmetz stood on the platform and watched the train pass slowly awayinto the night. Then he went toward a lamp, and taking apocket-handkerchief from his pocket, examined each corner of it insuccession. It was a small pocket-handkerchief of fine cambric. In onecorner were the initials S. S. B. , worked neatly in white--such embroideryas is done in St. Petersburg. 

"Ach!" exclaimed Steinmetz shortly; "something told me that that washe. "

He turned the little piece of cambric over and over, examining itslowly, with a heavy Germanic cunning. He had taken this handkerchieffrom the body of the nameless rider who was now lying alone on thesteppe twelve miles away. 

Steinmetz returned to the large refreshment room, and ordered the waiterto bring him a glass of Benedictine, which he drank slowly andthoughtfully. 

Then he went toward the large black stove which stands in the railwayrestaurant at Tver. He opened the door with the point of his boot. Thewood was roaring and crackling within. He threw the handkerchief in andclosed the door. 

"It is as well, mon prince, " he muttered, "that I found this, and notyou. "

CHAPTER III

DIPLOMATIC

"All that there is of the most brilliant and least truthful in Europe, "M. Claude de Chauxville had said to a lady earlier in the evening, apropos of the great gathering at the French Embassy, and the mot hadgone the round of the room. 

In society a little mot will go a long way. M. Le Baron de Chauxvillewas, moreover, a manufacturer of mots. By calling he was attaché to theFrench Embassy in London; by profession he was an epigrammatist. That isto say, he was a sort of social revolver. He went off if one touched himconversationally, and like others among us, he frequently missed fire. 

Of course, he had but little real respect for the truth. If one wishesto be epigrammatic, one must relinquish the hope of being eitheragreeable or veracious. M. De Chauxville did not really intend to conveythe idea that any of the persons assembled in the great guest chambersof the French Embassy that evening were anything but what they seemed. 

He could not surely imagine that Lady Mealhead--the beautiful spouse ofthe seventh Earl Mealhead--was anything but what she seemed: namely, agreat lady. Of course, M. De Chauxville knew that Lady Mealhead had oncebeen the darling of the music-halls, and that a thousand hearts hadvociferously gone out to her from sixpenny and even threepenny gallerieswhen she answered to the name of Tiny Smalltoes. But then M. DeChauxville knew as well as you and I--Lady Mealhead no doubt had toldhim--that she was the daughter of a clergyman, and had chosen the stagein preference to the school-room as a means of supporting her agedmother. Whether M. De Chauxville believed this or not, it is not for usto enquire. He certainly looked as if he believed it when Lady Mealheadtold him--and his expressive Gallic eyes waxed tender at the mention ofher mother, the relict of the late clergyman, whose name had somehowbeen overlooked by Crockford. A Frenchman loves his mother--in theabstract. 

Nor could M. De Chauxville take exception at young Cyril Squyrt, thepoet. Cyril looked like a poet. He wore his hair over his collar at theback, and below the collar-bone in front. And, moreover, he was apoet--one of those who write for ages yet unborn. Besides, his poemscould be bought (of the publisher only; the railway bookstall men didnot understand them) beautifully bound; really beautifully bound inwhite kid, with green ribbon--a very thin volume and very thin poetry. Meddlesome persons have been known to state that Cyril Squyrt's fatherkept a prosperous hot-sausage-and-mashed-potato shop in Leeds. But onemust not always believe all that one hears. 

It appears that beneath the turf, or on it, all men are equal, so no onecould object to the presence of Billy Bale, the man, by Gad! who couldgive you the straight tip on any race, and looked like it. We all knowBale's livery stable, the same being Billy's father; but no matter. Billy wears the best cut riding-breeches in the Park, and, let me tellyou, there are many folk in society with a smaller recommendation thanthat. 

Now, it is not our business to go round the rooms of the French Embassypicking holes in the earthly robes of society's elect. Suffice it to saythat every one was there. Miss Kate Whyte, of course, who had made aplace in society and held it by the indecency of her language. LadyMealhead said she couldn't stand Kitty Whyte at any price. We are sorryto use such a word as indecency in connection with a young person of thegentler sex, but facts must sometimes be recognized. And it is a barefact that society tolerated, nay, encouraged, Kitty Whyte, becausesociety never knew, and always wanted to know, what she would say next. She sailed so near to the unsteady breeze of decorum that thesafer-going craft hung breathlessly in her wake in the hope of an upset. 

Every one, in fact, was there. All those who have had greatness thrustupon them, and the others, those who thrust themselves upon thegreat--those, in a word, who reach such as are above them by doing thatwhich should be beneath them. Lord Mealhead, by the way, was not there. He never is anywhere where the respectable writer and his high-bornreader are to be found. It is discreet not to enquire where LordMealhead is, especially of Lady Mealhead, who has severed morecompletely her connection with the past. His lordship is, perchance, ofa sentimental humor, and loves to wander in those pasteboard groveswhere first he met his Tiny--and very natural, too. 

There was music and the refreshments. It was, in fact, a reception. Gaul's most lively sons bowed before Albion's fairest daughters, anddisplayed that fund of verve and esprit which they rightly pridethemselves upon possessing, and which, of course, leave mere Englishmenso far behind in the paths of love and chivalry. 

When not thus actively engaged they whispered together in corners andnudged each other, exchanging muttered comments, in which the wordcharmante came conveniently to the fore. Thus, the lightsome son ofrepublican Gaul in society. 

It is, however, high time to explain the reason of our own presence--ofour own reception by France's courteous representative. We are here tomeet Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, and, moreover, to confine our attention tothe persons more or less implicated in the present history. 

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough was undoubtedly the belle of the evening. She hadonly to look in one of the many mirrors to make sure of that fact. Andif she wanted further assurance a hundred men in the room would havebeen ready to swear to it. This lady had recently dawned on Londonsociety--a young widow. She rarely mentioned her husband; it wasunderstood to be a painful subject. He had been attached to severalembassies, she said; he had a brilliant career before him, and suddenlyhe had died abroad. And then she gave a little sigh and a bright smile, which, being interpreted, meant "Let us change the subject. "

There was never any doubt about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. She wasaristocratic to the tips of her dainty white fingers--composed, gentle, and quite sure of herself. Quite the grand lady, as Lady Mealhead said. But Mrs. Sydney Bamborough did not know Lady Mealhead, which may haveaccounted for the titled woman's little sniff of interrogation. As amatter of fact, Etta Sydney Bamborough came from excellent ancestry, andcould claim an uncle here, a cousin there, and a number of distantrelatives everywhere, should it be worth the while. 

It was safe to presume that she was rich from the manner in which shedressed, the number of servants and horses she kept, the general air ofwealth which pervaded her existence. That she was beautiful any onecould see for himself--not in the shop-windows, among the presumablyself-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper place--namely, in her own and other aristocratic drawing-rooms. 

She was talking to a tall, fair Frenchman--in perfect French--and washerself nearly as tall as he. Bright brown hair waved prettily back froma white forehead, clever, dark gray eyes and a lovely complexion--one ofthose complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a steadiness ofnerve, never change. Cheeks of a faint pink, an expressive, mobilemouth, a neck of dazzling white. Such was Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in theprime of her youth. 

"And you maintain that it is five years since we met, " she was saying tothe tall Frenchman. 

"Have I not counted every day?" he replied. 

"I do not know, " she answered, with a little laugh, that little laughwhich tells wise men where flattery may be shot like so muchconversational rubbish. Some women are fathomless pits, the rubbishnever seems to fill them. "I do not know, but I should not think so. "

"Well, madam, it is so. Witness these gray hairs. Ah! those were happydays in St. Petersburg. "

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough smiled--a pleasant society smile, not toopronounced and just sufficient to suggest pearly teeth. At the mentionof St. Petersburg she glanced round to see that they were not overheard. She gave a little shiver. 

"Don't speak of Russia!" she pleaded. "I hate to hear it mentioned. Iwas so happy. It is painful to remember. "

Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed to one of gaydelight. She nodded and smiled toward a tall man who was evidentlylooking for her, and took no notice of the Frenchman's apologies. 

"Who _is_ that?" asked the young man. "I see him everywhere lately. "

"A mere English gentleman, Mr. Paul Howard Alexis, " replied the lady. 

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. He knew better. This was no plainEnglish gentleman. He bowed and took his leave. M. De Chauxville of theFrench Embassy was watching every movement, every change of expression, from across the room. 

In evening dress the man whom we last saw on the platform of the railwaystation at Tver did not look so unmistakably English. It was moreevident that he had inherited certain characteristics from his Russianmother--notably, his great height, a physical advantage enjoyed by manyaristocratic Russian families. His hair was fair and inclined to curl, and there the foreign suggestion suddenly ceased. His face had the quietconcentration, the unobtrusive self-absorption which one sees morestrongly marked in English faces than in any others. His manner ofmoving through the well-dressed crowd somewhat belied the tan of hisskin. Here was an out-of-door, athletic youth, who knew how to move indrawing-rooms--a big man who did not look much too large for hissurroundings. It was evident that he did not know many people, and alsothat he was indifferent to his loss. He had come to see Mrs. SydneyBamborough, and that lady was not insensible to the fact. 

To prove this she diverged from the path of veracity, as is the way ofsome women. 

"I did not expect to see you here, " she said. 

"You told me you were coming, " he answered simply. The inference wouldhave been enough for some women, but not for Etta Sydney Bamborough. 

"Well, is that a reason why you should attend a diplomatic soirée, andforce yourself to bow and smirk to a number of white-handed littledandies whom you despise?"

"The best reason, " he answered quietly, with an honesty which somehowtouched her as nothing else had touched this beautiful woman since shehad become aware of her beauty. 

"Then you think it worth the bowing and the smirking?" she asked, looking past him with innocent eyes. She made an imperceptible littlemovement toward him as if she expected him to whisper. She was of thatschool. But he was not. His was not the sort of mind to conceive anythought that required whispering. Some persons in fact went so far as tosay that he was hopelessly dull, that he had no subtlety of thought, nobrightness, no conversation. These persons were no doubt ladies uponwhom he had failed to lavish the exceedingly small change of compliment. 

"It is worth that and more, " he replied, with his ready smile. "Afterall, bowing and smirking come very easily. One soon gets accustomed toit. "

"One has to, " she replied with a little sigh. "Especially if one is awoman, which little mishap comes to some of us, you know. I wonder ifyou could find me a chair. "

She was standing with her back to a small sofa capable of holding three, but calculated to accommodate two. She did not of course see it. In factshe looked everywhere but toward it, raising her perfectly glovedfingers tentatively for his arm. 

"I am tired of standing, " she added. 

He turned and indicated the sofa, toward which she immediately advanced. As she sat down he noted vaguely that she was exquisitely dressed, certainly one of the best dressed women in the room. Her costume wasdaring without being startling, being merely black and white largely, boldly contrasted. He felt indefinitely proud of the dress. Someinstinct in the man's simple, strong mind told him that it was good forwomen to be beautiful, but his ignorance of the sex being profound hehad no desire to analyze the beauty. He had no mental reservation withregard to her. Indeed it would have been hard to find fault with EttaSydney Bamborough, looking upon her merely as a beautiful woman, exquisitely dressed. In a cynical age this man was without cynicism. Hedid not dream of reflecting that the lovely hair owed half its beauty tothe clever handling of a maid, that the perfect dress had been theall-absorbing topic of many of its wearer's leisure hours. He was, infact, young for his years, and what is youth but a happy ignorance? Itis only when we know too much that Gravity marks us for her own. 

Mrs. Sydney Bamborough looked up at him with a certain admiration. Thisman was like a mountain breeze to one who has breathed nothing but thefaded air of drawing-rooms. 

She drew in her train with a pretty curve of her gloved wrist. 

"You look as if you did not know what it was to be tired; but perhapsyou will sit down. I can make room. "

He accepted with alacrity. 

"And now, " she said, "let me hear where you have been. I have only hadtime to shake hands with you the last twice that we have met! You saidyou had been away. "

"Yes; I have been to Russia. "

Her face was steadily beautiful, composed and ready. 

"Ah! How interesting! I have been in Petersburg. I love Russia. " Whileshe spoke she was actually looking across the room toward the tallFrenchman, her late companion. 

"Do you?" answered Paul eagerly. His face lighted up after the manner ofthose countenances that belong to men of one idea. "I am very muchinterested in Russia. "

"Do you know Petersburg?" she asked rather hurriedly. "I mean--societythere?"

"No. I know one or two people in Moscow. "

She nodded, suppressing a quick little sigh which might have been one ofrelief had her face been less pleasant and smiling. 

"Who?" she asked indifferently. She was interested in the lace of herpocket-handkerchief, of which the scent faintly reached him. He was asimple person, and the faint odor gave him a distinct pleasure--asuggested intimacy. 

He mentioned several well-known Muscovite names, and she broke into asudden laugh. 

"How terrible they sound, " she said gayly, "even to me, and I have beento Petersburg. But you speak Russian, Mr. Alexis?"

"Yes, " he answered. "And you?"

She shook her head and gave a little sigh. 

"I? Oh, no. I am not at all clever, I am afraid. "

CHAPTER IV

DON QUIXOTE

Paul had been five months in England when he met Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. Since his hurried departure from Tver a winter had come and gone, leaving its mark as winters do. It left a very distinct mark on Russia. It was a famine winter. From the snow-ridden plains that lie to thenorth of Moscow, Karl Steinmetz had written piteous descriptions of anexistence which seemed hardly worth the living. But each letter hadterminated with a prayer, remarkably near to a command, that he, PaulHoward Alexis, should remain in England. So Paul stayed in London, wherehe indulged to the full a sadly mistaken hobby. This man had, as we haveseen, that which is called a crank, or a loose screw, according to thefancy of the speaker. He had conceived the absurd idea of benefiting hisfellow-beings, and of turning into that mistaken channel the surpluswealth that was his. This, moreover, if it please you, without so muchas forming himself into a society. 

This is an age of societies, and, far from concealing from the left handthe good which the right may be doing, we publish abroad our charitieson all hands. We publish in a stout volume our names and donations. Weeven go so far as to cultivate an artificial charity by meat and drinkand speeches withal. When we have eaten and drunk, the plate is handedround, and from the fulness of our heart we give abundantly. We arecunning even in our well-doing. We do not pass round the plate until thedecanters have led the way. And thus we degrade that quality of thehuman heart which is the best of all. 

But Paul Howard Alexis had the good fortune to be rich out of England, and that roaring lion of modern days, organized charity, passed him by. He was thus left to evolve from his own mind a mistaken sense of hisduty toward his neighbor. That there were thousands of well-meaningpersons in black and other coats ready to prove to him that revenuesgathered from Russia should be spent in the East End or the East Indies, goes without saying. There are always well-meaning persons among usready to direct the charity of others. We have all met those virtuouspersons who do good by proxy. But Paul had not. He had never come faceto face with the charity broker--the man who stands between the needyand the giver, giving nothing himself, and living on his brokerage, sitting in a comfortable chair, with his feet on a Turkey carpet in hisoffice on a main thoroughfare. Paul had met none of these, and the onlyorganized charity of which he was cognizant was the great RussianCharity League, betrayed six months earlier to a government which hasever turned its face against education and enlightenment. In this he hadtaken no active part, but he had given largely of his great wealth. Thathis name had figured on the list of families sold for a vast sum ofmoney to the authorities of the Ministry of the Interior seemed all toosure. But he had had no intimation that he was looked upon with smallfavor. The more active members of the League had been less fortunate, and more than one nobleman had been banished to his estates. 

Although the sum actually paid for the papers of the Charity League wasknown, the recipient of the blood money had never been discovered. Itwas a large sum, for the government had been quick to recognize thenecessity of nipping this movement in the bud. Education is a dangerousmatter to deal with; England is beginning to find this out for herself. For on the heels of education socialism ever treads. When at lasteducation makes a foothold in Russia, that foothold will be on the verystep of the autocratic throne. The Charity League had, as Steinmetz putit, the primary object of preparing the peasant for education, andthereafter placing education within his reach. Such proceedings werenaturally held by those in high places to be only second to Nihilism. 

All this, and more which shall transpire in the course of thisnarration, was known to Paul. In face of the fact that his name wasprominently before the Russian Ministry of the Interior, he proceededall through the winter to ship road-making tools, agriculturalimplements, seeds, and food. 

"The prince, " said Steinmetz to those who were interested in the matter, "is mad. He thinks that a Russian principality is to be worked on thesame system as an English estate. "

He would laugh and shrug his shoulders, and then he would sit down andsend a list of further requirements to Paul Howard Alexis, Esquire, inLondon. 

Paul had met Mrs. Sydney Bamborough on one or two occasions, and hadbeen interested in her. From the first he had come under the influenceof her beauty. But she was then a married woman. He met her again towardthe end of the terrible winter to which reference has been made, andfound that a mere acquaintanceship had in the meantime developed intofriendship. He could not have told when and where the great socialbarrier had been surmounted and left behind. He only knew in anindefinite way that some such change had taken place, as all suchchanges do, not in intercourse, but in the intervals of absence. It is asingular fact that we do not make our friends when they are near. Theseed of friendship and love alike is soon sown, and the best is thatwhich germinates in absence. 

That friendship had rapidly developed into something else Paul becameaware early in the season; and, as we have seen from his conversation, Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, innocent and guileless as she was, might withall modesty have divined the state of his feelings had she been lessovershadowed by her widow's weeds. 

She apparently had no such suspicion, for she asked Paul in all goodfaith to call the next day and tell her all about Russia--"dear Russia. "

"My cousin Maggie, " she added, "is staying with me. She is a dear girl. I am sure you will like her. "

Paul accepted with alacrity, but reserved to himself the option ofhating Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's cousin Maggie, merely because that younglady existed and happened to be staying in Upper Brook Street. 

At five o'clock the next afternoon he presented himself at the house ofmourning, and completely filled up its small entrance-hall. 

He was shown into the drawing-room, where he discovered Miss MargaretDelafield in the act of dragging her hat off in front of the mirror overthe mantelpiece. He heard a suppressed exclamation of amused horror, andfound himself shaking hands with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 

The lady mentioned Paul's name and her cousin's relationship in thatcasual manner which constitutes an introduction in these degeneratedays. Miss Delafield bowed, laughed, and moved toward the door. She leftthe room, and behind her an impression of breeziness and health, ofEnglish girlhood and a certain bright cheerfulness which acts as afilter in social muddy waters. 

"It is very good of you to come--I was moping, " said Mrs. SydneyBamborough. She was, as a matter of fact, resting before the work of theevening. This lady thoroughly understood the art of being beautiful. 

Paul did not answer at once. He was looking at a large photograph whichstood in a frame on the mantelpiece--the photograph of a handsome man oftwenty-eight or thirty, small-featured, fair, and shifty looking. 

"Who is that?" he asked abruptly. 

"Do you not know? My husband. "

Paul muttered an apology, but he did not turn away from the photograph. 

"Oh, never mind, " said Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in reply to his regretthat he had stumbled upon a painful subject. "I never--"

She paused. 

"No, " she went on, "I won't say that. "

But, so far as conveying what she meant was concerned, she might just aswell have uttered the words. 

"I do not want a sympathy which is unmerited, " she said gravely. 

He turned and looked at her, sitting in a graceful attitude, theincarnation of a most refined and nineteenth-century misfortune. Sheraised her eyes to his for a moment--a sort of photographicinstantaneous shutter, exposing for the hundredth part of a second thesensitive plate of her heart. Then she suppressed a sigh--badly. 

"I was married horribly young, " she said, "before I knew what I wasdoing. But even if I had known I do not suppose I should have had thestrength of mind to resist my father and mother. "

"They forced you into it?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Bamborough. And it is possible that a respectable andharmless pair of corpses turned in their respective coffins somewhere inthe neighborhood of Norwood. 

"I hope there is a special hell reserved for parents who ruin theirdaughters' lives to suit their own ambition, " said Paul, with a suddenconcentrated heat which rather startled his hearer. 

This man was full of surprises for Etta Sydney Bamborough. It was likeplaying with fire--a form of amusement which will be popular as long asfeminine curiosity shall last. 

"You are rather shocking, " she said lightly. "But it is all over now, sowe need not dig up old grievances. Only I want you to understand thatthat photograph represents a part of my life which was onlypainful--nothing else. "

Paul, standing in front of her, looked down thoughtfully at thebeautiful upturned face. His hands were clasped behind him, his firmmouth set sternly beneath the great fair mustache. In Russia the menhave good eyes--blue, fierce, intelligent. Such eyes had the son of thePrincess Alexis. There was something in Etta Bamborough that stirred upwithin him a quality which men are slowly losing--namely, chivalry. Steinmetz held that this man was quixotic, and what Steinmetz said wasusually worth some small attention. Whatever faults that poor knight ofLa Mancha who has been the laughing-stock of the world these manycenturies--whatever faults or foolishness may have been his, he was atall events a gentleman. 

Paul's instinct was to pity this woman for the past that had been hers;his desire was to help her and protect her, to watch over her and fighther battles for her. It was what is called Love. But there is no word inany spoken language that covers so wide a field. Every day and all daywe call many things love which are not love. The real thing is as rareas genius, but we usually fail to recognize its rarity. We misuse theword, for we fail to draw the necessary distinctions. We fail torecognize the plain and simple truth that many of us are not able tolove--just as there are many who are not able to play the piano or tosing. We raise up our voices and make a sound, but it is not singing. Wemarry and we give in marriage, but it is not loving. Love is like acolor--say, blue. There are a thousand shades of blue, and the outershades are at last not blue at all, but green or purple. So in lovethere are a thousand shades, and very, very few of them are worthy ofthe name. 

That which Paul Howard Alexis felt at this time for Etta was merely thechivalrous instinct that teaches men their primary duty towardwomen--namely, to protect and respect them. But out of this instinctgrows the better thing--Love. 

There are some women whose desire it is to be all things to all meninstead of every thing to one. This was the stumbling-block in the wayof Etta Bamborough. It was her instinct to please all at any price, andher obedience to such instinct was often unconscious. She hardly knewperhaps that she was trading upon a sense of chivalry rare in thesedays, but had she known she could not have traded with a keenercomprehension of the commerce. 

"I should like to forget the past altogether, " she said. "But it is hardfor women to get rid of the past. It is rather terrible to feel that onewill be associated all one's life with a person for whom no one had anyrespect. He was not honorable or--"

She paused; for the intuition of some women is marvellous. A slightchange of countenance had told her that charity, especially toward thedead, is a commendable quality. 

"The world, " she went on rather hurriedly, "never makes allowances--doesit? He was easily led, I suppose. And people said things of him thatwere not true. Did you ever hear of him in Russia--of the things theysaid of him?"

She waited for the answer with suppressed eagerness--a good womandefending the memory of her dead husband--a fair lioness protecting hercub. 

"No; I never hear Russian gossip. I know no one in St. Petersburg, andfew in Moscow. "

She gave a little sigh of relief. 

"Then perhaps poor Sydney's delinquencies have been forgotten, " shesaid. "In six months every thing is forgotten now. He has only been deadsix months, you know. He died in Russia. "

All the while she was watching his face. She had moved in a circle whereeverything is known--where men have faces of iron and nerves of steel toconceal what they know. She could hardly believe that Paul Alexis knewso little as he pretended. 

"So I heard a month ago, " he said. 

In a flash of thought Etta remembered that it was only within the lastfour weeks that this admirer had betrayed his admiration. Could this bethat phenomenon of the three-volume novel, an honorable man? She lookedat him with curiosity--without, it is to be feared, much respect. 

"And now, " she said cheerfully, "let us change the subject. I haveinflicted enough of myself and my affairs upon you for one day. Tell meabout yourself. Why were you in Russia last summer?"

"I am half a Russian, " he answered. "My mother was Russian, and I haveestates there. "

Her surprise was a triumph of art. 

"Oh! You are not Prince Pavlo Alexis?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes, I am. "

She rose and swept him a deep courtesy, to the full advantage of herbeautiful figure. 

"My respects--mon prince, " she said; and then, quick as lightning, forshe had seen displeasure on his face, she broke into a merry laugh. 

"No, I won't call you that; for I know you hate it. I have heard of yourprejudices, and if it is of the slightest interest to you, I think Irather admire them. "

It is to be presumed that Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's memory was short. Forit was a matter of common knowledge in the diplomatic circles in whichshe moved that Mr. Paul Howard Alexis of Piccadilly House, London, andPrince Pavlo Alexis of the province of Tver, were one and the same man. 

Having, however, fully established this fact, from the evidence of herown ears, she conversed very pleasantly and innocently upon matters, Russian and English, until other visitors arrived and Paul withdrew. 

CHAPTER V

THE BARON

Among the visitors whom Paul left behind him in the little drawing-roomin Brook Street was the Baron Claude de Chauxville, Baron of Chauxvilleand Chauxville le Duc, in the Province of Seine-et-Marne, France, attaché to the French Embassy to the Court of St. James; before men arising diplomatist, before God a scoundrel. This gentleman remained whenthe other visitors had left, and Miss Maggie Delafield, seeing hisintention of prolonging a visit of which she had already had sufficient, made an inadequate excuse and left the room. 

Miss Delafield, being a healthy-minded young English person of thatsimplicity which is no simplicity at all, but merely simple-heartedness, had her own ideas of what a man should be, and M. De Chauxville had themisfortune to fall short of those ideas. He was too epigrammatic forher, and beneath the brilliancy of his epigram she felt at times thepresence of something dark and nauseous. Her mental attitude toward himwas contemptuous and perfectly polite. With the reputation of possessinga dangerous fascination--one of those reputations which can only emanatefrom the man himself--M. De Chauxville neither fascinated norintimidated Miss Delafield. He therefore disliked her intensely. Hisvanity was colossal, and when a Frenchman is vain he is childishly so. 

M. De Chauxville watched the door close behind Miss Delafield with aqueer smile. Then he turned suddenly on his heels and faced Mrs. SydneyBamborough. 

"Your cousin, " he said, "is a typical Englishwoman--she only concealsher love. "

"For you?" enquired Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 

The baron shrugged his shoulders. 

"Possibly. One can never tell. She conceals it very well if it exists. However, I am indifferent. The virtue of the violet is its own reward, perhaps, for the rose always wins. "

He crossed the room toward Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, who was standing nearthe mantelpiece. Her left hand was hanging idly by her side. He took thewhite fingers and gallantly raised them to his lips, but before they hadreached that fount of truth and wisdom she jerked her hand away. 

M. De Chauxville laughed--the quiet, assured laugh of a man who has readin books that he who is bold enough can win any woman, and believes it. He was of those men who treat and speak of women as a class--creaturesto be dealt with successfully according to generality and maxim. It is asingular thing, by the way, that men as a whole continue to disbelievein a woman's negative--singular, that is, when one reflects that themajority of men have had at least one negative which has remained anegative, so far as they were concerned, all the woman's life. 

"I am aware, " said M. De Chauxville, "that the rose has thorns. Onereason why the violet is hors de concours. "

Etta smiled--almost relenting. She was never quite safe against her ownvanity. Happy the woman who is, and rare. 

"I suspect that the violet is innocent of any desire to enter intocompetition, " said Etta. 

"Knowing, " suggested De Chauxville, "that although the race is notalways to the swift, it is usually so. Please do not stand. It suggeststhat you are waiting for me to go or for some one else to come. "

"Neither. "

"Then prove it by taking this chair. Thus. Near the fire, for it isquite an English spring. A footstool. Is it permitted to admire yourslippers--what there is of them? Now you look comfortable. "

He attended to her wants, divined them, and perhaps created them with aperfect grace and much too intimate a knowledge. As a carpet knight hewas faultless. And Etta thought of Paul, who could do none of thesethings--or would do none of them--Paul, who never made her feel like adoll. 

"Will you not sit down?" she said, indicating a chair, which he did nottake. He selected one nearer to her. 

"I can think of nothing more desirable. "

"Than what?" she asked. Her vanity was like a hungry fish. It rose toeverything. 

"A chair in this room. "

"A modest desire, " she said. "Is that really all you want in thisworld?"

"No, " he answered, looking at her. 

She gave a little laugh and moved rather hurriedly. 

"I was going to suggest that you could have both at certain fixedperiods--whenever--I am out. "

"I am glad you did not suggest it. "

"Why?" she asked sharply. 

"Because I should have had to go into explanations. I did not say all. "

Mrs. Bamborough was looking into the fire, only half listening to him. There was something in the nature of a duel between these two. Eachthought more of the next stroke than of the present party. 

"Do you ever say all, M. De Chauxville?" she asked. 

The baron laughed. Perhaps he was vain of the reputation that was his, for this man was held to be a finished diplomatist. A finisheddiplomatist, be it known, is one who is a dangerous foe and anunreliable friend. 

"Perhaps--now that I reflect upon it, " continued the clever woman, disliking the clever man's silence, "the person who said all would beintolerable. "

"There are some things which go without it, " said De Chauxville. 

"Ah?" looking lazily back at him over her shoulder. 

"Yes. "

He was cautious, for he was fighting on a field which women may rightlyclaim for their own. He really loved Etta. He was trying to gauge themeaning of a little change in her tone toward him--a change so subtlethat few men could have detected it. But Claude de Chauxville--accomplished steersman through the shoals of human nature, especially through those very pronounced shoals who call themselveswomen of the world--Claude de Chauxville knew the value of the slightestchange of manner, should that change manifest itself more than once. 

The ring of indifference, or something dangerously near it, in Etta'svoice had first been noticeable the previous evening, and the attachéknew it. It had been in her voice whenever she spoke to him then. It wasthere now. 

"Some things, " he continued, in a voice she had never heard before, forthis man was innately artificial, "which a woman usually knows beforethey are told to her. "

"What sort of things, M. Le Baron?"

He gave a little laugh. It was so strange a thing to him to be sincerethat he felt awkward and abashed. He was surprised at his own sincerity. 

"That I love you--hum. You have known it long?"

The face which he could not see was not quite the face of a good woman. Etta was smiling. 

"No--o, " she almost whispered. 

"I think you must have known it, " he corrected suavely. "Will you do methe honor of becoming my wife?"

It was very correctly done, Claude de Chauxville had regained controlover himself. He was able to think about the riches which were evidentlyhers. But through the thought he loved the woman. 

The lady lowered the feather screen which she was holding between herface and the fire. Regardless of the imminent danger in which she wasplacing her complexion, she studied the glowing cinders for somemoments, weighing something or some persons in her mind. 

"No, my friend, " she answered in French, at length. 

The baron's face was drawn and white. Beneath his trim black mustachethere was a momentary gleam of sharp white teeth as he bit his lip. 

He came nearer to her, leaning one hand on the back of her chair, looking down. He could only see the beautifully dressed hair, theclean-cut profile. She continued to look into the fire, conscious of thehand close to her shoulder. 

"No, my friend, " she repeated. "We know each other too well for that. Itwould never do. "

"But when I tell you that I love you, " he said quietly, with his voicewell in control. 

"I did not know that the word was in your vocabulary--you, a diplomat. "

"And a man--you put the word there--Etta. "

The hand-screen was raised for a moment in objection--presumably to theChristian name of which he had made use. 

He waited; passivity was one of his strong points. It had frightened menbefore this. 

Then, with a graceful movement, she swung suddenly round in her chair, looking up at him. She broke into a merry laugh. 

"I believe you are actually in earnest!" she cried. 

He looked quietly down into her face without moving a muscle in responseto her change of humor. 

"Very clever, " he said. 

"What?" she asked, still smiling. 

"The attitude, the voice, every thing. You have known all along that Iam in earnest, you have known it for the last six months. You have seenme often enough when I was--well, not in earnest, to know thedifference. "

Etta rose quickly. It was some lightning-like woman's instinct that madeher do so. Standing, she was taller than M. De Chauxville. 

"Do not let us be tragic, " she said coldly. "You have asked me to marryyou; why, I don't know. The reason will probably transpire later. Iappreciate the honor, but I beg to decline it. Et voilà tout. All issaid. "

He spread out apologetic hands. 

"All is not said, " he corrected, with a dangerous suavity. "Iacknowledge the claim enjoyed by your sex to the last word. In thismatter, however, I am inclined to deny it to the individual. "

Etta Sydney Bamborough smiled. She leaned against the mantelpiece, withher chin resting on her curved fingers. The attitude was eminentlycalculated to show to full advantage a faultless figure. She evidentlyhad no desire to cheapen that which she would deny. She shrugged hershoulders and waited. 

De Chauxville was vain, but he was clever enough to conceal his vanity. He was hurt, but he was man enough to hide it. Under the passivity whichwas his by nature and practice, he had learned to think very quickly. But now he was at a disadvantage. He was unnerved by his love forEtta--by the sight of Etta before him daringly, audaciouslybeautiful--by the thought that she might never be his. 

"It is not only that I love you, " he said, "that I have a certainposition to offer you. These I beg you to take at their poor value. Butthere are other circumstances known to both of us which are more worthyof your attention--circumstances which may dispose you to reconsideryour determination. "

"Nothing will do that, " she replied; "not any circumstance. "

Etta was speaking to De Chauxville and thinking of Paul Alexis. 

"I should like to know since when you have discovered that you nevercould under any circumstances marry me, " pursued M. De Chauxville. "Notthat it matters, since it is too late. I am not going to allow you todraw back now. You have gone too far. All this winter you have allowedme to pay you conspicuous and marked attentions. You have conveyed to meand to the world at large the impression that I had merely to speak inorder to obtain your hand. "

"I doubt, " said Etta, "whether the world at large is so deeplyinterested in the matter as you appear to imagine. I am sorry that Ihave gone too far, but I reserve to myself the right of retracing myfootsteps wherever and whenever I please. I am sorry I conveyed to youor to any one else the impression that you had only to speak in order toobtain my hand, and I can only conclude that your overweening vanity hasled you into a mistake which I will be generous enough to hold my tongueabout. "

The diplomatist was for a moment taken aback. 

"Mais--" he exclaimed, with indignant arms outspread; and even in hisown language he could find nothing to add to the expressivemonosyllable. 

"I think you had better go, " said Etta quietly. She went toward thefire-place and rang the bell. 

M. De Chauxville took up his hat and gloves. 

"Of course, " he said coldly, his voice shaking with suppressed rage, "there is some reason for this. There is, I presume, some one else--someone has been interfering. No one interferes with me with impunity. Ishall make it my business to find out who is this--"

He did not finish: for the door was thrown open by the butler, whoannounced:

"Mr. Alexis. "

Paul came into the room with a bow toward De Chauxville, who was goingout, and whom he knew slightly. 

"I came back, " he said, "to ask what evening next week you are free. Ihave a box for the 'Huguenots. '"

Paul did not stay. The thing was arranged in a few moments, and as heleft the drawing-room he heard the wheels of De Chauxville's carriage. 

Etta stood for a moment when the door had closed behind the two men, looking at the portière which had hidden them from sight, as iffollowing them in thought. Then she gave a little laugh--a queer laughthat might have had no heart in it, or too much for the ordinarypurposes of life. She shrugged her shoulders and took up a magazine, with which she returned to the chair placed for her before the fire byClaude de Chauxville. 

In a few minutes Maggie came into the room. She was carrying a bundle offlannel. 

"The weakest thing I ever did, " she said cheerfully, "was to join LadyCrewel's working guild. Two flannel petticoats for the young by Thursdaymorning. I chose the young because the petticoats are so ludicrouslysmall. "

"If you never do anything weaker than that, " said Etta, looking into thefire, "you will not come to much harm. "

"Perhaps not; what have you been doing--something weaker?"

"Yes. I have been quarrelling with M. De Chauxville. "

Maggie held up a petticoat by the selvage (which a male writer takes tobe the lower hem), and looked at her cousin through the orifice intendedfor the waist of the young. 

"If one could manage it without lowering one's dignity, " she said, "Ithink that that is the best thing one could possibly do with M. DeChauxville. "

Etta had taken up the magazine again. She was pretending to read it. 

"Yes; but he knows too much--about every-body, " she said. 

CHAPTER VI

THE TALLEYRAND CLUB

It has been said of the Talleyrand Club that the only qualificationsrequired for admittance to its membership are a frock-coat and a glibtongue. To explain the whereabouts of the Talleyrand Club were only awork of supererogation. Many hansom cabmen know it. Hansom cabmen knowmore than they are credited with. 

The Talleyrand, as its name implies, is a diplomatic club, butambassadors and ministers enter not its portals. They send theirjuniors. Some of these latter are in the habit of stating that London isthe hub of Europe and the Talleyrand smoking-room its grease-box. Certain is it that such men as Claude de Chauxville, as Karl Steinmetz, and a hundred others who are or have been political scene-shifters, areto be found in the Talleyrand rooms. 

It is a quiet club, with many members and sparse accommodation. Itsrooms are never crowded, because half of its members are afraid ofmeeting the other half. It has swinging glass doors to its everyapartment, the lower portion of the glass being opaque, while the uppermoiety affords a peep-hole. Thus, if you are sitting in one of the deep, comfortable chairs to be found in all these small rooms, you will beaware from time to time of eyes and a bald head above the ground glass. If you are nobody, eyes and bald head will prove to be the property of agentleman who does not know you, or knows you and pretends that he doesnot. If you are somebody, your solitude will depend upon yourreputation. 

There are quite a number of bald heads in the Talleyrand Club--baldheads surmounting youthful, innocent faces. The innocence of thesegentlemen is quite remarkable. Like a certain celestial, they are"childlike and bland"; they ask guileless questions; they make blamelessmistakes in respect to facts, and require correction, which they receivemeekly. They know absolutely nothing, and their thirst for informationis as insatiable as it is unobtrusive. 

The atmosphere is vivacious with the light sound of many foreigntongues; it bristles with the ephemeral importance of cheap titles. Onenever knows whether one's neighbor is an ornament to the Almanac deGotha, or a disgrace to a degenerate colony of refugees. 

Some are plain Messieurs, Señores, or Herren. Bluff foreigners withupright hair and melancholy eyes, who put up philosophically with acheaper brand of cigar than their souls love. Among the latter may beclassed Karl Steinmetz--the bluffest of the bluff--innocent even of hisown innocence. 

Karl Steinmetz in due course reached England, and in natural sequencethe smoking-room--room B on the left as you go in--of the Talleyrand. 

He was there one evening after an excellent dinner taken with humorousresignation, smoking the largest cigar the waiter could supply, whenClaude de Chauxville happened to have nothing better or nothing worse todo. 

De Chauxville looked through the glass door for some seconds. Then hetwisted his waxed mustache and lounged in. Steinmetz was alone in theroom, and De Chauxville was evidently--almost obviously--unaware of hispresence. He went to the table and proceeded to search in vain for anewspaper that interested him. He raised his eyes casually and met thequiet gaze of Karl Steinmetz. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " said Steinmetz. 

"You--in London?"

Steinmetz nodded gravely. 

"Yes, " he repeated. 

"One never knows where one has you, " Claude de Chauxville went on, seating himself in a deep arm-chair, newspaper in hand. "You are a birdof passage. "

"A little heavy on the wing--now, " said Steinmetz. 

He laid his newspaper down on his stout knees and looked at DeChauxville over his gold eye-glasses. He did not attempt to conceal thefact that he was wondering what this man wanted with him. The baronseemed to be wondering what object Steinmetz had in view in gettingstout. He suspected some motive in the obesity. 

"Ah!" he said deprecatingly. "That is nothing. Time leaves its mark uponall of us. It was not yesterday that we were in Petersburg together. "

"No, " answered Steinmetz. "It was before the German Empire--many yearsago. "

De Chauxville counted back with his slim fingers on thetable--delightfully innocent. 

"Yes, " he said, "the years seem to fly in coveys. Do you ever see any ofour friends of that time--you who are in Russia?"

"Who were our friends of that time?" parried Steinmetz, polishing hisglasses with a silk handkerchief. "My memory is a broken reed--youremember?"

For a moment Claude de Chauxville met the full, quiet, gray eyes. 

"Yes, " he said significantly, "I remember. Well--for instance, PrinceDawoff?"

"Dead. I never see him--thank Heaven!"

"The princess?"

"I never see; she keeps a gambling house in Paris. "

"And little Andrea?"

"Never sees me. Married to a wholesale undertaker, who has buried herpast. "

"En gros?"

"Et en détail. "

"The Count Lanovitch, " pursued De Chauxville, "where is he?"

"Banished for his connection with the Charity League. "

"Catrina?"

"Catrina is living in the province of Tver--we are neighbors--she andher mother, the countess. "

De Chauxville nodded. None of the details really interested him. Hisindifference was obvious. 

"Ah! the Countess Lanovitch, " he said reflectively, "she was a foolishwoman. "

"And is. "

M. De Chauxville laughed. This clumsy German ex-diplomat amused himimmensely. Many people amuse us who are themselves amused in theirsleeve. 

"And--er--the Sydney Bamboroughs, " said the Frenchman, as if the namehad almost left his memory. 

Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the _MorningPost_. He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, heread aloud:

"'His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at4 Craven Gardens, yesterday. Among the guests were the Baron deChauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. SydneyBamborough, and others. '"

Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair. 

"So, my dear friend, " he said, "it is probable that you know more aboutthe Sydney Bamboroughs than I do. "

If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it. His was a face eminently calculated to conceal whatever thought orfeeling might be passing through his mind. Of an even whitecomplexion--verging on pastiness--he was handsome in a certainstatuesque way. His features were always composed and dignified; hishair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth andsleek upon his high, narrow brow. His eyes had that dulness which ischaracteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to thehabitual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigarettes. 

De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with easy nonchalance. 

"Not necessarily, " he said, in cold, even tones. "Mrs. Sydney Bamboroughdoes not habitually take into her confidence all who happen to dine atthe same table as herself. Your confidential woman is usually a liar. "

Steinmetz was filling his pipe; this man had the evil habit of smoking awooden pipe after a cigar. 

"My very dear De Chauxville, " he said, without lookup, "your epigramsare lost on me. I know most of them. I have heard them before. If youhave anything to tell me about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, for Heaven's saketell it to me quite plainly. I like plain dishes and unvarnishedstories. I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person with a dullpalate and a thick head. "

De Chauxville laughed again in an unemotional way. 

"You alter little, " he said. "Your plainness of speech takes me back toPetersburg. Yes, I admit that Mrs. Sydney Bamborough rather interestedme. But I assume too much; that is no reason why she should interestyou. "

"She does not, my good friend, but you do. I am all attention. "

"Do you know anything of her?" asked De Chauxville perfunctorily, not asa man who expects an answer or intends to believe that which he may beabout to hear. 

"Nothing. "

"You are likely to know more?"

Karl Steinmetz shrugged his heavy shoulders, and shook his headdoubtfully. 

"I am not a lady's man, " he added gruffly; "the good God has not shapedme that way. I am too d--d fat. Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen inlove with me? Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph? I hopenot. Heaven forbid!"

He puffed steadily at his pipe, and glanced quickly at De Chauxvillethrough the smoke. 

"No, " answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Frenchmen, by the way, donot admit that one may be too middle-aged, or too stout, for love. "Butshe is au mieux with the prince. "

"Which prince?"

"Pavlo. "

The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other's benevolentcountenance. Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly and contentedly. 

"My master, " he said at length. "I suppose that some day he will marry. "

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched the button of theelectric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee. Heselected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, andhaving lighted it smoked for some moments in silence. The servantbrought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was leaningback in his deep chair, with his legs crossed. He was gazing into thefire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May. The habits ofthe Talleyrand Club are almost continental. The rooms are always toowarm. The silence was that of two men knowing each other well. 

"And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?" asked Steinmetz suddenly. 

"Why not, indeed?" replied De Chauxville. "It is no affair of mine. Awise man reduces his affairs to a minimum, and his interest in theaffairs of his neighbor to less. But I thought it would interest you. "

"Thanks. "

The tone of the big man in the arm-chair was not dry. Karl Steinmetzknew better than to indulge in that pastime. Dryness is apt to parch thefount of expansiveness. 

De Chauxville's attention was apparently caught by an illustration in aweekly paper lying open on the table near to him. Your shifty man likessomething to look at. He did not speak for some moments. Then he threwthe paper aside. 

"Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate?" he asked, with a carelessassumption of a slanginess which is affected by society in its decadentperiods. 

"So far as I remember, " answered Steinmetz, "he was something in theDiplomatic Service. "

"Yes, but what?"

"My dear friend, you had better ask his widow when next you sit besideher at dinner. "

"How do you know that I sat beside her at dinner?"

"I did not know it, " replied Steinmetz, with a quiet smile which left DeChauxville in doubt as to whether he was very stupid or exceedinglyclever. 

"She seems to be very well off, " said the Frenchman. 

"I am glad, as she is going to marry my master. "

De Chauxville laughed almost awkwardly, and for a fraction of a secondhe changed countenance under Steinmetz's quiet eyes. 

"One can never know whom a woman intends to marry, " said he carelessly, "even if they can themselves, which I doubt. But I do not understand howit is that she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the deathof her husband. "

"Ah, she is much better off, or appears to be, since the death of herhusband, " said the stout man, in his slow Germanic way. 

"Yes. "

De Chauxville rose, stretched himself and yawned. Men are not always, beit understood, on their best behavior at their club. 

"Good-night, " he said shortly. 

"Good-night, my very dear friend. "

After the Frenchman had left, Karl Steinmetz remained quite motionlessand expressionless in his chair, until such time as he concluded that DeChauxville was tired of watching him through the glass door. Then heslowly sat forward in his chair and looked back over his shoulder. 

"Our friend, " he muttered, "is afraid that Paul is going to marry thiswoman. Now, I wonder why?"

These two had met before in a past which has little or nothing to dowith the present narrative. They had disliked each other with acompleteness partly bred of racial hatred, partly the outcome of diverseinterests. But of late years they had drifted apart. There was no reasonwhy the friendship, such as it was, should not have lapsed into a merebowing acquaintance. For these men were foreigners, understanding fullythe value of the bow as an interchange of masculine courtesy. Englishmenbow badly. 

Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognized him before entering theroom. It was to be presumed that he had deliberately chosen to cross thethreshold, knowing that a recognition was inevitable. Karl Steinmetzwent farther. He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the TalleyrandClub, having heard that he was in England, with the purpose in view ofseeking him out and warning him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 

"It would appear, " murmured the stout philosopher, "that we are about towork together for the first time. But if there is one thing that Idislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is hisfriendship. "

CHAPTER VII

OLD HANDS

Karl Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him and scratchedhis forehead with his forefinger. 

"Now, I wonder, " he said aloud, "how many bushels there are in a ton. Ach! how am I to find out? These English weights and measures, thisEnglish money, when there is a metrical system!"

He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck seven. It was a quietroom this in which he sat, the library of Paul's London house. The noiseof Piccadilly reached his ears as a faint roar, not entirely unpleasant, but sociable and full of life. Accustomed as he was to the great silenceof Russia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a crowdedhumanity was a pleasant change to this philosopher, who loved his kindwhile fully recognizing its little weaknesses. 

While he sat there still wondering how many bushels of seed made a ton, Paul Alexis came into the room. The younger man was in evening dress. Helooked at the clock rather eagerly. 

"Will you dine here?" he asked, and Steinmetz wheeled around in hischair. "I am going out to dinner, " he explained further. 

"Ah!" said the elder man. 

"I am going to Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's. "

Steinmetz bowed his head gravely. He said nothing. He was not looking atPaul, but at the pattern of the carpet. There was a short silence. ThenPaul said, with entire simplicity:

"I shall probably ask her to marry me. "

"And she will probably say yes. "

"I am not so sure about that, " said Paul, with a laugh. For this man waswithout conceit. He had gradually been forced to admit that there areamong men persons whose natural inclination is toward evil, persons whovalue not the truth, nor hold by honesty. But he was guileless enough tobelieve that women are not so. He actually believed that women aretruthful and open and honorable. He believes it still, which is somewhatstartling. There are a few such dullards yet. "I do not see why sheshould, " he went on gravely. He was standing by the empty fire-place, amanly, upright figure; one who was not very clever, not brilliant atall, somewhat slow in his speech, but sure, deadly sure, in the honestyof his purpose. 

Karl Steinmetz looked at him and smiled openly, with the quaint air ofresignation that was his. 

"You have never seen her, eh?" enquired Paul. 

Steinmetz paused, then he told a lie, a good one, well told, deliberately. 

"No. "

"We are going to the opera, Box F2. If you come in I shall have pleasurein introducing you. The sooner you know each other the better. I am sureyou will approve. "

"I think you ought to marry money. "

"Why?"

Steinmetz laughed. 

"Oh, " he answered, "because every-body does who can. There is CatrinaLanovitch, an estate as big as yours, adjoining yours. A great Russianfamily, a good girl who--is willing. "

Paul laughed, a good wholesome laugh. 

"You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and obvious qualifications, "he said. "Catrina is a very nice girl, but I do not think she wouldmarry me even if I asked her. "

"Which you do not intend to do. "

"Certainly not. "

"Then you will make an enemy of her, " said Steinmetz quietly. "It may beinconvenient, but that cannot be helped. A woman scorned--you know. Shakspere or the Bible, I always mix them up. No, Paul; CatrinaLanovitch is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you theselast four years, and you would have seen it if you had not been a fool!I am afraid, my good Paul, you are a fool, God bless you for it!"

"I think you are wrong, " said Paul rather curtly; "not about me being afool, but about Catrina Lanovitch. If you are right, however, it onlymakes me dislike her instead of being perfectly indifferent to her. "

His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away to look at theclock again. 

"I hate your way of talking about women, Steinmetz, " he said. "You're acynical old beast, you know. "

"Heaven forbid, my dear prince! I admire all women--they are so clever, so innocent, so pure-minded. Do not your English novels prove it, yourEnglish stage, your newspapers, so high-toned? Who supports thenovelist, the play-wright, the actor, who but your English ladies?"

"Better than being cooks--like your German ladies, " retorted Paulstoutly. "If you _are_ German this evening. Better than being cooks. "

"I doubt it! I very much doubt it, my friend. At what time shall Ipresent myself at Box F2 this evening?"

"About nine--as soon as you like. "

Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly. He knew that thecarriage was certain to be at the door, waiting in the quiet street withits great restless horses, its two perfectly trained men, its gleaminglamps and shining harness. But he would not allow himself the luxury ofbeing the first arrival. Paul had himself well in hand. At last it wastime to go. 

"See you later, " he said. 

"Thank you--yes, " replied Steinmetz, without looking up. 

So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth to seek the hand of the lady of hischoice, and as he left his own door that lady was receiving Claude deChauxville in her drawing-room. The two had not met for some weeks--notindeed since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not marry him. Her invitation to dine, couched in the usual friendly words, had beenthe first move in that game commonly called "bluff. " Claude deChauxville's acceptance of the same had been the second move. And thesetwo persons, who were not afraid of each other, shook hands with apleasant smile of greeting, while Paul hurried toward them through thebusy streets. 

"Am I forgiven--that I am invited to dinner?" asked De Chauxvilleimperturbably, when the servant had left them alone. 

Etta was one of those women who are conscious of their dress. Some mayprotest that a lady moving in such circles would not be so. But in allcircles women are only women, and in every class of life we meet such asEtta Bamborough. Women who, while they talk, glance down and rearrange aflower or a piece of lace. It is a mere habit, seemingly small andunimportant; but it marks the woman and sets her apart. 

Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed--too beautifullydressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her maid had a moment earlierconfessed that she could do no more, and Etta had come down stairs avision of luxury, of womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared tobe something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at her shoulderthat she did not answer at once. 

"Forgiven for what?" she asked at length, in that preoccupied tone ofvoice which tells wise men that only questions of dress will beconsidered. 

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful Gallic way. 

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "For a crime which requires no excuse, and noexplanation other than a mirror. "

She looked up at him innocently. 

"A mirror?"

"Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with you? It is, I amtold, a crime that women sometimes condone. "

"It was no crime, " she said. She had heard the wheels of Paul'scarriage. "It was a misfortune. Please let us forget that it everhappened. "

De Chauxville twirled his neat mustache, looking keenly at her thewhile. 

"You forget, " he said. "But I--will remember. "

She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet Paul. 

"I think you know each other, " she said gracefully when she had shakenhands, and the two men bowed. They were foreigners, be it understood. There were three languages in which they could understand each otherwith equal ease. 

"Where _is_ Maggie?" exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough. "She is always late. "

"When I am here, " reflected De Chauxville. But he did not say it. 

Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and during that timeEtta Sydney Bamborough gave a very fine display of prowess with thedouble-stringed bow. When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon, he usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass of himself. Hegenerally succeeds in snapping one and probably both of the strings, injuring himself most certainly in the process. 

Not so, however, this clever lady. She had a smile and an epigram forClaude de Chauxville, a grave air of sympathetic interest in moreserious affairs for Paul Alexis. She was bright and amusing, guilelessand very worldly wise in the same breath--simple for Paul and a matchfor De Chauxville, within the space of three seconds. Withal she was abeautiful woman beautifully dressed. A thousand times too wise to scornher womanhood, as learned fools are prone to do in print and on platformin these wordy days, but wielding the strongest power on earth, to wit, that same womanhood, with daring and with skill. A learned woman is notof much account in the world. A clever woman moves as much of it as liesin her neighborhood--that is to say, as much as she cares to rule. Forwomen love power, but they do not care to wield it at a distance. 

Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down to dinner by the ladyherself. 

"Mon ami, " she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville, before making herrequest, "it is the first time the prince dines here. "

She spoke in French. Maggie and Paul were talking together at the otherend of the room. De Chauxville bowed in silence. 

At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and, as such, is notworth reporting. No general conversation, one finds, is of much valuewhen set down in black and white. It is not even grammatical nowadays. To be more correct, let us note that the talk lay between Etta and M. DeChauxville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright nothingsdelivered in such a way that they really sounded like wisdom. Etta wasequal to him, sometimes capping his sharp wit, sometimes contentingherself with silvery laughter. Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, asDe Chauxville noted. The girl's dislike for him was an iron that enteredthe quick of his vanity anew every time he saw her. There was nopetulance in the aversion, such as he had perceived with other maidenswho were only resenting a passing negligence or seeking to pique hiscuriosity. This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion, which Maggie conscientiously attempted to conceal. 

Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy in hand. Helaughed where he saw something to laugh at, but not elsewhere, which insome circles is considered morose and in bad form. He joined readilyenough in the conversation, but originated nothing. Those topics whichoccupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable to thisoccasion. His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, and he was simpleenough not to care that it should be so. 

Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative. When Paul and Ettawere speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly at her ownplate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar. When she spoke she addressed herremarks--valueless enough in themselves--exclusively to the man shedisliked, Claude de Chauxville. 

There was something amiss in the pretty little room. There were shadowsseated around that pretty little table à quatre, beside the guests intheir pretty dresses and their black coats; silent cold shadows, who atenothing, while they chilled the dainty food and took the sweetness fromthe succulent dishes. These shadows had crept in unawares, a silentpartie carrée, to take their phantom places at the table, and only Ettaseemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down. She took the wholeburden of the conversation upon her pretty shoulders, and bore itthrough the little banquet with unerring skill and unflinching goodhumor. In the midst of her merriest laughter, the clever gray eyes wouldflit from one man's face to the other. Paul had been brought here to askher to marry him. Claude de Chauxville had been invited that he might betacitly presented to his successful rival. Maggie was there because shewas a woman and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and two of themknew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, movingpuppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victimof one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastnessof purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk andsmile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils, and areafraid of trying to be hammers. 

But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain thanthe majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced toassume the humble rôle of anvil because he had no choice. MaggieDelafield was passive for the time being, because that which would makeher active was no more than a tiny seedling in her heart. The girl bidfair to be one of those women who develop late, who ripen slowly, likethe best fruit. 

During the drive to the opera house the two women in Etta's snug littlebrougham were silent. Etta had her thoughts to occupy her. She was atthe crucial point of a difficult game. She could not afford to alloweven a friend to see so much as the corners of the cards she held. 

In the luxurious box it was easily enough arranged--Etta and Paultogether in front, De Chauxville and Maggie at the other corner of thebox. 

"I have asked my friend Karl Steinmetz to come in during the evening, "said Paul to Etta when they were seated. "He is anxious to make youracquaintance. He is my--prime minister over in Russia. "

Etta smiled graciously. 

"It is kind of him, " she answered, "to be anxious to make myacquaintance. "

She was apparently listening to the music; in reality she was hurryingback mentally over half a dozen years. She had never had much to do withthe stout German philosopher, but she knew enough of him to scorn thefaint hope that he might have forgotten her name and her individuality. Etta Bamborough had never been disconcerted in her life yet; thisincident came very near to bringing about the catastrophe. 

"At what time, " she asked, "is he coming in?"

"About half-past nine. "

Etta had a watch on a bracelet on her arm. Such women always know thetime. 

It was a race, and Etta won it. She had only half an hour. De Chauxvillewas there, and Maggie with her quiet, honest eyes. But the widow ofSydney Bamborough made Paul ask her to be his wife, and she promised togive him his answer later. She did it despite a thousand difficultiesand more than one danger--accomplished it with, as the sporting peoplesay, plenty to spare--before the door behind them was opened by theattendant, and Karl Steinmetz, burly, humorously imperturbable andimpenetrable, stood smiling gravely on the situation. 

He saw Claude de Chauxville, and before the Frenchman had turned roundthe expression on Steinmetz's large and placid countenance had changedfrom the self-consciousness usually preceding an introduction to one ofa dim recognition. 

"I have had the pleasure of meeting madame somewhere before, I think. InSt. Petersburg, was it not?"

Etta, composed and smiling, said that it was so, and introduced him toMaggie. De Chauxville took the opportunity of leaving that young lady'sside, and placing himself near enough to Paul and Etta to completelyfrustrate any further attempts at confidential conversation. 

For a moment Steinmetz and Paul were left standing together. 

"I have had a telegram, " said Steinmetz in Russian. "We must go back toTver. There is cholera again. When can you come?"

Beneath his heavy mustache Paul bit his lip. 

"In three days, " he answered. 

"True? You will come with me?" enquired Steinmetz, under cover of theclashing music. 

"Of course. "

Steinmetz looked at him curiously. He glanced toward Etta, but he saidnothing. 

CHAPTER VIII

SAFE!

The season wore on to its perihelion--a period, the scientific booksadvise us, of the highest clang and crash of speed and whirl, of thegreatest brilliancy and deepest glow of a planet's existence. Thebusiness of life, the pursuit of pleasure, and the scientific demolitionof our common enemy, Time, received all the care which such mattersrequire. 

Débutantes bloomed and were duly culled by aged connoisseurs of suchwares, or by youthful aspirants with the means to pay the piper in theform of a handsome settlement. The usual number of young persons of thegentler sex entered the lists of life, with the mistaken notion that itis love that makes the world go round, to ride away from the joust wiserand sadder women. 

There was the same round of conventional pleasures which the reader andhis humble servant have mixed in deeply or dilettante, according to histaste or capacity for such giddy work. There was withal the usualheart-burning, heart-bartering, heart--anything you will but breaking. For we have not breaking hearts among us to-day. Providence, it wouldseem, has run short of the commodity, and deals out only a few among anumber of persons. 

Amid the whirl of rout, and ball, and picnic, race-meeting, polo-match, and what-not, Paul Howard Alexis stalked misunderstood, distrusted; anobject of ridicule to some, of pity to others, of impatience to all. Aman, if it please you, with a purpose--a purpose at the latter end ofthe nineteenth century, when most of us, having decided that there is nofuture, take it upon ourselves to despise the present. 

Paul soon discovered that he was found out--at no time a pleasantcondition of things, except, indeed, when callers are about. That whichEton and Cambridge had failed to lay their fingers upon, everymatch-making mother had found out for herself in a week. That thediscovery had been carefully kept in each maternal breast, it isneedless to relate. Ces dames are not confidential upon such mattersbetween themselves. When they have scented their game they stalk him, and if possible bag him in a feline solitude which has no fears forstout, ambitious hearts. The fear is that some other prowling mother ofan eligible maiden may hit upon the same scent. 

Paul was invited to quiet dinners and a little music, to quiet dinnerswithout the music, to a very little music and no dinner whatever. Thenumber of ladies who had a seat in a box thrown upon their hands at thelast minute--a seat next to Angelina in her new pink, or Blanche in hersweet poult de soie--the number of these ladies one can only say wassingular, because politeness forbids one to suggest that it wassuspicious. Soft cheeks became rosy at his approach--partly, perhaps, because soft and dainty toes in satin slippers were trodden upon withmaternal emphasis at that moment. Soft eyes looked love into eyes that, alas! only returned preoccupation. There was always room on anengagement card for Paul's name. There was always space in the smallestdrawing-room for Paul's person, vast though the latter was. Therewas--fond mothers conveyed it to him subtly after supper andchampagne--an aching void in more than one maiden heart which was hisexact fit. 

But Paul was at once too simple and too clever for matron and maidalike. Too simple, because he failed to understand the inner meaning ofmany pleasant things that the guileless fair one said to him. Tooclever, because he met the subtle matron with the only arm she feared, aperfect honesty. And when at last he obtained his answer from the coyand hesitating Etta, there was no gossip in London who could put forwarda just cause or impediment. 

Etta gave him the answer one evening at the house of a mutual friend, where a multitude of guests had assembled ostensibly to hear certaincelebrated singers, apparently to whisper recriminations on theirentertainer's champagne. It was a dull business--except, indeed, forPaul Howard Alexis. As for the lady--the only lady his honest, simpleworld contained--who shall say? Inwardly she may have been in trembling, coy alarm, in breathless, blushing hesitation. Outwardly she was, however, exceedingly composed and self-possessed. She had been ascareful as ever of her toilet--as hard to please; as--dare we saysnappish with her maids? The beautiful hair had no one of its aureatethreads out of place. The pink of her shell-like cheek was steady, unruffled, fair to behold. Her whole demeanor was admirable in itswell-bred repose. Did she love him? Was it in her power to love any man?Not the humble chronicler--not any man, perhaps, and but few women--canessay an answer. Suffice it that she accepted him. In exchange for thetitle he could give her, the position he could assure to her, the wealthhe was ready to lavish upon her, and, lastly, let us mention, in theeffete, old-fashioned way, the love he bore her--in exchange for theseshe gave him her hand. 

Thus Etta Sydney Bamborough was enabled to throw down her cards at lastand win the game she had played so skilfully. The widow of an obscurelittle Foreign Office clerk, she might have been a baroness, but she putthe smaller honor aside and aspired to a prince. Behind the gay smilethere must have been a quick and resourceful brain, daring to scheme, intrepid in execution. Within the fair breast there must have been aheart resolute, indomitable, devoid of weak scruple. Mark the last. Itis the scruple that keeps the reader and his humble servant from beinggreater men than they are. 

"Yes, " says Etta, allowing Paul to take her perfectly gloved hand in hisgreat, steady grasp; "yes, I have my answer ready. "

They were alone in the plashy solitude of an inner conservatory, betweenthe songs of the great singers. She was half afraid of this strong man, for he had strange ways with him--not uncouth, but unusual and somewhatsurprising in a finnicking, emotionless generation. 

"And what is it?" whispers Paul eagerly. Ah! what fools men are--whatfools they always will be!

Etta gave a little nod, looking shamefacedly down at the pattern of herlace fan. 

"Is that it?" he asked breathlessly. 

The nod was repeated, and Paul Howard Alexis was thereby made thehappiest man in England. She half expected him to take her in his arms, despite the temporary nature of their solitude. Perhaps she half wishedit; for behind her business-like and exceedingly practical appreciationof his wealth there lurked a very feminine curiosity and interest in hisfeelings--a curiosity somewhat whetted by the manifold differences thatexisted between him and the society lovers with whom she had hithertoplayed the pretty game. 

But Paul contented himself with raising the gloved fingers to his lips, restrained by a feeling of respect for her which she would not haveunderstood and probably did not merit. 

"But, " she said with a sudden smile, "I take no responsibility. I am notvery sure that it will be a success. I can only try to make youhappy--goodness knows if I shall succeed!"

"You have only to be yourself to do that, " he answered, with lover-likepromptness and a blindness which is the special privilege of those happyfools. 

She gave a strange little smile. 

"But how do I know that our lives will harmonize in the least? I knownothing of your daily existence; where you live--where you want tolive. "

"I should like to live mostly in Russia, " he answered honestly. 

Her expression did not change. It merely fixed itself as one sees theface of a watching cat fix itself, when the longed for mouse shows awhisker. 

"Ah!" she said lightly, confident in her own power; "that will arrangeitself later. "

"I am glad I am rich, " said Paul simply, "because I shall be able togive you all you want. There are many little things that add to awoman's comfort; I shall find them out and see that you have them. "

"Are you so very rich, Paul?" she asked, with an innocent wonder. "But Idon't think it matters; do you? I do not think that riches have much todo with happiness. "

"No, " he answered. He was not a person with many theories upon life orhappiness or such matters--which, by the way, are in no way affected bytheories. By taking thought we cannot add a cubit to the height of ourhappiness. We can only undermine its base by too searching an analysisof that upon which it is built. 

So Paul replied "No, " and took pleasure in looking at her, as any lovermust needs have done. 

"Except, of course, " she said, "that one may do good with great riches. "

She gave a little sigh, as if deploring the misfortune that hitherto herown small means had fallen short of the happy point at which one maybegin doing good. 

"Are you so very rich, Paul?" she repeated, as if she was rather afraidof those riches and mistrusted them. 

"Oh, I suppose so. Horribly rich!"

She had withdrawn her hand. She gave it to him again, with a prettymovement usually understood to indicate bashfulness. 

"It can't be helped, " she said. "We"--she dwelt upon the word ever soslightly--"we can perhaps do a little good with it. "

Then suddenly he blurted out all his wishes on this point--his quixoticaims, the foolish imaginings of a too chivalrous soul. She listened, prettily eager, sweetly compassionate of the sorrows of the peasantrywhom he made the object of his simple pity. Her gray eyes contractedwith horror when he told her of the misery with which he was toofamiliar. Her pretty lips quivered when he told her of little childrenborn only to starve because their mothers were starving. She laid hergloved fingers gently on his when he recounted tales of strong men--goodfathers in their simple, barbarous way--who were well content that thechildren should die rather than be saved to pass a miserable existence, without joy, without hope. 

She lifted her eyes with admiration to his face when he told her what hehoped to do, what he dreamed of accomplishing. She even made a feweager, heartfelt suggestions, fitly coming from a woman--touched with awoman's tenderness, lightened by a woman's sympathy and knowledge. 

It was in its way a tragedy, the picture we are called to lookupon--these newly made lovers, not talking of themselves, as is thetime-honored habit of such. Surrounded by every luxury, both high-born, refined, and wealthy; both educated, both intelligent. He, simple-minded, earnest, quite absorbed in his happiness, because thathappiness seemed to fall in so easily with the busier, and, as somemight say, the nobler side of his ambition. She, failing to understandhis aspirations, thinking only of his wealth. 

"But, " she said at length, "shall you--we--be allowed to do all this? Ithought that such schemes were not encouraged in Russia. It is such apity to pauperize the people. "

"You cannot pauperize a man who has absolutely nothing, " replied Paul. "Of course, we shall have difficulties; but, together, I think we shallbe able to overcome them. "

Etta smiled sympathetically, and the smile finished up, as it were, witha gleam very like amusement. She had been vouchsafed for a moment avision of herself in some squalid Russian village, in a hideousRussian-made tweed dress, dispensing the necessaries of life to a peopleonly little raised above the beasts of the field. The vision made hersmile, as well it might. In Petersburg life might be tolerable for alittle in the height of the season--for a few weeks of the brilliantNorthern winter--but in no other part of Russia could she dream ofdwelling. 

They sat and talked of their future as lovers will, knowing as little ofit as any of us, building up castles in the air, such edifices as wehave all constructed, destined, no doubt, to the same rapid collapse assome of us have quailed under. Paul, with lamentable honesty, talkedalmost as much of his stupid peasants as of his beautiful companion, which pleased her not too well. Etta, with a strange persistence, brought the conversation ever back and back to the house in London, thehouse in Petersburg, the great grim castle in the Government of Tver, and the princely rent-roll. And once on the subject of Tver, Paul couldscarce be brought to leave it. 

"I am going back there, " he said at length. 

"When?" she asked, with a composure which did infinite credit to hermodest reserve. Her love was jealously guarded. It lay too deep to bedisturbed by the thought that her lover would leave her soon. 

"To-morrow, " was his answer. 

She did not speak at once. Should she try the extent of her power overhim? Never was lover so chivalrous, so respectful, so sincere. Shouldshe gauge the height of her supremacy? If it proved less powerful thanshe suspected, she would at all events be credited with a very naturalaversion to parting from him. 

"Paul, " she said, "you cannot do that. Not so soon. I cannot let yougo. "

He flushed up to the eyes suddenly, like a girl. There was a littlepause, and the color slowly left his face. Somehow that pause frightenedEtta. 

"I am afraid I must go, " he said gravely at length. 

"Must--a prince?"

"It is on that account, " he replied. 

"Then I am to conclude that you are more devoted to your peasants thanto--me?"

He assured her to the contrary. She tried once again, but nothing couldmove him from his decision. Etta was perhaps a small-minded person, andas such failed to attach due importance to this proof that her powerover him was limited. It ceased, in fact, to exist as soon as it touchedthat strong sense of duty which is to be found in many men and inremarkably few women. 

It almost seemed as if the abrupt departure of her lover was in somesense a relief to Etta Sydney Bamborough. For, while he, lover-like, wasgrave and earnest during the small remainder of the evening, shecontinued to be sprightly and gay. The last he saw of her was hersmiling face at the window as her carriage drove away. 

Arrived at the little house in Upper Brook Street, Maggie and Etta wentinto the drawing-room, where biscuits and wine were set out. Their maidscame and took their cloaks away, leaving them alone. 

"Paul and I are engaged, " said Etta suddenly. She was picking thewithered flowers from her dress and throwing them carelessly on thetable. 

Maggie was standing with her back to her, with her two hands on themantel-piece. She was about to turn round when she caught sight of herown face in the mirror, and that which she saw there made her change herintention. 

"I am not surprised, " she said, in an even voice, standing like astatue. "I congratulate you. I think he is--nice. "

"You also think he is too good for me, " said Etta, with a little laugh. There was something in that laugh--a ring of wounded vanity, the woundedvanity of a bad woman who is in the presence of her superior. 

"No!" answered Maggie slowly, tracing the veins of the marble across themantel-piece. "No--o, not that. "

Etta looked up at her. It was rather singular that she did not ask whatMaggie did think. Perhaps she was afraid of a certain British honestywhich characterized the girl's thought and speech. Instead she rose andindulged in a yawn which may have been counterfeit, but it was a goodcounterfeit. 

"Will you have a biscuit?" she said. 

"No, thanks. "

"Then shall we go to bed?"

"Yes. "

CHAPTER IX

THE PRINCE

The village of Osterno, lying, or rather scrambling, along the banks ofthe river Oster, is at no time an exhilarating spot. It is a largevillage, numbering over nine hundred souls, as the board affixed to itsfirst house testifieth in incomprehensible Russian figures. 

A "soul, " be it known, is a different object in the land of the Czars tothat vague protoplasm about which our young persons think such mightythoughts, our old men write such famous big books. A soul is namely aman--in Russia the women have not yet begun to seek their rights andlose their privileges. A man is therefore a "soul" in Russia, and assuch enjoys the doubtful privilege of contributing to the land-tax andto every other tax. In compensation for the first-named impost he isapportioned his share of the common land of the village, and by thecultivation of this ekes out an existence which would be valueless if hewere a teetotaller. It is melancholy to have to record this fact in thepages of a respectable volume like the present; but facts--as the oratorwho deals in fiction is ever ready to announce--facts cannot be ignored. And any man who has lived in Russia, has dabbled in Russian humanity, and noted the singular unattractiveness of Russian life--any such mancan scarcely deny the fact that if one deprives the moujik of hisprivilege of getting gloriously and frequently intoxicated, one takesaway from that same moujik the one happiness of his existence. 

That the Russian peasant is by nature one of the cheeriest, thenoisiest, and lightest-hearted of men is only another proof of theCreator's power; for this dimly lighted "soul" has nothing to cheer himon his forlorn way but the memory of the last indulgence in strong drinkand the hope of more to come. He is harassed by a ruthlesstax-collector; he is shut off from the world by enormous distances overimpracticable roads. When the famine comes, and come it assuredly will, the moujik has no alternative but to stay where he is and starve. SinceAlexander II. Of philanthropic memory made the Russian serf a free man, the blessings of freedom have been found to resolve themselves chieflyinto a perfect liberty to die of starvation, of cold, or of diredisease. When he was a serf this man was of some small value to someone; now he is of no consequence to any one whatsoever except himself, and, with considerable intelligence, he sets but small store upon hisown existence. Freedom, in fact, came to him before he was ready for it;and, hampered as he has been by petty departmental tyranny, governmentalneglect, and a natural stupidity, he has made very small progress towarda mental independence. All that he has learnt to do is to hate histyrants. When famine urges him, he goes blindly, helplessly, dumbly, andtries to take by force that which is denied by force. 

With us in England the poor man raises up his voice and cries aloud whenhe wants something. He always wants something--never work, by theway--and therefore his voice pervades the atmosphere. He has his eveningnewspaper, which is dear at the moderate sum of a halfpenny. He has hisprofessional organizers, and his Trafalgar Square. He even has hismembers of Parliament. He does no work, and he does not starve. In hisgeneration the poor man thinks himself wise. In Russia, however, thingsare managed differently. The poor man is under the heel of the rich. Some day there will be in Russia a Terror, but not yet. Some day themoujik will erect unto himself a rough sort of a guillotine, but not inour day. Perhaps some of us who are young men now may dimly read in ourdotage of a great upheaval beside which the Terror of France will betame and uneventful. Who can tell? When a country begins to grow, itsmental development is often startlingly rapid. 

But we have to do with Russia of to-day, and the village of Osterno inthe Government of Tver. Not a "famine" Government, mind you! For theseare the Volga Provinces--Samara, Pensa, Voronish, Vintka, and a dozenothers. No! Tver the civilized, the prosperous, the manufacturingcentre. 

Osterno is built of wood. Should it once fairly catch alight in a highwind, all that will be left of this town will be a few charred timbersand some dazed human beings. The inhabitants know their own danger, andendeavor to meet it in their fatalistic manner. Each village has itsfire organization. Each "soul" has his appointed place, his appointedduty, and his special contribution--be it bucket or rope or ladder--tobring to the conflagration. But no one ever dreams of being sober andvigilant at the right time, so the organization, like many larger such, is a broken reed. 

The street, bounded on either side by low wooden houses, is, singularlyenough, well paved. This, the traveller is told, by the tyrant PrincePavlo, who made the road because he did not like driving over ruts andthrough puddles--the usual Russian rural thoroughfare. Not becausePrince Pavlo wanted to give the peasants work, not because he wanted tosave them from starvation--not at all, although, in the gratification ofhis own whim, he happened to render those trifling services; but merelybecause he was a great "bárin"--a prince who could have any thing hedesired. Had not the other bárin--Steinmetz by name--superintended thework? Steinmetz the hated, the loathed, the tool of the tyrant whom theynever see. Ask the "starost"--the mayor of the village. He knows thebárins, and hates them. 

Michael Roon, the starosta or elder of Osterno, president of the Mir, orvillage council, principal shopkeeper, mayor and only intelligent soulof the nine hundred, probably had Tartar blood in his veins. To thisstrain may be attributed the narrow Tartar face, the keen black eyes, the short, spare figure which many remember to this day, althoughMichael Roon has been dead these many years. 

Removed far above the majority of his fellow-villagers in intelligenceand energy, this man administered the law of his own will to hiscolleagues on the village council. 

It was late in the autumn, one evening remembered by many for itsdeath-roll, that the starosta was standing at the door of his smallshop. He was apparently idle. He never sold vodka, and the majority ofthe villagers were in one of the three thriving "kabaks" which drove afamous trade in strong drink and weak tea. It was a very hot evening. The sun had set in a pink haze which was now turning to an unhealthygray, and spreading over the face of the western sky like the shadow ofdeath across the human countenance. 

The starosta shook his head forebodingly. It was cholera weather. Cholera had come to Osterno. Had come, the starosta thought, to stay. Ithad settled down in Osterno, and nothing but the winter frosts wouldkill it, when hunger-typhus would undoubtedly succeed it. 

Therefore the starosta shook his head at the sunset, and forgot toregret the badness of the times from a commercial point of view. He haddone all he could. He had notified to the Zemstvo the condition of hisvillage. He had made the usual appeal for help, which had been forwardedin the usual way to Tver, where it had apparently been received with theusual philosophic silence. 

But Michael Roon had also telegraphed to Karl Steinmetz, and since thedespatch of this message had the starosta dropped into the habit ofstanding at his doorway in the evening, with his hands clasped behindhis back and his beady black eyes bent westward along the prince'shigh-road. 

On the particular evening with which we have to do the beady eyes lookednot in vain; for presently, far along the road, appeared a black specklike an insect crawling over the face of a map. 

"Ah!" said the starosta. "Ah! he never fails. "

Presently a neighbor dropped in to buy some of the dried leaf which thestarosta, honest tradesman, called tea. He found the purveyor ofCathay's produce at the door. 

"Ah!" he said, in a voice thick with vodka. "You see something on theroad?"

"Yes. "

"A cart?"

"No, a carriage. It moves too quickly. "

A strange expression came over the peasant's face, at no time a pleasingphysiognomy. The bloodshot eyes flared up suddenly like a smoulderingflame in brown paper. The unsteady, drink-sodden lips twitched. The manthrew up his shaggy head, upon which hair and beard mingled in unkemptconfusion. He glared along the road with eyes and face aglow with asullen, beast-like hatred. 

"A carriage! Then it is for the castle. "

"Possibly, " answered the starosta. 

"The prince--curse him, curse his mother's soul, curse his wife'soffspring!"

"Yes, " said the starosta quietly. "Yes, curse him and all his works. What is it you want, little father--tea?"

He turned into the shop and served his customer, duly inscribing thedebt among others in a rough, cheap book. 

The word soon spread that a carriage was coming along the road fromTver. All the villagers came to the doors of their dilapidated woodenhuts. Even the kabaks were emptied for a time. As the vehicle approachedit became apparent that the horses were going at a great pace; not onlywas the loose horse galloping, but also the pair in the shafts. Thecarriage was an open one, an ordinary North Russian travelling carriage, not unlike the vehicle we call the victoria, set on high wheels. 

Beside the driver on the box sat another servant. In the open carriagesat one man only, Karl Steinmetz. 

As he passed through the village a murmur of many voices followed him, not quite drowned by the rattle of his wheels, the clatter of thehorses' feet. The murmur was a curse. Karl Steinmetz heard itdistinctly. It made him smile with a queer expression beneath his greatgray mustache. 

The starosta, standing in his door-way, saw the smile. He raised hisvoice with his neighbors and cursed. As Steinmetz passed him he gave alittle jerk of the head toward the castle. The jerk of the head mighthave been due to an inequality of the road, but it might also convey anappointment. The keen, haggard face of Michael Roon showed no sign ofmutual understanding. And the carriage rattled on through the strickenvillage. 

Two hours later, when it was quite dark, a closed carriage, with twobright lamps flaring into the night, passed through the village towardthe castle at a gallop. 

"It is the prince, " the peasants said, crouching in their low door-ways. "It is the prince. We know his bells--they are of silver--and we shallstarve during the winter. Curse him--curse him!"

They raised their heads and listened to the galloping feet with thepatient, dumb despair which is the curse of the Slavonic race. Some ofthem crept to their doors, and, looking up, saw that the castle windowswere ablaze with light. If Paul Howard Alexis was a plain Englishgentleman in London, he was also a great prince in his country, keepingup a princely state, enjoying the gilded solitude that belongs to thehigh-born. His English education had educed a strict sense ofdiscipline, and as in England, and, indeed, all through his life, so inRussia did he attempt to do his duty. 

The carriage rattled up to the brilliantly lighted door, which stoodopen, and within, on either side of the broad entrance-hall, theservants stood to welcome their master. A strange, picturesque, motleycrew: the majordomo, in his black coat, and beside him the otherhouse-servants--tall, upright fellows, in their bright livery. Beyondthem the stable-men and keepers, a little army, in red cloth tunics, with wide trousers tucked into high boots, all holding their fur caps intheir hands, standing stiffly at attention, clean, honest, and not toointelligent. 

The castle of Osterno is built on the lines of many Russian countryseats, and not a few palaces in Moscow. The Royal Palace in the Kremlinis an example. A broad entrance-hall, at the back of which a staircaseas broad stretches up to a gallery, around which the dwelling-rooms aresituated. At the head of the staircase, directly facing theentrance-hall, high folding doors disclose the drawing-room, which isalmost a throne room. All gorgeous, lofty, spacious, as only Russianhouses are. Truly this northern empire, this great white land, is acountry in which it is good to be an emperor, a prince, a noble, but nota poor man. 

Paul passed through the ranks of his retainers, himself a head tallerthan the tallest footman, a few inches broader than the sturdiestkeeper. He acknowledged the low bows by a quick nod, and passed up thestaircase. Steinmetz--in evening dress, wearing the insignia of one ortwo orders which he had won in the more active days of his earlierdiplomatic life--was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. 

The two men bowed gravely to each other. Steinmetz threw open the doorof the great room and stood aside. The prince passed on, and the Germanfollowed him, each playing his part gravely, as men in high places arecalled to do. When the door was closed behind them and they were alone, there was no relaxation, no smile of covert derision. These men knew theRussian character thoroughly. There is, be it known, no moreimpressionable man on the face of God's earth. Paul and Steinmetz hadplayed their parts so long that these came to be natural to them as soonas they passed the Volga. We are all so in a minor degree. In eachhouse, to each of our friends, we are unconsciously different in someparticular. One man holds us in awe, and we unconsciously instil thatfeeling. Another considers us a buffoon, and, lo! we are exceedinglyfunny. 

Paul and Steinmetz knew that the people around them in Osterno weresomewhat like the dumb and driven beast. These peasants requiredoverawing by a careful display of pomp--an unrelaxed dignity. The lineof demarcation between the noble and the peasant is so marked in theland of the Czar that it is difficult for Englishmen to realize orbelieve it. It is like the line that is drawn between us and our dogs. If we suppose it possible that dogs could be taught to act and think forthemselves; if we take such a development as practicable, and considerthe possibilities of social upheaval lying behind such an education, wecan in a minute degree realize the problem which Prince Pavlo Alexis andall his fellow-nobles will be called upon to solve within the lifetimeof men already born. 

CHAPTER X

THE MOSCOW DOCTOR

"Colossal!" exclaimed Steinmetz, beneath his breath. With a little trickof the tongue he transferred his cigar from the right-hand to theleft-hand corner of his mouth. "Colossal--l!" he repeated. 

For a moment Paul looked up from the papers spread out on the tablebefore him--looked with the preoccupied air of a man who is adding upsomething in his mind. Then he returned to his occupation. He had beenat this work for four hours without a break. It was nearly one o'clockin the morning. Since dinner Karl Steinmetz had consumed no less thanfive cigars, while he had not spoken five words. These two men, lockedin a small room in the middle of the castle of Osterno--a room with nowindow, but which gained its light from the clear heaven by a shaft anda skylight on the roof--locked in thus they had been engaged in theaddition of an enormous mass of figures. Each sheet had been carefullyannotated and added by Steinmetz, and as each was finished he handed itto his companion. 

"Is that fool never coming?" asked Paul, with an impatient glance at theclock. 

"Our very dear friend the starosta, " replied Steinmetz, "is no slave totime. He is late. "

The room had the appearance of an office. There were two safes--squarechests such as we learn to associate with the name of Griffiths in thiscountry. There was a huge writing-table--a double table--at which Pauland Steinmetz were seated. There were sundry stationery cases and analmanac or so suspended on the walls, which were oaken panels. A largewhite stove--common to all Russian rooms--stood against the wall. Theroom had no less than three doors, with a handle on no one of them. Eachdoor opened with a key, like a cupboard. 

Steinmetz had apparently finished his work. He was sitting back in hischair, contemplating his companion with a little smile. It apparentlytickled some obtuse Teutonic sense of humor to see this prince doingwork which is usually assigned to clerks--working out statistics andabstruse calculations as to how much food is required to keep body andsoul together. 

The silence of the room was almost oppressive. A Russian village afternightfall is the quietest human habitation on earth. For the moujik--thenative of a country which will some day supply the universe withpetroleum--cannot afford to light up his humble abode, and thereforesits in darkness. Had the village of Osterno possessed the liveliness ofa Spanish hamlet, the sound of voices and laughter could not havereached the castle perched high up on the rock above. 

But Osterno was asleep: the castle servants had long gone to rest, andthe great silence of Russia wrapped its wings over all. "When, therefore, the clear, coughing bark of a wolf was heard, both occupantsof the little room looked up. The sound was repeated, and Steinmetzslowly rose from his seat. 

"I can quite believe that our friend is able to call a wolf or a lynx tohim, " he said. "He does it uncannily well. "

"I have seen him do so, " said Paul, without looking up. "But it is acommon enough accomplishment among the keepers. "

Steinmetz had left the room before he finished speaking. One of thedoors of this little room communicated with a large apartment used as asecretary's office, and through this by a small staircase with a sideentrance to the castle. By this side entrance the stewards of thedifferent outlying estates were conducted to the presence of theresident secretary--a German selected and overawed by Karl Steinmetz--amere calculating machine of a man, with whom we have no affairs totransact. 

Before many minutes had elapsed Steinmetz came back, closely followed bythe starosta, whose black eyes twinkled and gleamed in the sudden lightof the lamp. He dropped on his knees when he saw Paul--suddenly, abjectly, like an animal, in his dumb attitude of deprecation. 

With a jerk of his head Paul bade him rise, which the man did, standingback against the panelled wall, placing as great a distance betweenhimself and the prince as the size of the room would allow. 

"Well, " said Paul curtly, almost roughly, "I hear you are in trouble inthe village. "

"The cholera has come, Excellency. "

"Many deaths?"

"To-day--eleven. "

Paul looked up sharply. 

"And the doctor?"

"He has not come yet, Excellency. I sent for him--a fortnight ago. Thecholera is at Oseff, at Dolja, at Kalisheffa. It is everywhere. He hasforty thousand souls under his care. He has to obey the Zemstvo, to gowhere they tell him. He takes no notice of me. "

"Yes, " interrupted Paul, "I know. And the people themselves, do theyattempt to understand it--to follow out my instructions?"

The starosta spread out his thin hands in deprecation. He cringed alittle as he stood. He had Jewish blood in his veins, which, while itraised him above his fellows in Osterno, carried with it the usualtendency to cringe. It is in the blood; it is part of what the peoplewho stood without Pilate's palace took upon themselves and upon theirchildren. 

"Your Excellency, " he said, "knows what they are. It is slow. They makeno progress. For them one disease is as another. 'Bog dal e Bog vzial, 'they say. 'God gave and God took!'"

He paused, his black eyes flashing from one face to the other. 

"Only the Moscow doctor, Excellency, " he said significantly, "can managethem. "

Paul shrugged his shoulders. He rose from his seat, glancing atSteinmetz, who was looking on in silence, with his queer, mocking smile. 

"I will go with you now, " he said. "It is late enough already. "

The starosta bowed very low, but he said nothing. 

Paul went to a cupboard and took from it an old fur coat, dragged at theseams, stained about the cuffs a dull brown--doctors know the color. Such stains have hanged a man before now, for they are the marks ofblood. Paul put on this coat. He took a long, soft silken scarf such asRussians wear in winter, and wrapped it round his throat, quiteconcealing the lower part of his face. He crammed a fur cap down overhis ears. 

"Come, " he said. 

Karl Steinmetz accompanied them down stairs, carrying a lamp in onehand. He closed the door behind them, but did not lock it. Then he wentupstairs again to the quiet little room, where he sat down in a deepchair. He looked at the open door of the cupboard from which Paul Alexishad taken his simple disguise, with a large, tolerant humor. 

"El Señor Don Quixote de la Mancha, " he said sleepily. 

It is said that to a doctor nothing is shocking and nothing isdisgusting. But doctors are, after all, only men of stomach like therest of us, and it is to be presumed that what nauseates one willnauseate the other. When the starosta unceremoniously threw open thedoor of the miserable cabin belonging to Vasilli Tula, Paul gave alittle gasp. The foul air pouring out of the noisome den was such thatit seemed impossible that human lungs could assimilate it. This VasilliTula was a notorious drunkard, a discontent, a braggart. The Nihilistpropaganda had in the early days of that mistaken mission reached himand unsettled his discontented mind. Misfortune seemed to pursue him. Inhigher grades of life than his there are men who, like Tula, make aprofession of misfortune. 

Paul stumbled down two steps. The cottage was dark. The starosta hadapparently trodden on a chicken, which screamed shrilly and flutteredabout in the dark with that complete abandon which belongs to chickens, sheep, and some women. 

"Have you no light?" cried the starosta. 

Paul retreated to the top step, where he had a short-lived struggle witha well-grown calf which had been living in the room with the family, andevinced a very creditable desire for fresh air. 

"Yes, yes, we have a little petroleum, " said a voice. "But we have nomatches. "

The starosta struck a light. 

"I have brought the Moscow doctor to see you. "

"The Moscow doctor!" cried several voices. "Sbogom--sbogom! God be withyou!"

In the dim light the whole of the floor seemed to get up and shakeitself. There were at least seven persons sleeping in the hut. Two ofthem did not get up. One was dead. The other was dying of cholera. 

A heavily built man reached down from the top of the brick stove a cheaptin paraffin lamp, which he handed to the starosta. By the light of thisPaul came again into the hut. The floor was filthy, as may be imagined, for beasts and human beings lived here together. 

The man--Vasilli Tula--threw himself down on his knees, clawing atPaul's coat with great unwashed hands, whining out a tale of sorrow andmisfortune. In a moment they were all on their knees, clinging to him, crying to him for help: Tula himself, a wild-looking Slav of fifty orthereabouts; his wife, haggard, emaciated, horrible to look upon, forshe was toothless and almost blind; two women and a loutish boy ofsixteen. 

Paul pushed his way, not unkindly, toward the corner where the twomotionless forms lay half concealed by a mass of ragged sheepskin. 

"Here, " he said, "this woman is dead. Take her out. When will you learnto be clean? This boy may live--with care. Bring the light closer, little mother. So, it is well. He will live. Come, don't sit crying. Take all these rags out and burn them. All of you go out. It is a finenight. You are better in the cart-shed than here. Here, you, Tula, goround with the starosta to his store. He will give you clean blankets. "

They obeyed him blindly. Tula and one of the young women (his daughters)dragged the dead body, which was that of a very old woman, out into thenight. The starosta had retired to the door-way when the lamp waslighted, his courage having failed him. The air was foul with the reekof smoke and filth and infection. 

"Come, Vasilli Tula, " the village elder said, with suspicious eagerness. "Come with me, I will give you what the good doctor says. Though you oweme money, and you never try to pay me. "

But Tula was kissing and mumbling over the hem of Paul's coat. Paul tookno notice of him. 

"We are starving, Excellency, " the man was saying. "I can get no work. Ihad to sell my horse in the winter, and I cannot plough my little pieceof land. The Government will not help us. The Prince--curse him!--doesnothing for us. He lives in Petersburg, where he spends all his money, and has food and wine more than he wants. The Count Stépan Lanovitchused to assist us--God be with him! But he has been sent to Siberiabecause he helped the peasants. He was like you; he was a great bárin, agreat noble, and yet he helped the peasants. "

Paul turned round sharply and shook the man off. 

"Go, " he said, "with the starosta and get what I tell you. A great, strong fellow like you has no business on his knees to any man! I willnot help you unless you help yourself. You are a lazy good-for-nothing. Get out!"

He pushed him out of the hut, and kicked after him a few rags ofclothing which were lying about on the floor, all filthy and slimy. 

"Good God!" muttered he under his breath, in English, "that a place likethis should exist beneath the very walls of Osterno!"

From hut to hut he went all through that night on his mission ofmercy--without enthusiasm, without high-flown notions respectingmankind, but with the simple sense of duty that was his. These peoplewere his things--his dumb and driven beasts. In his heart there may haveexisted a grudge against the Almighty for placing him in a positionwhich was not only intensely disagreeable, but also somewhat ridiculous. For he did not dare to tell his friends of these things. He had spokenof them to no man except Karl Steinmetz, who was in a sense hisdependent. English public school and university had instilled into himthe intensely British feeling of shame respecting good works. He couldtake chaff as well as any man, for he was grave by habit, and a graveman receives the most chaff most good-humoredly. But he had a nervousdread of being found out. He had made a sort of religion of suppressingthe fact that he was a prince; the holy of holies of this cult was thefact that he was a prince who sought to do good to his neighbor--aprince in whom one might repose trust. 

This was not the first time by any number that he had gone down into hisown village insisting in a rough-and-ready way on cleanliness andpurity. 

"The Moscow doctor"--the peasants would say in the kabak over theirvodka and their tea--"the Moscow doctor comes in and kicks our beds outof the door. He comes in and throws our furniture into the street Butafterward he gives us new beds and new furniture. "

It was a joke that always obtained in the kabak. It flavored the vodka, and with that fiery poison served to raise a laugh. 

The Moscow doctor was looked upon in Osterno and in many neighboringvillages as second only to God. In fact, many of the peasants placed himbefore their Creator. They were stupid, vodka-soddened, hapless men. TheMoscow doctor they could see for themselves. He came in, a very tangiblething of flesh and blood, built on a large and manly scale; he took themby the shoulders and bundled them out of their own houses, kicking theirbedding after them. He scolded them, he rated them and abused them. Hebrought them food and medicine. He understood the diseases which fromtime to time swept over their villages. No cold was too intense for himto brave should they be in distress. He asked no money, and he gavenone. But they lived on his charity, and they were wise enough to knowit. 

What wonder if these poor wretches loved the man whom they could see andhear above the God who manifested himself to them in no way! Theorthodox priests of their villages had no money to spend on theirparishioners. On the contrary, they asked for money to keep the churchesin repair. What wonder, then, if these poor ignorant, helpless peasantswould listen to no priest; for the priest could not explain to them whyit was that God sent a four-month-long winter which cut them off fromthe rest of the world behind impassable barriers of snow; that God sentthem droughts in the summer so that there was no crop of rye; that Godscourged them with dread and horrible disease!

It is almost impossible for us to realize, in these days of a lamentablycheap press and a cheaper literature, the mental condition of men andwomen who have no education, no newspaper, no news of the world, nocommunication with the universe. To them the mystery of the Moscowdoctor was as incomprehensible as to us is the Deity. They were so nearto the animals that Paul could not succeed in teaching them that diseaseand death followed on the heels of dirt and neglect. They were tooignorant to reason, too low down the animal scale to comprehend thingswhich some of the dumb animals undoubtedly recognize. 

Paul Alexis, half Russian, half English, understood these people verythoroughly. He took advantage of their ignorance, their simplicity, their unfathomable superstition. He governed as no other could haveruled them, by fear and kindness at once. He mastered them by hisvitality, the wholesome strength of his nature, his infinitesuperiority. He avoided the terrible mistake of the Nihilists bytreating them as children to whom education must be given little bylittle instead of throwing down before them a mass of dangerousknowledge which their minds, unaccustomed to such strong food, areincapable of digesting. 

A British coldness of blood damped as it were the Russian quixotismwhich would desire to see result follow upon action--to see the worldmake quicker progress than its Creator has decreed. With veryunsatisfactory material Paul was setting in motion a great rock whichwill roll down into the ages unconnected with his name, clearing a paththrough a very thick forest of ignorance and tyranny. 

CHAPTER XI

CATRINA

The man who carries a deceit, however innocent, with him through life isapt to be somewhat handicapped in that unfair competition. He is like aship at sea with a "sprung" mainmast. A side breeze may arise at anymoment which throws him all aback and upon his beam-ends. He runsillegitimate risks, which are things much given to dragging at a man'smind, handicapping his thoughts. 

Paul suffered in this way. It was a distinct burthen to him to play adouble part, although each was innocent enough in itself. At school, andlater on at the 'Varsity, he had consistently and steadily suppressed atruth from friend and foe alike--namely, that he was in his own countrya prince. No great crime on the face of it; but a constant suppressionof a very small truth is as burdensome as any suggestion of falsehood. It makes one afraid of contemptible foes, and doubtful of the value ofone's own friendship. 

Paul was a simple-minded man. He was not afraid of the RussianGovernment. Indeed, he cultivated a fine contempt for that august body. But he was distinctly afraid of being found out, for that discoverycould only mean an incontinent cessation of the good work which renderedhis life happy. 

The fear of being deprived of this interest in existence shouldcertainly have been lessened, if not quite allayed, by the fact that agreater interest had been brought into his life in the pleasant form ofa prospective wife. When he was in London with Etta Sydney Bamborough hedid not, however, forget Osterno. He only longed for the time when hecould take Etta freely into his confidence and engage her interest inthe object of his ambition--namely, to make the huge Osterno estate intothat lump of leaven which might in time leaven the whole of the empire. 

That a man is capable of sustaining two absorbing interests at once is amatter of every-day illustration. Are we not surrounded by men who dotheir work well in life, and love their wives well at home, withoutallowing the one to interfere with the other? That women are capable ofthe same seems exceedingly probable. But we are a race of sheep who runafter each other, guided for the moment by a catchword which will notbear investigation, or an erroneous deduction set in alliterative versewhich clings to the mind and sways it. Thus we all think that woman'swhole existence is, and is only capable of, love, because a poet, in thetrickiness of his trade, once said so. 

Now, Paul held a different opinion. He thought that Etta could manage tolove him well, as she said she did, and yet take an interest in thatwhich was in reality the object of his life. He intended to take theearliest opportunity of telling her all about the work he wasendeavoring to carry out at Osterno, and the knowledge that he waswithholding something from her was a constant burden to an upright andhonest nature. 

"I think, " he said one morning to Steinmetz, "that I will write and tellMrs. Sydney Bamborough all about this place. "

"I should not do that, " replied Steinmetz with a leisurely promptitude. 

They were alone in a great smoking-room of which the walls were hung allround with hunting trophies. Paul was smoking a post-prandial cigar. Steinmetz reflected gravely over a pipe. They were both reading Russiannewspapers--periodicals chiefly remarkable for that which they leaveunsaid. 

"Why not?" asked Paul. 

"On principle. Never tell a woman that which is not interesting enoughto magnify into a secret. "

Paul turned over his newspaper. He began reading again. Then, suddenly, he looked up. 

"We are engaged to be married, " he observed pointedly. 

Steinmetz took his pipe from his lips slowly and imperturbably. He was aman to whom it was no satisfaction to impart news. He either knew itbefore or did not take much interest in the matter. 

"That makes it worse, " he said. "A woman only conceals what is bad abouther husband. If she knows anything that is likely to make other womenthink that their husbands are inferior, she will tell it. "

Paul laughed. 

"But this is not good, " he argued. "We have kept it so confoundedlyquiet that I am beginning to feel as if it is a crime. "

Steinmetz uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and then spoke aftermature reflection:

"As I understand the law of libel, a man is punished, not for telling alie, but for telling either the truth or a lie with malicious intent. Iimagine the Almighty will take the intent into consideration, if humanjustice finds it expedient to do so!"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. Argument was not his strong point, and, like most men who cannot argue, he was almost impervious to thearguments of others. He recognized the necessity for secrecy--theabsolute need of a thousand little secretive precautions and disguiseswhich were intensely disagreeable to him. But he also grumbled at themfreely, and whenever he made such objection Karl Steinmetz grew uneasy, as if the question which he disposed of with facile philosophy orhumorous resignation had behind it a possibility and an importance ofwhich he was fully aware. It was on these rare occasions that he mighthave conveyed to a keen observer the impression that he was playing avery dangerous game with a smiling countenance. 

"All that we do, " pursued Steinmetz, "is to bow to a lamentablenecessity for deceit. I have bowed to it all my life. It has been mytrade, perhaps. It is not our fault that we are placed in charge of fouror five thousand human beings who are no more capable of helpingthemselves than are sheep. It is not our fault that the forefathers ofthese sheep cut down the forests and omitted to plant more, so that theflocks with whom we have to deal have no fuel. It is not our fault thata most terrific winter annually renders the land unproductive for fourmonths. It is not our fault that the government to which we are forcedto bow--the Czar whose name lifts our hats from our heads--it is not ourfault that progress and education are taboo, and that all who endeavorto forward the cause of humanity are promptly put away in a safe placewhere they are at liberty to forward their own salvation and nothingelse. Nothing is our fault, mein lieber, in this country. We have tomake the best of adverse circumstances. We are not breaking any humanlaw, and in doing nothing we should be breaking a divine command. "

Paul flicked the ash off his cigar. He had heard all this before. KarlSteinmetz's words were usually more remarkable for solid thoughtfulnessthan for brilliancy of conception or any great novelty of expression. 

"Oh!" said Paul quietly, "I am not going to leave off. You need not fearthat. Only I shall have to tell my wife. Surely a woman could help us ina thousand ways. There is such a lot that only a woman understands. "

"Yes!" grunted Steinmetz; "and only the right sort of woman. "

Paul looked up sharply. 

"You must leave that to me, " he said. 

"My very dear friend, I leave every thing to you. "

Paul smiled. 

There was no positive proof that this was not strictly true. There wasno saying that Karl Steinmetz did not leave every thing to every-body. But wise people thought differently. 

"You don't know Etta, " he said, half shyly. "She is full of sympathy andpity for these people. "

Steinmetz bowed gravely. 

"I have no doubt of it. "

"And yet you say that she must not be told. "

"Certainly not. A secret is considerably strained if it be dividedbetween two people. Stretching it to three will probably break it. Youcan tell her when you are married. Does she consent to live in Osterno?"

"Oh, yes. I think so. "

"Um--m!"

"What did you say?"

"Um--m, " repeated Steinmetz, and the conversation somewhat naturallyshowed signs of collapse. 

At this moment the door was opened, and a servant in bright livery, withpowdered wig, silk stockings, and a countenance which might have been ofwood, brought in a letter on a silver tray. 

Paul took the square envelope and turned it over, displaying as he didso a coronet in black and gold on the corner, like a stamp. 

Karl Steinmetz saw the coronet. He never took his quiet, unobtrusiveglance from Paul's face while he opened the letter and read it. 

"A fresh difficulty, " said Paul, throwing the note across to hiscompanion. 

Steinmetz looked grave while he unfolded the thick stationery. 

"Dear Paul [the letter ran]: I hear you are at Osterno and that theMoscow doctor is in your country. We are in great distress atThors--cholera, I fear. The fame of your doctor has spread to my people, and they are clamoring for him. Can you bring or send him over? You knowyour room here is always in readiness. Come soon with the great doctor, and also Herr Steinmetz. In doing so you will give more than pleasure toyour old friend, "

Catrina Lanovitch. 

"P. S. Mother is afraid to go out of doors for fear of infection. Shethinks she has a little cold. "

Steinmetz folded the letter very carefully, pressing the seam of itreflectively with his stout forefinger and thumb. 

"I always think of the lie first, " he said. "It's my nature or mymisfortune. We can easily write and say that the Moscow doctor hasleft. "

He paused, scratching his brow pensively with his curved forefinger. Itis to be feared that he was seeking not so much the truth as the mostconvenient perversion of the same. 

"But then, " he went on, "by doing that we leave these poor devils to diein their--styes. Catrina cannot manage them. They are worse than ourpeople. "

"Whatever is the best lie to tell, " burst in Paul--"as we seem to livein an atmosphere of them--I must go to Thors; that is quite certain. "

"There is no must in the case, " put in Steinmetz quietly, as aparenthesis. "No man is compelled to throw himself in the way ofinfection. But I know you will go, whatever I say. "

"I suppose I shall, " admitted Paul. 

"And Catrina will find you out at once. "

"Why?"

Steinmetz drew in his feet. He leant forward and knocked his pipe on oneof the logs that lay ready to light in the great open fire-place. 

"Because she loves you, " he said shortly. "There is no coming the Moscowdoctor over her, mien lieber. "

Paul laughed rather awkwardly. He was one of the few men--daily growingfewer--who hold that a woman's love is not a thing to be tossed lightlyabout in conversation. 

"Then--" he began, speaking rather quickly, as if afraid that Steinmetzwas going to say more. "If, " he amended, "you think she will find out, she must not see me, that is all. "

Steinmetz reflected again. He was unusually grave over this matter. Onewould scarcely have taken this stout German for a person of anysentiment whatever. Nevertheless he would have liked Paul to marryCatrina Lanovitch in preference to Etta Sydney Bamborough, merelybecause he thought that the former loved him, while he felt sure thatthe latter did not. So much for the sentimental point of view--astarting-point, by the way, which usually makes all the difference in aman's life. For a man needs to be loved as much as a woman needs it. From the practical point of view, Karl Steinmetz knew too much aboutEtta to place entire reliance on the goodness of her motives. He keenlysuspected that she was marrying Paul for his money--for the position hecould give her in the world. 

"We must be careful, " he said. "We must place clearly before ourselvesthe risks that we are running before we come to any decision. For youthe risk is simply that of unofficial banishment. They can hardly sendyou to Siberia because you are half an Englishman; and that impertinentcountry has a habit of getting up and shouting when her sons areinterfered with. But they can easily make Russia impossible for you. They can do you more harm than you think. They can do these poor devilsof peasants of yours more harm than we can comfortably contemplate. Asfor me, " he paused and shrugged his great shoulders, "it means Siberia. Already I am a suspect--a persona non grata. "

"I do not see how we can refuse to help Catrina, " said Paul, in a voicewhich Steinmetz seemed to know, for he suddenly gave in. 

"As you will, " he said. 

He sat up, and, drawing a small table toward him, took up a penreflectively. Paul watched him in silence. 

When the letter was finished, Steinmetz read it aloud:

"My Dear Catrina:

"The Moscow doctor and your obedient servant will be (D. V. ) in Thors byseven o'clock to-night. We propose spending about an hour in thevillage, if you will kindly advise the starosta to be ready for us. Asour time is limited, and we are much needed in Osterno, we shall have todeprive ourselves of the pleasure of calling at the castle. The princesends kind remembrances, and proposes riding over to Thors to availhimself of your proffered hospitality in a day or two. With salutationsto the countess, "Your old friend, "Karl Steinmetz. "

Steinmetz waited with the letter in his hand for Paul's approval. "Yousee, " he explained, "you are notoriously indifferent to the welfare ofthe peasants. It would be unnatural if you suddenly displayed so muchinterest as to induce you to go to Thors on a mission of charity. "

Paul nodded. "All right, " he said. "Yes, I see; though I confess Isometimes forget what the deuce I _am_ supposed to be. "

Steinmetz laughed pleasantly as he folded the letter. He rose and wentto the door. 

"I will send it off, " he said. He paused on the threshold and lookedback gravely. "Do not forget, " he added, "that Catrina Lanovitch lovesyou. "

CHAPTER XII

AT THORS

Below the windows of a long, low, stone house, in its architectureremarkably like a fortified farm--below these deep-embrasured windowsthe river Oster mumbled softly. One of the windows was wide open, andwith the voice of the water a wonderful music rolled out to mingle andlose itself in the hum of the pine-woods. 

The room was a small one; beneath the artistic wall-paper one detectedthe outline of square-hewn stones. There were women's things lyingabout; there were flowers in a bowl on a low, strong table. There were afew good engravings on the wall; deep-curtained windows, low chairs, asofa, a fan. But it was not a womanly room. The music filling it, vibrating back from the grim stone walls, was not womanly music. It wasmore than manly. It was not earthly, but almost divine. It happened tobe Grieg, with the halting beat of a disabled, perhaps a broken, heartin it, as that master's music usually has. 

The girl was alone in the room. The presence of any one would havesilenced something that was throbbing at the back of the chords. Quitesuddenly she stopped. She knew how to play the quaint last notes. Sheknew something that no master had ever taught her. 

She swung round on the stool and faced the light. It was afternoon--anautumn afternoon in Russia--and the pink light made the very best of aface which was not beautiful at all, never could be beautiful--a faceabout which even the owner, a woman, could have no possible illusion. Itwas broad and powerful, with eyes too far apart, forehead too broad andlow, jaw too heavy, mouth too determined. The eyes were almond-shaped, and slightly sloping downward and inward--deep, passionate blue eyes setin a Mongolian head. It was the face of a woman who could, morallyspeaking, make mincemeat of nine young men out of ten. But she could nothave made one out of the number love her. For it has been decreed thatwomen shall win love--except in some happy exceptions--by beauty only. The same unwritten law has it that a man's appearance does not matter--alaw much appreciated by some of us, and duly canonized by not a few. 

The girl was evidently listening. She glanced at a little golden clockon the mantel-piece, and then at the open window. She rose--she wasshort, and somewhat broadly built--and went to the window. 

"He will be back, " she said to herself, "in a few minutes now. "

She raised her hand to her forehead, and pressed back her hair with alittle movement of impatience, expressive, perhaps, of a great suspense. She stood idly drumming on the window-sill for a few moments; then, witha quick little sigh, she went back to the piano. As she moved she gave ajerk of the head from time to time, as schoolgirls who have too muchhair are wont to do. The reason of this nervous movement was a wondrousplait of gold reaching far below her waist. Catrina Lanovitch almostworshipped her own hair. She knew without any doubt that not one womanin ten thousand could rival her in this feminine glory--knew it asindubitably as she knew that she was plain. The latter fact she facedwith an unflinching, cold conviction which was not feminine at all. Shedid not say that she was hideous, for the sake of hearing acontradiction or a series of saving clauses. She never spoke of it toany one. She had grown up with it, and as it was beyond doubt, so was itoutside discussion. All her femininity seemed to be concentrated, allher vanity centred, on her hair. It was her one pride, perhaps her onehope. Women have been loved for their voices. Catrina's voice wasmusical enough, but it was deep and strong. It was passionate, tender ifshe wished, fascinating; but it was not lovable. If the voice may winlove, why not the hair?

Catrina despised all men but one--that one she worshipped. She livednight and day with one great desire, beside which heaven and hell weremere words. Neither the hope of the one nor the fear of the other in anyway touched or affected her desire. She wanted to make Paul Alexis loveher; and, womanlike, she clung to the one womanly charm that washers--the wonderful golden hair. Pathetic, aye, pathetic--with a grinbehind the pathos, as there ever is. 

She sat down at the piano, and her strong, small hands tore the heartout of each wire. There are some people who get farther into a pianothan others, making the wires speak as with a voice. Catrina Lanovitchhad this trick. She only played a Russian people-song--a simple lay suchas one may hear issuing from the door of any kabak on a summer evening. But she infused a true Russian soul into it--the soul that is cursedwith a fatal power of dumb and patient endurance. She did not sway fromside to side as do some people who lose themselves in the intoxicationof music. But she sat quite upright, her sturdy, square shouldersmotionless. Her strange eyes were fixed with the stillness of distantcontemplation. 

Suddenly she stopped and leaped to her feet. She did not go to thewindow, but stood listening beside the piano. The beat of a horse'shoofs on the narrow road was distinctly audible, hollow and sodden as isthe sound of a wooden road. It came nearer and nearer, and a certainunsteadiness indicated that the horse was tired. 

"I thought he might have come, " she whispered, and she sat downbreathlessly. 

When the servant came into the room a few minutes later Catrina was atthe piano. 

"A letter, mademoiselle, " said the maid. 

"Lay it on the table, " answered Catrina, without looking round. She wasplaying the closing bars of a nocturne. 

She rose slowly, turned, and seized the letter as a starving man seizesfood. There was something almost wolf-like in her eyes. 

"Steinmetz, " she exclaimed, reading the address. "Steinmetz. Oh! whywon't he write to me?"

She tore open the letter, read it, and stood holding it in her hand, looking out over the trackless pine-woods with absorbed, speculativeeyes. The sun had just set. The farthest ridge of pine-trees stood outlike the teeth of a saw in black relief on the rosy sky. CatrinaLanovitch watched the rosiness fade into pearly gray. 

"Madame the Countess awaits mademoiselle for tea, " said the maid's voicesuddenly, in the gloom of the door-way. 

"I will come. "

The village of Thors--twenty miles farther down the river Oster, twentymiles nearer to the junction of that river with the Volga--was littlemore than a hamlet in the days of which we write. Some day, perhaps, thethree hundred souls of Thors may increase and multiply--some day whenRussia is attacked by the railway fever. For Thors is on theChorno-Ziom--the belt of black and fertile soil that runs right acrossthe vast empire. 

Karl Steinmetz, a dogged watcher of the Wandering Jew--the deathlessscoffer at our Lord's agony, who shall never die, who shall leavecholera in his track wherever he may wander--Karl Steinmetz knew thatthe Oster was in itself a Wandering Jew. This river meandered throughthe lonesome country, bearing cholera germs within its waters. WheneverOsterno had cholera it sent it down the river to Thors, and so on to theVolga. 

Thors lay groaning under the scourge, and the Countess Lanovitch shutherself within her stone walls, shivering with fear, begging herdaughter to return to Petersburg. 

It was nearly dark when Karl Steinmetz and the Moscow doctor rode intothe little village, to find the starosta, a simple Russian farmer, awaiting them outside the kabak. 

Steinmetz knew the man, and immediately took command of the situationwith that unquestioned sense of authority which in Russia places thebárin on much the same footing as that taken by the Anglo-Indian in oureastern empire. 

"Now, starosta, " he said, "we have only an hour to spend in Thors. Thisis the Moscow doctor. If you listen to what he tells you, you will soonhave no sickness in the village. The worst houses first--and quickly. You need not be afraid, but if you do not care to come in, you may stayoutside. "

As they walked down the straggling village-street the Moscow doctor toldthe starosta in no measured terms, as was his wont, wherein lay theheart of the sickness. Here, as in Osterno, dirt and neglect were at thebase of all the trouble. Here, as in the larger village, the houses weremore like the abode of four-footed beasts than the dwellings of humanbeings. 

The starosta prudently remained outside the first house to which heintroduced the visitors. Paul went fearlessly in, while Steinmetz stoodin the door-way, holding open the door. 

As he was standing there he perceived a flickering light approachinghim. The light was evidently that of an ordinary hand-lantern, and fromthe swinging motion it was easy to divine that it was being carried bysome one who was walking quickly. 

"Who is this?" asked Steinmetz. 

"It is likely to be the Countess Catrina, Excellency. "

Steinmetz glanced back into the cottage, which was dark save for thelight of a single petroleum lamp. Paul's huge form could be dimlydistinguished bending over a heap of humanity and foul clothing in acorner. 

"Does she visit the cottages?" asked Steinmetz sharply. 

"She does, God be with her! She has no fear. She is an angel. Withouther we should all be dead. "

"She won't visit this, if I can help it, " muttered Steinmetz. 

The light flickered along the road toward them. In the course of a fewminutes it fell on the stricken cottage, on the starosta standing in theroad, on Steinmetz in the door-way. 

"Herr Steinmetz, is that you?" asked a voice, deep and musical, in thedarkness. 

"Zum Befehl, " answered Steinmetz, without moving. 

Catrina came up to him. She was clad in a long dark cloak, a dark hat, and wore no gloves. She brought with her a clean aromatic odor ofdisinfectants. She carried the lantern herself, while behind her walkeda man-servant in livery, with a large basket in either hand. 

"It is good of you, " she said, "to come to us in our need--also topersuade the good doctor to come with you. "

"It is not much that we can do, " answered Steinmetz, taking the smalloutstretched hand within his large soft grasp; "but that little you mayalways count upon. "

"I know, " she said gravely. 

She looked up at him, expecting him to step aside and allow her to passinto the cottage; but Steinmetz stood quite still, looking down at herwith his pleasant smile. 

"And how is it with you?" he asked, speaking in German, as they alwaysdid together. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

"Oh!" she answered indifferently, "I am well, of course. I always am. Ihave the strength of a horse. Of course I have been troubled about thesepoor people. It has been terrible. They are worse than children. Icannot quite understand why God afflicts them so. They have never doneany harm. They are not like the Jews. It seems unjust. I have been verybusy, in my small way. My mother, you know, does not take much interestin things that are not clean. "

"Madame the Countess reads French novels and the fictional productionsof some modern English ladies, " suggested Steinmetz quietly. 

"Yes; but she objects to honest dirt, " said Catrina coldly. "May I goin?"

Steinmetz did not move. 

"I think not. This Moscow man is eccentric. He likes to do good subrosa. He prefers to be alone. "

Catrina tried to look into the cottage; but Karl Steinmetz, as we know, was fat, and filled up the whole door-way. 

"I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at least, to offer himhospitality. I suppose one cannot pay him. "

"No; one cannot pay him, " answered Steinmetz gravely. 

There was a little pause. From the interior of the cottage came themurmured gratitude of the peasants, broken at times by a wail ofagony--the wail of a man. It is not a pleasant sound to hear. Catrinaheard it, and it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm ofsympathy. 

Again she made an impatient little movement. 

"Let me go in, " she urged. "I may be able to help. "

Steinmetz shook his head. 

"Better not!" he said. "Besides, your life is too precious to these poorpeople to run unnecessary risks. "

She gave a strange, bitter laugh. 

"And what about you?" she said. "And Paul?"

"You never hear of Paul going into any of the cottages, " snappedSteinmetz sharply. "For me it is different. You have never heard that ofPaul. "

"No, " she answered slowly; "and it is quite right. His life--it isdifferent for him. How--how is Paul?"

"He is well, thank you. "

Steinmetz glanced down at her. She was looking across the plains beyondthe boundless pine forests that lay between Thors and the Volga. 

"Quite well, " he went on, kindly enough. "He hopes to ride over and payhis respects to the countess to-morrow or the next day. "

And the keen, kind eyes saw what they expected in the flickering lightof the lamp. 

At this moment Steinmetz was pushed aside from within, and a hulkingyoung man staggered out into the road, propelled from behind withconsiderable vigor. After him came a shower of clothes and bedding. 

"Pah!" exclaimed Steinmetz, spluttering. "Himmel! What filth! Becareful, Catrina!"

But Catrina had slipped past him. In an instant he had caught her by thewrist. 

"Come back!" he cried. "You must not go in there!"

She was just over the threshold. 

"You have some reason for keeping me out, " she returned, wriggling inhis strong grasp. "I will--I will!"

With a twist she wrenched herself free and went into the dimly lightedroom. 

Almost immediately she gave a mocking laugh. 

"Paul!" she said. 

CHAPTER XIII

UNMASKED

For a moment there was silence in the hovel, broken only by the wail ofthe dying man in the corner. Paul and Catrina faced each other--shewhite and suddenly breathless, he half frowning. But he did not meet hereyes. 

"Paul, " she said again, with a lingering touch on the name. The sound ofher voice, a rough sort of tenderness in her angry tone, made Steinmetzsmile in his grim way, as a man may smile when in pain. 

"Paul, what did you do this for? Why are you here? Oh, why are you inthis wretched place?"

"Because you sent for me, " he answered quietly. "Come, let us go out. Ihave finished here. That man will die. There is nothing more to be donefor him. You must not stay in here. "

She gave a short laugh as she followed him. He had to stoop low to passthrough the door-way. Then he turned and held out his hand, for fear sheshould trip over the high threshold. She nodded her thanks, but refusedthe proffered assistance. 

Steinmetz lingered behind to give some last instructions, leaving Pauland Catrina to walk on down the narrow street alone. The moon was justrising--a great yellow moon such as only Russia knows--the land of thesilver night. 

"How long have you been doing this?" asked Catrina suddenly. She did notlook toward him, but straight in front of her. 

"For some years now, " he replied simply. 

He lingered. He was waiting for Steinmetz, who always rose to suchemergencies, who understood secrets and how to secure them when theyseemed already lost. He did not quite understand what was to be donewith Catrina--how she was to be silenced. She had found him out withsuch startling rapidity that he felt disposed to admit her right todictate her own terms. On a straight road this man was fearless andquick, but he had no taste or capacity for crooked ways. 

Catrina walked on in silence. She was not looking at the matter from hispoint of view at all. 

"Of course, " she said at length, "of course, Paul, I admire you for itimmensely. It is just like you to go and do the thing quietly and saynothing about it; but--oh, you must go away from here. I--I--it is toohorrible to think of your running such risks. Rather let them all dielike flies than that. You mustn't do it. You mustn't. "

She spoke in English hurriedly, with a little break in her voice whichhe did not understand. 

"With ordinary precautions the risk is very small, " he said practically. 

"Yes. But do you take ordinary precautions? Are you sure you are allright now?"

She stopped. They were quite alone in the one silent street of thestricken village. She looked up into his face. Her hands were runningover the breast of the tattered coat he wore. It was lamentably obvious, even to him, that she loved him. In her anxiety she either did not knowwhat she was doing, or she did not care whether he knew or not. Shemerely gave sway to the maternal instinct which is in the love of allwomen. She felt his hands; she reached up and touched his face. 

"Are you sure--are you sure you have not taken it?" she whispered. 

He walked on, almost roughly. 

"Oh, yes; quite, " he said. 

"I will not allow you to go into any more houses in Thors. I cannot--Iwill not! Oh, Paul, you don't know. If you do, I will tell them all whoyou are, and--and the Government will stop you. "

"What would be the good of that?" said Paul awkwardly. "Your fathercared for his peasants, and was content to run risks for them. I supposeyou care about them, too, as you go into their houses. "

"Yes; but--"

She paused, gave a strange little reckless laugh, and was silent. Heavenforbid that we should say that she wanted him to know that she lovedhim. Chivalry bids us believe that women guard the secret of their loveinviolate from the world. But what was Catrina to do? Men are in thehabit of forgetting that plain women are women at all. Surely some ofthem may be excused for reminding us at times that they also are capableof loving--that they also desire to be loved. Happy is the man who lovesand is loved of a plain woman; for she will take her own lack of beautyinto consideration, and give him more than most beautiful women have itin their power to give. 

"Of course, " Catrina went on, with a sudden anger which surprisedherself, "I cannot stop you from doing this at Osterno, though I thinkit is wicked; but I can prevent you from doing it here, and I certainlyshall!"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. 

"As you like, " he said. "I thought you cared more about the peasants. "

"I do not care a jot about the peasants, " she answered passionately, "ascompared--It is you I am thinking about, not them. I think you areselfish, and cruel to your friends. "

"My friends have never shown that they are consumed with anxiety on myaccount. "

"That is mere prevarication. Leave that to Herr Steinmetz and such men, whose business it is; you don't do it well. Your friends may feel a lotthat they do not show. "

She spoke the words shortly and sharply. Surreptitious good is so rare, that when it is found out it very naturally gets mixed up with secretevil, and the perpetrator of the hidden good deed feels guilty of acrime. Paul was in this lamentable position, which he proceeded tofurther aggravate by seeking to excuse himself. 

"I did it after mature consideration. I tried paying another man, but heshirked his work and showed the white feather; so Steinmetz and Iconcluded that there was nothing to be done but do our dirty workourselves. "

"Which, being translated, means that you do it. "

"Pardon me. Steinmetz does his share. "

Catrina Lanovitch was essentially a woman, despite her somewhatmasculine frame. She settled Karl Steinmetz's account with a sniff ofcontempt. 

"And that is why you have been so fond of Osterno the last two years?"she asked innocently. 

"Yes, " he answered, falling into the trap. 

Catrina winced. One does not wince the less because the pain isexpected. The girl had the Slav instinct of self-martyrdom, which makesRussians so very different from the pleasure-loving nations of Europe. 

"Only that?" she enquired. 

Paul glanced down at her. 

"Yes, " he answered quietly. 

They walked on in silence for a few moments. Paul seemed tacitly to havegiven up the idea of visiting any more of the stricken cottages. Theywere going toward the long old house, which was called the castle moreby courtesy than by right. 

"How long are you going to stay in Osterno?" asked Catrina at length. 

"About a fortnight; I cannot stay longer. I am going to be married. "

Catrina stopped dead. She stood for a moment looking at the ground witha sort of wonder in her eyes, not pleasant to see. It was the look ofone who, having fallen from a great height, is not quite sure whether itmeans death or not. Then she walked on. 

"I congratulate you, " she said. "I only hope she will make you happy. She is--beautiful, I suppose?"

"Yes, " answered Paul simply. 

The girl nodded her head. 

"What is her name?"

"Etta Sydney Bamborough. "

Catrina had evidently never heard the name before. It conveyed nothingto her. Womanlike, she went back to her first question. 

"What is she like?"

Paul hesitated. 

"Tall, I suppose?" suggested the stunted woman at his side. 

"Yes. "

"And graceful?"

"Yes. "

"Has she--pretty hair?" asked Catrina. 

"I think so--yes. "

"You are not observant, " said the girl in a singularly even andemotionless voice. "Perhaps you never noticed. "

"Not particularly, " answered Paul. 

The girl raised her face. There was a painful smile twisting her lips. The moonlight fell upon her; the deep shadows beneath the eyes made herface wear a grin. Some have seen such a grin on the face of a drowningman--a sight not to be forgotten. 

"Where does she live?" asked Catrina. She was unaware of the thought ofmurder that was in her own heart. Nevertheless, the desire--indefinite, shapeless--was there to kill this woman, who was tall and beautiful, whom Paul Alexis loved. 

It must be remembered in extenuation that Catrina Lanovitch had livednearly all her life in the province of Tver. She was not modern at all. Deprived of the advantages of our enlightened society press, without thebenefit of our decadent fictional literature, she had lamentably narrowviews of life. She was without that deep philosophy which teaches you, mademoiselle, who read this guileless tale, that nothing matters verymuch; that love is but a passing amusement, the plaything of an hour;that if Tom is faithless, Dick is equally amusing; while Harry's tastein gloves and compliments is worthy of some consideration. That thesethings be true--that at all events the modern young lady thinks themtrue--is a matter of no doubt whatever. Has not the modern lady novelisttold us so? And is not the modern lady novelist notable for her closeobservation of human nature, her impartial judgment of human motives, her sublime truth of delineation when she sits down to describe thething she calls a man? By a close study of the refined feminineliterature of the day the modern young lady acquires not only theknowledge of some startling social delinquencies--retailed, not as ifthey were quite the exception, but as if they were quite the correctthing--but also she will learn that she is human. She will realize howutterly absurd it is to attempt to be any thing else. If persons inbooks, she will reflect, are not high-minded or pure-minded, or evenclean-minded, it is useless for an ordinary person out of a book toattempt to be any of these. 

This is the lesson of some new writers, and Catrina Lanovitch had, fortunately enough, lacked the opportunity of learning it. 

She only knew that she loved Paul, and that what she wanted was Paul'slove to go with her all through her life. She was not self-analytical, nor subtle, nor given to thinking about her own thoughts. Perhaps shewas old-fashioned enough to be romantic. If this be so, we must bearwith her romance, remembering that, at all events, romance serves toelevate, while realism tends undoubtedly toward deterioration. 

Catrina hated Etta Sydney Bamborough with a simple half-barbaric hatredbecause she had gained the love of Paul Alexis. Etta had taken away fromher the only man whom Catrina could ever love all through her life. Thegirl was simple enough, unsophisticated enough, never to dream ofcompromise. She never for a moment entertained the cheap, consolatorythought that in time she would get over it; she would marry somebodyelse, and make that compromise which is responsible for more misery inthis world than ever is vice. In her great solitude, growing towomanhood as she had in the vast forest of Tver, she had learned nearlyall that she knew from the best teacher, Nature; and she held thestrange, effete theory that it is wicked for a woman to marry a man shedoes not love, or to marry at all for any reason except love. St. Pauland a few others held like theories, but nous avons changé tout cela. 

"Where does she live?" asked Catrina. 

"In London. "

They walked on in silence for a few moments. They were walking slowly, and they presently heard the footsteps of Karl Steinmetz and the servantclose behind them. 

"I wonder, " said Catrina, half to herself, "whether she loves you?"

It was a question, but not one that a man can answer. Paul said nothing, but walked gravely on by the side of this woman, who knew that even ifEtta Sydney Bamborough should try she could never love him as sheherself did. 

When Karl Steinmetz joined them they were silent. 

"I suppose, " he said in English, "that we may rely upon the discretionof the Fraülein Catrina?"

"Yes, " answered the girl; "you may, so far as Osterno is concerned. ButI would rather that you did not visit our people here. It is toodangerous in several ways. "

"Ah!" murmured Steinmetz, respectfully acquiescent. He was lookingstraight in front of him, with an expression of countenance which wasalmost dense. "Then we must bow to your decision, " he went on, turningtoward the tall man striding along at his side. 

"Yes, " said Paul simply. 

Steinmetz smiled grimly to himself. It was one of his half-cynicaltheories that women hold the casting vote in all earthly matters, andwhen an illustration such as this came to prove the correctness of hisdeductions, he only smiled. He was not by nature a cynic--only by theforce of circumstances. 

"Will you come to the castle?" asked the girl at length, and Steinmetzby a gesture deferred the decision to Paul. 

"I think not to-night, thanks, " said the latter. "We will take you asfar as the gate. "

Catrina made no comment. When the tall gate-way was reached she stopped, and they all became aware of the sound of horses' feet behind them. 

"What is this?" asked Catrina. 

"Only the starosta bringing our horses, " replied Steinmetz. "He hasdiscovered nothing. "

Catrina nodded and held out her hand. 

"Good-night, " she said, rather coldly. "Your secret is safe with me. "

"Set a thief to catch a thief, " reflected Steinmetz. He said nothing, however, when he shook hands. 

They mounted their horses and rode back the way they had come. For halfan hour no one spoke. Then Paul broke the silence. He only said oneword:

"D--n. "

"Yes, " returned Steinmetz quietly. "Charity is a dangerous plaything. "

CHAPTER XIV

A WIRE-PULLER

The Palace of Industry--where, with a fine sense of the fitness of thename, the Parisians amuse themselves--was in a blaze of electric lightand fashion. The occasion was the Concours Hippique, an ultra-equinefête, where the lovers of the friend of man, and such persons as arefitted by an ungenerous fate with limbs suitable to horsey clothes, meetand bow. In France, as in a neighboring land (less sunny), horsiness isthe last refuge of the diminutive. It is your small man who is ever thehorsiest in his outward appearance, just as it is your very plain youngperson who is keenest at the Sunday-school class. 

When a Frenchman is horsey he never runs the risk of being mistaken fora groom or a jockey, as do his turfy compeers in England. His costume isso exaggeratedly suggestive of the stable and the horse as to leave nodoubt whatever that he is an amateur of the most pronounced type. Hiscollar is so white and stiff and portentous as to make it impossible forhim to tighten up his own girths. His breeches are so breechy about theknees as to render an ascent to the saddle a feat which it is notprudent to attempt without assistance. His gloves are so large and seamyas to make it extremely difficult to grasp the bridle, and quiteimpossible to buckle a strap. Your French horseman is, in fact, ratherlike a knight of old, inasmuch as his attendants are required to set himon his horse with his face turned in the right direction, his bridle inhis left hand, his whip in his right, and, it is to be supposed, hisheart in his mouth. When he is once up there, however, the gallant sonof Gaul can teach even some of us, my fox-hunting masters, the way tosit a horse!

We have, however, little to do with such matters here, except in so faras they affect the persons connected with this record. The ConcoursHippique, be it therefore known, was at its height. Great deeds ofhorsemanship had been successfully accomplished. The fair had smiledbeneath pencilled eyebrows upon the brave in uniform and breeches. Atthe time when we join the fashionable throng, the fair are smiling theirbrightest. It is, in fact, an interval for refreshment. 

A crowd of well-dressed men jostled each other good-naturedly around along table, where insolent waiters served tepid coffee, and sandwichesthat had been cut by the hand of a knave. In the background a number ofladies nodded encouragement to their cavaliers in the intervals ofscrutinizing each other's dresses. Many pencilled eyebrows were raisedin derision of too little style displayed by some innocent rival, orbrought down in disapproval of too much of the same vague qualitydisplayed by one less innocent. 

In the midst of these, as in his element, moved the Baron Claude deChauxville, smiling his courteous, ready smile, which his enemies calleda grin. He took up less room than the majority of the men around him; hesucceeded in passing through narrower places, and jostled fewer people. In a word, he proved to his own satisfaction, and to the discomfiture ofmany a younger man, his proficiency in the gentle art of getting on inthe world. 

Not far from him stood a stout gentleman of middle age, with a heavyfair mustache brushed upward on either side. This man had an air ofdistinction which was notable even in this assembly; for there were manydistinguished people present, and a Frenchman of note plays his partbetter than do we dull, self-conscious islanders. This man looked like ageneral, so upright was he, so keen his glance, so independent thecarriage of his head. 

He stood with his hands behind his back, looking gravely on at thesocial festivity. He bowed and raised his hat to many, but he enteredinto conversation with none. 

"Ce Vassili, " he heard more than once whispered, "c'est un hommedangereux. "

And he smiled all the more pleasantly. 

Now, if a very keen observer had taken the trouble to ignore the throngand watch two persons only, that observer might have discovered the factthat Claude de Chauxville was slowly and purposely making his way towardthe man called Vassili. 

De Chauxville knew and was known of many. He had but recently arrivedfrom London. He found himself called upon to shake hands à l'anglaiswith this one and that, giving all and sundry his impressions of theperfidious Albion with a verve and neatness truly French. He went fromone to the other with perfect grace and savoir-faire, and each change ofposition brought him nearer to the middle-aged man with upturnedmustache, upon whom his movements were by no means lost. 

Finally De Chauxville bumped against the object of his quest--possibly, indeed, the object of his presence at the Concours Hippique. He turnedwith a ready apology. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed; "the very man I was desiring to see. "

The individual known as "ce Vassili"--a term of mingled contempt anddistrust--bowed very low. He was a plain commoner, while hisinterlocutor was a baron. The knowledge of this was subtly conveyed inhis bow. 

"How can I serve M. Le Baron?" he enquired in a voice which wasnaturally loud and strong, but had been reduced by careful training to atone inaudible at the distance of a few paces. 

"By following me to the Café Tantale in ten minutes, " answered DeChauxville, passing on to greet a lady who was bowing to him with thelabored grace of a Parisienne. 

Vassili merely bowed and stood upright again. There was something in hisattitude of quiet attention, of unobtrusive scrutiny and retiringintelligence, vaguely suggestive of the police--something which hisfriends refrained from mentioning to him; for this Vassili was adignified man, of like susceptibilities with ourselves, and justly proudof the fact that he belonged to the Corps Diplomatique. What position heoccupied in that select corporation he never vouchsafed to define. Butit was known that he enjoyed considerable emoluments, while he was nevercalled upon to represent his country or his emperor in any officialcapacity. He was attached, he said, to the Russian Embassy. His enemiescalled him a spy; but the world never puts a charitable construction onthat of which it only has a partial knowledge. 

In ten minutes Claude de Chauxville left the Concours Hippique. In theChamps Elysées he turned to the left, up toward the Bois du Boulogne;turned to the left again, and took one of the smaller paths that lead toone or other of the sequestered and somewhat select cafés on the southside of the Champs Elysées. 

At the Café Tantale--not in the garden, for it was winter, but in theinner room--he found the man called Vassili consuming a pensive andsolitary glass of liqueur. 

De Chauxville sat down, stated his requirements to the waiter in asingle word, and offered his companion a cigarette, which Vassiliaccepted with the consciousness that it came from a coroneted case. 

"I am rather thinking of visiting Russia, " said the Frenchman. 

"Again, " added Vassili, in his quiet voice. 

De Chauxville looked up sharply, smiled, and waved the word away with agesture of the fingers that held a cigarette. 

"If you will--again. "

"On private affairs?" enquired Vassili, not so much, it would appear, from curiosity as from habit. He put the question with the assurance ofone who has a right to know. 

De Chauxville nodded acquiescence through the tobacco smoke. 

"The bane of public men--private affairs, " he said epigrammatically. 

But the attaché to the Russian Embassy was either too dense or tooclever to be moved to a sympathetic smile by a cheap epigram. 

"And M. Le Baron wants a passport?" he said, lapsing into the usefulthird person, which makes the French language so much more fitted tosocial and diplomatic purposes than is our rough northern tongue. 

"And more, " answered De Chauxville. "I want what you hate partingwith--information. "

The man called Vassili leaned back in his chair with a little smile. Itwas an odd little smile, which fell over his features like a mask andcompletely hid his thoughts. It was apparent that Claude de Chauxville'stricks of speech and manner fell here on barren ground. The Frenchman'sepigrams, his method of conveying his meaning in a non-committing andimpersonal generality, failed to impress this hearer. The differencebetween a Frenchman and a Russian is that the former is amenable toevery outward influence--the outer thing penetrates. The Russian, on thecontrary, is a man who works his thoughts, as it were, from internalgeneration to external action. The action, moreover, is demonstrative, which makes the Russian different from other northern nations of anolder civilization and a completer self-control. 

"Then, " said Vassili, "if I understand M. Le Baron aright, it is aquestion of private and personal affairs that suggests this journeyto--Russia?"

"Precisely. "

"In no sense a mission?" suggested the other, sipping his liqueurthoughtfully. 

"In no sense a mission. I give you a proof. I have been granted sixmonths' leave of absence, as you probably know. "

"Precisely so, mo' cher Baron. " Vassili had a habit of applying to everyone the endearing epithet, which lost a consonant somewhere in hismustache. "When a military officer is granted a six months' leave, it isexactly then that we watch him. "

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in deprecation, possibly withcontempt for any system of watching. 

"May one call it an affaire de coeur?" asked Vassili, with his grimsmile. 

"Certainly. Are not all private affairs such, one way or the other?"

"And you want a passport?"

"Yes--a special one. "

"I will see what I can do. "

"Thank you. "

Vassili emptied his glass, drew in his feet, and glanced at the clock. 

"But that is not all I want, " said De Chauxville. 

"So I perceive. "

"I want you to tell me what you know of Prince Pavlo Alexis. "

"Of Tver?"

"Of Tver. What you know from your point of view, you understand, my dearVassili. Nothing political, nothing incriminating, nothing official. Ionly want a few social details. "

Again the odd smile fell over the dignified face. 

"In case, " said Vassili, rather slowly, "I should only impart to youstale news and valueless details with which you are already acquainted, I must ask you to tell me first what you know--from your point of view. "

"Certainly, " answered De Chauxville, with engaging frankness. "The man Iknow slightly is the sort of thing that Eton and Oxford turn out by thedozen. Well dressed, athletic, silent, a thorough gentleman--et voilàtout. "

The face of Vassili expressed something remarkably like disbelief. 

"Ye--es, " he said slowly. 

"And you?" suggested De Chauxville. 

"You leave too much to my imagination, " said Vassili. "You relate merefacts--have you no suppositions, no questions in your mind about theman?"

"I want to know what his purpose in life may be. There is a purpose--onesees it in his face. I want also to know what he does with his sparetime; he must have much to dispose of in England. "

Vassili nodded, and suddenly launched into detail. 

"Prince Pavlo Alexis, " he said, "is a young man who takes a full anddaring advantage of his peculiar position. He defies many laws in aquiet, persistent way which impresses the smaller authorities and to acertain extent paralyzes them. He was in the Charity League--deeplyimplicated. He had a narrow escape. He was pulled through by thecleverest man in Russia. "

"Karl Steinmetz?"

"Yes, " answered Vassili behind the rigid smile; "Karl Steinmetz. "

"And that, " said De Chauxville, watching the face of his companion, "isall you can tell me?"

"To be quite frank with you, " replied the man who had never been quitefrank in his life, "that is all I want to tell you. "

De Chauxville lighted a cigarette, with exaggerated interest in thematch. 

"Paul is a friend of mine, " he said calmly. "I may be staying at Osternowith him. "

The rigid smile never relaxed. 

"Not with Karl Steinmetz on the premises, " said Vassili imperturbably. 

"The astute Mr. Steinmetz may be removed to some other sphere ofusefulness. There is a new spoke in his Teutonic wheel. "

"Ah!"

"Prince Paul is about to marry--the widow of Sydney Bamborough. "

"Sydney Bamborough, " repeated Vassili musingly, with a perfectexpression of innocence on his well-cut face. "I have heard that namebefore. "

De Chauxville laughed quietly, as if in appreciation of a pretty trickwhich he knew as well as its performer. 

"She is a friend of mine. "

The attaché, as he was pleased to call himself, to the Russian Embassy, leant his arms on the table, bending forward and bringing his large, fleshy face within a few inches of De Chauxville's keen countenance. 

"That makes all the difference, " he said. 

"I thought it would, " answered De Chauxville, meeting the steady gazefirmly. 

CHAPTER XV

IN A WINTER CITY

St. Petersburg under snow is the most picturesque city in the world. Thetown is at its best when a high wind has come from the north to blow allthe snow from the cupola of St. Isaac's, leaving that golden dome, inall its brilliancy, to gleam and flash over the whitened sepulchre of acity. 

In winter the Neva is a broad, silent thoroughfare between the VassiliOstrow and the Admiralty Gardens. In the winter the pestilential rattleof the cobble-stones in the side streets is at last silent, and themerry music of sleigh-bells takes its place. In the winter thedepressing damp of this northern Venice is crystallized and harmless. 

On the English Quay a tall, narrow house stands looking glumly acrossthe river. It is a suspected house, and watched; for here dwelt StépanLanovitch, secretary and organizer of the Charity League. 

Although the outward appearance of the house is uninviting, the interioris warm and dainty. The odor of delicate hot-house plants is in theslightly enervating atmosphere of the apartments. It is a Russian fancyto fill the dwelling-rooms with delicate, forced foliage and bloom. Inno country of the world are flowers so worshipped, is money so freelyspent in floral decoration. There is something in the sight, and moreespecially in the scent of hot-house plants, that appeals to the complexsiftings of three races which constitute a modern Russian. 

We, in the modest self-depreciation which is a national characteristic, are in the habit of thinking, and sometimes saying, that we have all thegood points of the Angle and the Saxon rolled satisfactorily into oneAnglo-Saxon whole. We are of the opinion that mixed races are the best, and we leave it to be understood that ours is the only satisfactorycombination. Most of us ignore the fact that there are others at all, and very few indeed recognize the fact that the Russian of to-day isessentially a modern outcome of a triple racial alliance of which thebest component is the Tartar. 

The modern Russian is an interesting study, because he has the remnantof barbaric tastes, with ultra-civilized facilities for gratifying thesame. The best part of him comes from the East, the worst from Paris. 

The Countess Lanovitch belonged to the school existing in Petersburg andMoscow in the early years of the century--the school that did not speakRussian but only French, that chose to class the peasants with thebeasts of the field, that apparently expected the deluge to follow soon. 

Her drawing-room, looking out on to the Neva, was characteristic ofherself. Camellias held the floral honors in vase and pot. The Frenchnovel ruled supreme on the side-table. The room was too hot, the chairswere too soft, the moral atmosphere too lax. One could tell that thiswas the dwelling-room of a lazy, self-indulgent, and probably ignorantwoman. 

The countess herself in nowise contradicted this conclusion. She wasseated on a very low chair, exposing a slippered foot to the flame of awood fire. She held a magazine in her hand, and yawned as she turned itspages. She was not so stout in person as her loose and somewhat highlycolored cheeks would imply. Her eyes were dull and sleepy. The woman wasan incarnate yawn. 

She looked up, turning lazily in her chair, to note the darkening of theair without the double windows. 

"Ah!" she said aloud to herself in French, "when will it be tea-time?"

As she spoke the words, the bells of a sleigh suddenly stopped with arattle beneath the window. 

Immediately the countess rose and went to the mirror over themantel-piece. She arranged without enthusiasm her straggling hair, andput straight a lace cap which was chronically crooked. She looked at herreflection pessimistically, as well she might. It was the puffy red faceof a middle-aged woman given to petty self-indulgence. 

"While she was engaged in this discouraging pastime the door was opened, and a maid came in with the air of one who has gained a triflingadvantage by the simple method of peeping. 

"It is M. Steinmetz, Mme. La Comtesse. "

"Ah! Do I look horrible, Célestine? I have been asleep. "

Célestine was French, and laughed with all the charm of that tactfulnation. 

"How can Mme. La Comtesse ask such a thing? Madame might bethirty-five!"

It is to be supposed that the staff of angelic recorders have a separateset of ledgers for French people, with special discounts attaching topleasant lies. 

Madame shook her head--and believed. 

"M. Steinmetz is even now taking off his furs in the hall, " saidCélestine, retiring toward the door. 

"It is well. We shall want tea. "

Steinmetz came into the room with an exaggerated bow and a twinkle inhis melancholy eyes. 

"Figure to yourself, my dear Steinmetz, " said the countess vivaciously. "Catrina has gone out--on a day like this! Mon Dieu! How gray, howmelancholy!"

"Without, yes! But here, how different!" replied Steinmetz in French. 

The countess cackled and pointed to a chair. 

"Ah! you always flatter. What news have you, bad character?"

Steinmetz smiled pensively, not so much suggesting the desire to impartas the intention to withhold that which the lady called news. 

"I came for yours, countess. You are always amusing--as well asbeautiful, " he added, with his mouth well controlled beneath the heavymustache. 

The countess shook her head playfully, which had the effect of tiltingher cap to one side. 

"I! Oh, I have nothing to tell you. I am a nun. What can one do--whatcan one hear in Petersburg? Now in Paris it is different. But Catrina isso firm. Have you ever noticed that, Steinmetz? Catrina's firmness, Imean. She wills a thing, and her will is like a rock. The thing has tobe done. It does itself. It comes to pass. Some people are so. Now I, myclear Steinmetz, only desire peace and quiet. So I give in. I gave in topoor Stépan. And now he is exiled. Perhaps if I had been firm--if I hadforbidden all this nonsense about charity--it would have been different. And Stépan would have been quietly at home instead of in Tomsk, is it, or Tobolsk? I always forget which. Well, Catrina says we must live inPetersburg this winter, and--nous voilà!"

Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a commiserating smile. He took thecountess's troubles indifferently, as do the rest of us when ourneighbor's burden does not drag upon our own shoulders. It suited himthat Catrina should be in Petersburg, and it is to be feared that thefeelings of the Countess Lanovitch had no weight as against theconvenience of Karl Steinmetz. 

"Ah, well!" he said, "you must console yourself with the thought thatPetersburg is the brighter for some of us. Who is this--anothervisitor?"

The door was thrown open, and Claude de Chauxville walked into the roomwith the easy grace which was his. 

"Mme. La Comtesse, " he said, bowing over her hand. 

Then he stood upright, and the two men smiled grimly at each other. Steinmetz had thought that De Chauxville was in London. The Frenchmancounted on the other's duties to retain him in Osterno. 

"Pleasure!" said De Chauxville, shaking hands. 

"It is mine, " answered Steinmetz. 

The countess looked from one to the other with a smile on her foolishface. 

"Ah!" she exclaimed; "how pleasant it is to meet old friends! It is likeby-gone times. "

At this moment the door opened again and Catrina came in. In her richfurs she looked almost pretty. 

She shook hands eagerly with Steinmetz; her deep eyes searched his facewith a singular, breathless scrutiny. 

"Where are you from?" she asked quickly. 

"London. "

"Catrina, " broke in the countess, "you do not remember M. De Chauxville!He nursed you when you were a child. "

Catrina turned and bowed to De Chauxville. 

"I should have remembered you, " he said, "if we had met accidentally. After all, childhood is but a miniature--is it not so?"

"Perhaps, " answered Catrina; "and when the miniature develops it losesthe delicacy which was its chief charm. "

She turned again to Steinmetz, as if desirous of continuing herconversation with him. 

"M. De Chauxville, you surely have news?" broke in the countess'scackling voice. "I have begged M. Steinmetz in vain. He says he hasnone; but is one to believe so notorious a bad character?"

"Madame, it is wise to believe only that which is convenient. ButSteinmetz, I promise you, is the soul of honor. What sort of news do youcrave for? Political, which is dangerous; social, which is scandalous;or court news, which is invariably false?"

"Let us have scandal, then. "

"Ah! I must refer you to the soul of honor. "

"Who, " answered Steinmetz, "in that official capacity is necessarilydeaf, and in a private capacity is naturally dull. "

He was looking very hard at De Chauxville, as if he was attempting tomake him understand something which he could not say aloud. DeChauxville, from carelessness or natural perversity, chose to ignore thepersistent eyes. 

"Surely the news is from London, " he said lightly; "we have nothing fromParis. "

He glanced at Steinmetz, who was frowning. 

"I can hardly tell you stale news that comes from London via Paris, canI?" he continued. 

Steinmetz was tapping impatiently on the floor with his broad boot. 

"About whom--about whom?" cried the countess, clapping her soft handstogether. 

"Well, about Prince Paul, " said De Chauxville, looking at Steinmetz withairy defiance. 

Steinmetz moved a little. He placed himself in front of Catrina, who hadsuddenly lost color. She could only see his broad back. The others inthe room could not see her at all. She was rather small, and Steinmetzhid her as behind a screen. 

"Ah!" he said to the countess, "his marriage! But Madame the Countessassuredly knows of that. "

"How could she?" put in De Chauxville. 

"The countess knew that Prince Paul was going to be married, " explainedKarl Steinmetz very slowly, as if he wished to give some one time. "Withsuch a man as he, 'going to be' is not very far from being. "

"Then it is an accomplished fact?" said the countess sharply. 

"Yesterday, " answered Steinmetz. 

"And you were not there!" exclaimed Countess Lanovitch, with upliftedhands. 

"Since I was here, " answered Steinmetz. 

The countess launched into a disquisition on the heinousness of marryingany but a compatriot. The tone of her voice was sharp, and the volume ofher words almost amounted to invective. As Steinmetz was obviously notlistening, the lady imparted her views to the Baron de Chauxville. 

Steinmetz waited for some time, then he turned slowly toward Catrinawithout actually looking at her. 

"It is dangerous, " he said, "to stay in this warm room with your furs. "

"Yes, " she answered, rather faintly; "I will go and take them off. "

Steinmetz held the door open for her, but he did not look at her. 

CHAPTER XVI

THE THIN END

"But I confess I cannot understand why I should not be called thePrincess Alexis--there is nothing to be ashamed of in the title. Ipresume you have a right to it?"

Etta looked up from her occupation of fixing a bracelet, with a littleglance of enquiry toward her husband. 

They had been married a month. The honeymoon--a short one--had beenpassed in the house of a friend, indeed a relation of Etta's own, aScotch peer who was not above lending a shooting-lodge in Scotland onthe tacit understanding that there should be some quid pro quo in thefuture. 

In answer Paul merely smiled, affectionately tolerant of her brightsharpness of manner. Your bright woman in society is apt to be keen athome. What is called vivacity abroad may easily degenerate intosnappiness by the hearth. 

"I think it is rather ridiculous being called plain Mrs. Howard-Alexis, "added Etta, with a pout. 

They were going to a ball--the first since their marriage. They had justdined, and Paul had followed his wife into the drawing-room. He took asimple-minded delight in her beauty, which was of the description thatis at its best in a gorgeous setting. He stood looking at her, notingher grace, her pretty, studied movements. There were, he reflected, fewwomen more beautiful--none, in his own estimation, fit to compare withher. 

She had hitherto been sweetness itself to him, enlivening his lonelyexistence, shining suddenly upon his self-contained nature with abrilliancy that made him feel dull and tongue-tied. 

Already, however, he was beginning to discover certain smalldifferences, not so much of opinion as of thought, between Etta andhimself. She attached an importance to social function, to socialopinion, to social duties, which he in no wise understood. Invitationswere showered upon them. A man who is a prince and prefers to drop thetitle need not seek popularity in London. The very respectable readerprobably knows as well as his humble servant, the writer, that in Londonthere is always a social circle just a little lower than one's own whichopens its doors with noble, disinterested hospitality, and is preparedto lick the blacking from any famous foot. 

These invitations Etta accepted eagerly. Some women hold it little shortof a crime to refuse an invitation, and go through life regretting thatthere is only one evening to each day. To Paul these calls were nothingnew. His secretary had hitherto drawn a handsome salary for doing littlemore than refuse such. 

It was in Etta's nature to be somewhat carried away by glitter. A greatball-room, brilliant illumination, music, flowers, and diamonds had aneffect upon her which she enjoyed in anticipation. Her eyes gleamedbrightly on reading the mere card of invitation. Some dull andself-contained men are only to be roused by the clatter and whirl of abattle-field, and this stirs them into brilliancy, changing them to newmen. Etta, always brilliant, always bright, exceeded herself on herbattle-field--a great social function. 

Since their marriage she had never been so beautiful, her eyes had neverbeen so sparkling, her color so brilliant as at this moment when sheasked her husband to let her use her title. Hers was the beauty thatblooms not for one man alone, but for the multitude; that feeds not onthe love of one, but on the admiration of many. The murmur of the man inthe street who turned and stared into her carriage was more than thedevotion of her husband. 

"A foreign title, " answered Paul, "is nothing in England. I soon foundthat out at Eton and at Trinity. It was impossible there. I dropped it, and I have never taken it up again. "

"Yes, you old stupid, and you have never taken the place you areentitled to, in consequence. "

"What place? May I button that?"

"Thanks. "

She held out her arm while he, with fingers much too large for suchdainty work, buttoned her glove. 

"The place in society, " she answered. 

"Oh; does that matter? I never thought of it. "

"Of course it matters, " answered the lady, with an astonished littlelaugh. (It is wonderful what an importance we attach to that which hasbeen dearly won. ) "Of course it matters, " answered Etta; "morethan--well, more than any thing. "

"But the position that depends upon a foreign title cannot be of muchvalue, " said the pupil of Karl Steinmetz. 

Etta shook her pretty head reflectively. 

"Of course, " she answered, "money makes a position of its own, andevery-body knows that you are a prince; but it would be nicer, with theservants and every-body, to be a princess. "

"I am afraid I cannot do it, " said Paul. 

"Then there is some reason for it, " answered his wife, looking at himsharply. 

"Yes, there is. "

"Ah!"

"The reason is the responsibility that attaches to the very title youwish to wear. "

The lady smiled, a little scornfully perhaps. 

"Oh! Your grubby old peasants, I suppose, " she said. 

"Yes. You remember, Etta, what I told you before we were married--aboutthe people, I mean?"

"Oh, yes!" answered Etta, glancing at the clock and hiding a little yawnbehind her fan. 

"I did not tell you all, " went on Paul, "partly because it wasinexpedient, partly because I feared it might bore you. I only told youthat I was vaguely interested in the peasants, and thought it would be agood thing if they could be gradually educated into a greaterself-respect, a greater regard for cleanliness and that sort of thing. "

"Yes, dear, I remember, " answered Etta, listlessly contemplating hergloved hands. 

"Well, I have not contented myself with thinking this during the lasttwo or three years. I have tried to put it into practice. Steinmetz andI have lived at Osterno six months of the year on purpose to organizematters on the estate. I was deeply implicated in the--Charity League--"

Etta dropped her fan with a clatter into the fender. 

"Oh! I hope it is not broken, " she gasped, with a singularbreathlessness. 

"I do not think so, " replied Paul, picking up the fan and returning itto her. "Why, you look quite white! What does it matter if it is broken?You have others. "

"Yes, but--" Etta paused, opening the fan and examining the sticks soclosely that her face was hidden by the feathers. "Yes, but I like thisone. What is the Charity League, dear?"

"It was a large organization gotten up by the hereditary nobles ofRussia to educate the people and better their circumstances bydiscriminate charity. Of course it had to be kept secret, as thebureaucracy is against any attempt to civilize the people--againsteducation or the dissemination of news. The thing was organized. We werejust getting to work when some one stole the papers of the League fromthe house of Count Stépan Lanovitch and sold them to the Government. Thewhole thing was broken up; Lanovitch and others were exiled, I boltedhome, and Steinmetz faced the storm alone in Osterno. He was too cleverfor them, and nothing was brought home to us. But you will understandthat it is necessary for us to avoid any notoriety, to live as quietlyand privately as possible. "

"Yes, of course; but--"

"But what?"

"You can never go back to Russia, " said Etta slowly, feeling her ground, as it were. 

"Oh, yes, I can. I was just coming to that. I want to go back thiswinter. There is so much to be done. And I want you to come with me. "

"No, Paul. No, no! I couldn't do that!" cried Etta, with a ring ofhorror in her voice, strangely out of keeping with her peaceful andluxurious surroundings. 

"Why not?" asked the man who had never known fear. 

"Oh, I should be afraid. I couldn't. I hate Russia!"

"But you don't know it. "

"No, " answered Etta, turning away and busying herself with her longsilken train. "No, of course not. Only Petersburg, I mean. But I haveheard what it is. So cold and dismal and miserable. I feel the cold sohorribly. I wanted to go to the Riviera this winter. I really think, Paul, you are asking me too much. "

"I am only asking a proof that you care for me. "

Etta gave a little laugh--a nervous laugh with no mirth in it. 

"A proof! But that is so bourgeois and unnecessary. Haven't you proofenough, since I am your wife?"

Paul looked at her without any sign of yielding. His attitude, his wholebeing, was expressive of that immovability of purpose which had hithertobeen concealed from her by his quiet manner. Steinmetz knew of themental barrier within this Anglo-Russian soul, against which prayer andargument were alike unavailing. The German had run against it once ortwice in the course of their joint labors, and had invariably given wayat once. 

Etta looked at him. The color was coming back to her face in patches. There was something unsteady in her eyes--something suggesting that forthe first time in her life she was daunted by a man. It was not Paul'sspeech, but his silence that alarmed her. She felt that trivialarguments, small feminine reasons, were without weight. 

"Now that you are married, " she said, "I do not think you have any rightto risk your life and your position for a fad. "

"I have done it with impunity for the last two or three years, " heanswered. "With ordinary precautions the risk is small. I have begun thething now; I must go on with it. "

"But the country is not safe for us--for you. "

"Oh, yes, it is, " answered Paul. "As safe as ever it has been. "

Etta paused. She turned round and looked into the fire. He could not seeher face. 

"Then the Ch--Charity League is forgotten?" she said. 

"No, " answered her husband quietly. "It will not be forgotten until wehave found out who sold us to the Government. "

Etta's lips moved in a singular way. She drew them in and held them withher teeth. For a moment her beautiful face wore a hunted expression offear. 

"What will you gain by that?" she asked evenly. 

"I? Oh, nothing. I do not care one way or the other. But there are somepeople who want the man--very much. "

Etta drew in a long, deep breath. 

"I will go to Osterno with you, if you like, " she said. "Only--only Imust have Maggie with me. "

"Yes, if you like, " answered Paul, in some surprise. 

The clock struck ten, and Etta's eyes recovered their brightness. Womanlike, she lived for the present. The responsibility of the futureis essentially a man's affair. The present contained a ball, and it wasonly in the future that Osterno and Russia had to be faced. Let us alsogive Etta Alexis her due. She was almost fearless. It is permissible tothe bravest to be startled. She was now quite collected. The even, delicate color had returned to her face. 

"Maggie is such a splendid companion, " she said lightly. "She is so easyto please. I think she would come if you asked her, Paul. "

"If you want her, I shall ask her, of course; but it may hinder us alittle. I thought you might be able to help us--with the women, youknow. "

There was a queer little smile on Etta's face--a smile, one might havethought, of contempt. 

"Yes, of course, " she said. "It is so nice to be able to do good withone's money. "

Paul looked at her in his slow, grave way, but he said nothing. He knewthat his wife was cleverer and brighter than himself. He was simpleenough to think that this superiority of intellect might be devoted tothe good of the peasants of Osterno. 

"It is not a bad place, " he said--"a very fine castle, one of the finestin Europe. Before I came away I gave orders for your rooms to be doneup. I should like every thing to be nice for you. "

"I know you would, dear, " she answered, glancing at the clock. (Thecarriage was ordered for a quarter-past ten. ) "But I suppose, " she wenton, "that, socially speaking, we shall be rather isolated. Our neighborsare few and far between. "

"The nearest, " said Paul quietly, "are the Lanovitches. "

"_Who_?"

"The Lanovitches. Do you know them?"

"Of course not, " answered Etta sharply. "But I seem to know the name. Were there any in St. Petersburg?"

"The same people, " answered Paul; "Count Stépan Lanovitch. "

Etta was looking at her husband with her bright smile. It was a littletoo bright, perhaps. Her eyes had a gleam in them. She was conscious ofbeing beautifully dressed, conscious of her own matchless beauty, almostdauntless, like a very strong man armed. 

"Well, I think I am a model wife, " she said: "to give in meekly to yourtyranny; to go and bury myself in the heart of Russia in the middle ofwinter--By the way, we must buy some furs; that will be rather exciting. But you must not expect me to be very intimate with your Russianfriends. I am not quite sure that I like Russians"--she went toward him, laying her two hands gently on his broad breast and looking up athim--"not quite sure--especially Russian princes who bully their wives. You may kiss me, however, but be very careful. Now I must go and finishdressing. We shall be late as it is. "

She gathered together her fan and gloves, for she had petulantly draggedoff a pair which did not fit. 

"And you will ask Maggie to come with us?" she said. 

He held open the door for her to pass out, gravely polite even to hiswife--this old-fashioned man. 

"Yes, " he answered; "but why do you want me to ask her?"

"Because I want her to come. "

CHAPTER XVII

CHARITY

In these democratic days a very democratic theory has exploded. Not sovery long ago we believed, or made semblance of belief, that it isuseless to put a high price upon a ticket with the object of securingthat selectness for which the high-born crave. "If they want to come, "Lady Champignon (wife of Alderman Champignon) would say, "they do notmind paying the extra half-guinea. "

But Lady Champignon was wrong. It is not that the self-made man cannotor will not pay two guineas for a ball-ticket. It is merely that, in hiscommercial way, he thinks that he will not have his money's worth, andtherefore prefers keeping his two guineas to spend on something moretangible--say food. The nouveau riche never quite purges his mind of theinstinct commercial, and it therefore goes against the grain to payheavily for a form of entertainment which his soul had not theopportunity of learning to love in its youth. The aristocrat, on theother hand, has usually been brought up to the cultivation of enjoyment, and he therefore spends with perfect equanimity more on his pleasurethan the bourgeois mind can countenance. 

The ball to which Paul and Etta were going was managed by some titledladies who knew their business well. The price of the tickets wasfabulous. The lady patronesses of the great Charity Ball were tactfuland unabashed. They drew the necessary line (never more necessary thanit is to-day) with a firm hand. 

The success of the ball was therefore a foregone conclusion. In Frenchfiction there is invariably a murmur of applause when the heroine entersa room full of people, which fact serves, at all events, to show thebreeding and social status of persons with whom French novelists are inthe habit of associating. There was therefore no applause when Paul andEtta made their appearance, but that lady had, nevertheless, thesatisfaction of perceiving glances, not only of admiration, but ofinterest and even of disapproval, among her own sex. Her dress she knewto be perfect, and when she perceived the craning pale face of theinevitable lady-journalist, peering between the balusters of a gallery, she thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately beneath thatgallery, and slowly turned round like a beautifully garnished jointbefore the fire of cheap publicity. 

To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a number of thefriends of his youth--tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with atendency toward length and spareness--who greeted him almostaffectionately. Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters, which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull--a form of faint praisewhich failed to damn. There were a number of ladies to whom it wasnecessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which hadmissed their mark. From the gallery the washed-out female journalistspoked out their eager faces--for they were women still, and liked tolook upon a man when he was strong. 

And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English atthe door, upbraiding hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting twoliteral facts literally. The one fact was that they were forbidden toadmit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets werenot to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the twogreat motives of man--Love or Money. 

Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon of a great Order onhis breast. He mentioned the names of several ladies who might havebeen, but were not, of the committee. Finally, however, he mentioned thehistoric name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russianemperor successfully for England. 

"Yes, me lord, her ladyship's here, " answered the man. 

Steinmetz wrote on a card, "In memory of '56, let me in, " and sent inthe missive. 

A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came toward him withoutstretched hand. 

"What mischief are you about?" she enquired, "you stormy petrel! This isno place for your deep-laid machinations. We are here to enjoy ourselvesand found a hospital. Come in, however. I am delighted to see you. Youused to be a famous dancer--well, some little time ago. "

"Yes, my dear countess, let us say some little time ago. Ach, those weredays! those were days! You do not mind the liberty I have taken?"

"I am glad you took it. But your card gave me a little tug at the heart. It brought back so much. And still plain Karl Steinmetz--after all. Weused to think much of you in the old days. Who would have thought thatall the honors would have slipped past you?"

Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a heart-whole laugh. 

"Ah, what matter? Who cares, so long as my old friends remember me? Whowould have thought, my dear madam, that the map of Europe would havebeen painted the colors it is to-day? It was a kaleidoscope--the clatterof many stools, and I fell down between them all. Still plain KarlSteinmetz--still very much at your service. Shall I send my check forfive guineas to you?"

"Yes, do; I am secretary. Always businesslike; a wonderful man you arestill. "

"And you, my dear countess, a wonderful lady. Always gay, alwayscourageous. I have heard and sympathized. I have heard of many blows andwounds that you have received in the battle we began--well, some littletime ago. "

"Ah, don't mention them! They hurt none the less because we cover themwith a smile, eh? I dare say you know. You have been in the thick of thefight yourself. But you did not come here to chat with me, though yourmanner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you. "

"I came to see Prince Pavlo, " answered Steinmetz. "I must thank you forenabling me to do so. I may not see you again this evening. My bestthanks, my very dear lady. "

He bowed, and with his half-humorous, half-melancholy smile, left her. 

The first face he recognized was a pretty one. Miss Maggie Delafield wasjust turning away from a partner who was taking his congé, when shelooked across the room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once, barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, friendly bow wasrather a surprise to him. She came toward him, holding out her hand withan open friendliness which this young lady was in the habit of bestowingupon men and women impartially--upon persons of either sex who happenedto meet with her approval. She did not know what made her incline tolike this man, neither did she seek to know. In a quiet, British wayMiss Delafield was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were amatter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine of charity, it is a question whether an instinctive dislike should be quashed by anexaggerated sense of neighborly duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there wasan end to it. 

"I was afraid you did not recognize me, " she said. 

"My life has not so many pleasures that I can afford to forget one ofthem, " replied Steinmetz, in his somewhat old-fashioned courtesy. "Butan old--buffer, shall I say?--hardly expects to be taken much notice ofby young ladies at a ball. "

"It is not ten minutes since Paul assured me that you were the bestdancer that Vienna ever produced, " said the girl, looking at him withbright, honest eyes. 

Karl Steinmetz looked down at her, for he was a tall man when PaulAlexis was not near. His quiet gray eyes were almost affectionate. Therewas a sudden sympathy between these two, and sudden sympathies are thebest. 

"Will you give an old man a trial?" he asked. "They will laugh at you. "

She handed him her programme. 

"Let them laugh!" she said. 

He took the next dance, which happened to be vacant on her card. Almostimmediately the music began, and they glided off together. Maggie beganwith the feeling that she was dancing with her own father, but this woreoff before they had made much progress through the crowd, and gave wayto the sensation that she had for partner the best dancer she had evermet, gray-haired, stout, and middle-aged. 

"I wanted to speak to you, " she said. 

"Ah!" Steinmetz answered. He was steering with infinite skill. In thatroom full of dancers no one touched Maggie's elbow or the swing of herdress, and she, who knew what such things meant, smiled as she noted it. 

"I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno, " she said. "Shall I go?"

"By whom?"

"By Paul. "

"Then go, " said Steinmetz, making one of the few mistakes of his life. 

"You think so--you want me to go?"

"Ach! you must not put it like that. How well you dance--colossal! Butit does not affect me--your going, fraülein. "

"Since you will be there?"

"Does that make a difference, my dear young lady?"

"Of course it does. "

"I wonder why. "

"So do I, " answered Maggie frankly. "I wonder why. I have been wonderingwhy, ever since Paul asked me. If you had not been going I should havesaid 'No' at once. "

Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly. 

"What do I represent?" he asked. 

"Safety, " she replied at once. 

She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing. 

"And Paul?" he said, after a little while. 

"Strength, " replied Maggie promptly. 

He looked down at her--a momentary glance of wonder. He was like awoman, inasmuch as he judged a person by a flicker of the eyelids--aglance, a silence--in preference to judging by the spoken word. 

"Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope that you will bravethe perils of Osterno? Ah--the music is stopping. "

"If I may assure my mother that there are no perils. "

Something took place beneath the gray mustache--a smile or a pursing upof the lips in doubt. 

"Ah, I cannot go so far as that. You may assure Lady Delafield that Iwill protect you as I would my own daughter. If--well, if the good Godin heaven had not had other uses for me I should have had a daughter ofyour age. Ach! the music has stopped. The music always does stop, MissDelafield; that is the worst of it. Thank you for dancing with an oldbuffer. "

He took her back to her chaperon, bowed in his old-world way to bothladies, and left them. 

"If I can help it, my very dear young friend, " he said to himself as hecrossed the room, looking for Paul, "you will not go to Osterno. "

He found Paul talking to two men. 

"You here!" said Paul, in surprise. 

"Yes, " answered Steinmetz, shaking hands. "I gave Lady Fontain fiveguineas to let me in, and now I want a couple of chairs and a quietcorner, if the money includes such. "

"Come up into the gallery, " replied Paul. 

A certain listlessness which had been his a moment before vanished whenPaul recognized his friend. He led the way up the narrow stairs. In thegallery they found a few people--couples seeking, like themselves, arare solitude. 

"What news?" asked Paul, sitting down. 

"Bad!" replied Steinmetz. "We have had the misfortune to make adangerous enemy--Claude de Chauxville. "

"Claude de Chauxville, " repeated Paul. 

"Yes. He wanted to marry your wife--for her money. "

Paul leaned forward and dragged at his great fair mustache. He was not asubtle man, analyzing his own thoughts. Had he been, he might havewondered why he was not more jealous in respect to Etta. 

"Or, " went on Steinmetz, "it may have been--the other thing. It is asingular thing that many men incapable of a lifelong love, can conceivea lifelong hatred based on that love. Claude de Chauxville has hated meall his life; for very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included inhis antipathy because you married madame. "

"I dare say, " replied Paul carelessly. "But I am not afraid of Claude deChauxville, or any other man. "

"I am, " said Steinmetz. "He is up to some mischief. I was calling on theCountess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. Hewas constrained at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, whichwas a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not beenthere for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived aminute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of thevery first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he hadwheedled an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, my friend, why?"

Paul reflected, with a frown. 

"We do not want him out there, " he said. 

"No; and if he goes there you must remain in England this winter. "

Paul looked up sharply. 

"I do not want to do that. It is all arranged, " he said. "Etta was verymuch against going at first, but I persuaded her to do so. It would be amistake not to go now. "

Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, "I advise you not to go. "

Paul shrugged his shoulders. 

"I am sorry, " he said. "It is too late now. Besides, I have invited MissDelafield, and she has practically accepted. "

"Does that matter?" asked Steinmetz quietly. 

"Yes. I do not want her to think that I am a changeable sort of person. "

Steinmetz rose, and standing with his two hands on the marble rail helooked down into the room below. The music of a waltz was justbeginning, and some of the more enthusiastic spirits had already begundancing, moving in and out among the uniforms and gay dresses. 

"Well, " he said resignedly; "it is as you will. There is a certainpleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so d--d clever!"

CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE CHAMPS ÉLYSÉES

"You must accept, " Steinmetz repeated to Paul. "There is no help for it. We cannot afford to offend Vassili, of all people in the world. "

They were standing together in the saloon of a suite of rooms assignedfor the time to Paul and his party in the Hôtel Bristol in Paris. Steinmetz, who held an open letter in his hand, looked out of the windowacross the quiet Place Vendôme. A north wind was blowing with trueParisian keenness, driving before it a fine snow, which adhered bleaklyto the northern face of a column which is chiefly remarkable for thefacility with which it falls and rises again. 

Steinmetz looked at the letter with a queer smile. He held it out fromhim as if he distrusted the very stationery. 

"So friendly, " he exclaimed; "so very friendly! 'Ce bon Steinmetz' hecalls me. 'Ce bon Steinmetz'--confound his cheek! He hopes that his dearprince will waive ceremony and bring his charming princess to dine quiteen famille at his little pied à terre in the Champs Élysées. Heguarantees that only his sister, the marquise, will be present, and hehopes that 'Ce bon Steinmetz, ' will accompany you, and also the younglady, the cousin of the princess. "

Steinmetz threw the letter down on the table, left it there for amoment, and then, picking it up, he crossed the room and threw it intothe fire. 

"Which means, " he explained, "that M. Vassili knows we are here, andunless we dine with him we shall be subjected to annoyance and delay onthe frontier by a stupid--a singularly and suspiciously stupid--minorofficial. If we refuse, Vassili will conclude that we are afraid of him. Therefore we must accept. Especially as Vassili has his weak points. Heloves a lord, 'Ce Vassili. ' If you accept on some of that stationery Iordered for you with a colossal gold coronet, that will already be ofsome effect. A chain is as strong as its weakest link. M. Vassili'sweakest link will be touched by your gorgeous note-paper. If ce cherprince and la charmante princesse are gracious to him, Vassili isalready robbed of half his danger. "

Paul laughed. It was his habit either to laugh or to grumble at KarlSteinmetz's somewhat subtle precautions. The word "danger" invariablymade him laugh, with a ring in his voice which seemed to betokenenjoyment. 

"Of course, " he said, "I leave these matters to you. Let us showVassili, at all events, that we are not afraid of him. "

"Then sit down and accept. "

That which M. Vassili was pleased to call his little dog-hole in theChamps Élysées was, in fact, a gorgeous house in the tawdry style ofmodern Paris--resplendent in gray iron railings, and high gate-postssurmounted by green cactus plants cunningly devised in cast iron. 

The heavy front door was thrown open by a lackey, and others bowed inthe halls as if by machinery. Two maids pounced upon the ladies with theself-assurance of their kind and country, and led the way upstairs, while the men removed fur coats in the hall. It was all very princelyand gorgeous and Parisian. 

Vassili and his sister the marquise--a stout lady in ruby velvet andamethysts, who invariably caused Maggie Delafield's mouth to twitchwhenever she opened her own during the evening--received the guests inthe drawing-room. They were standing on the white fur hearth-rug side byside, when the doors were dramatically thrown open, and the servantrolled the names unctuously over his tongue. 

Steinmetz, who was behind, saw everything. He saw Vassili's masklikeface contract with stupefaction when he set eyes on Etta. He saw theself-contained Russian give a little gasp, and mutter an exclamationbefore he collected himself sufficiently to bow and conceal his face. But he could not see Etta's face for a moment or two--until the formalgreetings were over. When he did see it, he noted that it was as whiteas marble. 

"Aha! Ce bon Steinmetz!" cried Vassili, with less formality, holding outhis hand with frank and boyish good humor. 

"Aha! Ce cher Vassili!" returned Steinmetz, taking the hand. 

"It is good of you, M. Le Prince, and you, madame, to honor us in oursmall house, " said the marquise in a guttural voice such as one mightexpect from within ruby velvet and amethysts. Thereafter she subsidedinto silence and obscurity so far as the evening was concerned and thepresent historian is interested. 

"So, " said Vassili, with a comprehensive bow to all his guests--"so youare bound for Russia. But I envy you--I envy you. You know Russia, Mme. La Princesse?"

Etta met his veiled gaze calmly. 

"A little, " she replied. 

There was no sign of recognition in his eyes now, nor pallor on herface. 

"A beautiful country, but the rest of Europe does not believe it. Andthe estate of the prince is one of the vastest, if not the mostbeautiful. It is a sporting estate, is it not, prince?"

"Essentially so, " replied Paul. "Bears, wolves, deer, besides, ofcourse, black game, capercailzie, ptarmigan--every thing one coulddesire. "

"Speaking as a sportsman, " suggested Vassili gravely. 

"Speaking as a sportsman. "

"Of course--" Vassili paused, and with a little gesture of the handincluded Steinmetz in the conversation. It may have been that hepreferred to have him talking than watching. "Of course, like all greatRussian landholders, you have your troubles with the people, though youare not, strictly speaking, within the famine district. "

"Not quite; we are not starving, but we are hungry, " said Steinmetzbluntly. 

Vassili laughed, and shook a gold eye-glass chidingly. 

"Ah, my friend, your old pernicious habit of calling a spade a spade! Itis unfortunate that they should hunger a little, but what will you? Theymust learn to be provident, to work harder and drink less. With suchpeople experience is the only taskmaster possible. It is useless talkingto them. It is dangerous to pauperize them. Besides, the accounts thatone reads in the newspapers are manifestly absurd and exaggerated. Youmust not, mademoiselle, " he said, turning courteously to Maggie, "youmust not believe all you are told about Russia. "

"I do not, " replied Maggie, with an honest smile which completelybaffled M. Vassili. He had not had much to do with people who smiledhonestly. 

"Vrai!" he said, with grave emphasis; "I am not joking. It is a matterof the strictest fact that fiction has for the moment fixed its fancyupon my country--just as it has upon the East End of your London. MonDieu! what a lot of harm fiction with a purpose can do!"

"But we do not take our facts from fiction in England, " said Maggie. 

"Nor, " put in Steinmetz, with his blandest smile, "do we allow fictionto affect our facts. "

Vassili glanced at Steinmetz sideways. 

"Here is dinner, " he said. "Mme. La Princesse, may I have the honor?"

The table was gorgeously decorated; the wine was perfect; the dishesParisian. Every thing was brilliant, and Etta's spirits rose. Suchlittle things affect the spirits of such little-minded women. Itrequires a certain mental reserve from which to extract cheerfulnessover a chop and a pint of beer withal, served on a doubtful cloth. Butsome of us find it easy enough to be witty and brilliant over good wineand a perfectly appointed table. 

"It is exile; it is nothing short of exile, " protested Vassili, who ledthe conversation. "Much as I admire my own country, as a country, I donot pretend to regret a fate that keeps me resident in Paris. For men itis different, but for madame, and for you, mademoiselle--ach!" Heshrugged his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling in mute appeal tothe gods above it. "Beauty, brilliancy, wit--they are all lost inRussia. "

He bowed to the princess, who was looking, and to Maggie, who was not. 

"What would Paris say if it knew what it was losing?" he added in alower tone to Etta, who smiled, well pleased. She was not always able todistinguish between impertinence and flattery. And indeed they are soclosely allied that the distinction is subtle. 

Steinmetz, on the left hand of the marquise, addressed one or tworemarks to that lady, who replied with her mouth full. He soondiscovered that that which was before her interested her more than anything around, and during the banquet he contented himself by uttering anexclamation of delight at a particular flavor which the lady was kindenough to point out to him with an eloquent and emphatic fork from timeto time. 

Vassili noted this with some disgust. He would have preferred that KarlSteinmetz were greedy or more conversational. 

"But, " the host added aloud, "ladies are so good. Perhaps you areinterested in the peasants?"

Etta looked at Steinmetz, who gave an imperceptible nod. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I am. "

Vassili followed her glance, and found Steinmetz eating with graveappreciation of the fare provided. 

"Ah!" he said in an expectant tone; "then you will no doubt pass much ofyour time in endeavoring to alleviate their troubles--theirself-inflicted troubles, with all deference to ce cher prince. "

"Why with deference to me?" asked Paul, looking up quietly, withsomething in his steady gaze that made Maggie glance anxiously atSteinmetz. 

"Well, I understand that you hold different opinions, " said the Russian. 

"Not at all, " answered Paul. "I admit that the peasants have themselvesto blame--just as a dog has himself to blame when he is caught in atrap. "

"Is the case analogous? Let me recommend those olives--I have them fromBarcelona by a courier. "

"Quite, " answered Paul; "and it is the obvious duty of those who knowbetter to teach the dog to avoid the places where the traps are set. Thanks, the olives are excellent. "

"Ah!" said Vassili, turning courteously to Maggie, "I sometimes thank mystar that I am not a landholder--only a poor bureaucrat. It is sodifficult to comprehend these questions, mademoiselle. But of all men inor out of Russia it is possible our dear prince knows best of what he istalking. "

"Oh, no!" disclaimed Paul, with that gravity at which some were ready tolaugh. "I only judge in a small way from, a small experience. "

"Ah! you are too modest. You know the peasants thoroughly, youunderstand them, you love them--so, at least, I have been told. Is itnot so, Mme. La Princesse?"

Karl Steinmetz was frowning over an olive. 

"I really do not know, " said Etta, who had glanced across the table. 

"I assure you, madame, it is so. I am always hearing good of you, prince. "

"From whom?" asked Paul. 

Vassili shrugged his peculiarly square shoulders. 

"Ah! From all and sundry. "

"I did not know the prince had so many enemies, " said Steinmetz bluntly, whereat the marquise laughed suddenly, and apparently approached withinbowing distance of apoplexy. 

In such wise the conversation went on during the dinner, which was along one. Continually, repeatedly, Vassili approached the subject ofOsterno and the daily life in that sequestered country. But those whoknew were silent, and it was obvious that Etta and Maggie were ignorantof the life to which they were going. 

From time to time Vassili raised his dull, yellow eyes to the servants, who d'ailleurs were doing their work perfectly, and invariably themaster's glance fell to the glasses again. These the servants never leftin peace--constantly replenishing, constantly watching with thatassiduity which makes men thirsty against their will by reason of therepeated reminder. 

But tongues wagged no more freely for the choice vintages poured uponthem. Paul had a grave, strong head and that self-control against whichalcohol may ply itself in vain. Karl Steinmetz had taken his degree atHeidelberg. He was a seasoned vessel, having passed that way before. 

Etta was bright enough--amusing, light, and gay--so long as it was aquestion of mere social gossip; but whenever Vassili spoke of thecountry to which he expressed so deep a devotion, she, seeming to takeher cue from her husband and his agent, fell to pleasant, non-committingsilence. 

It was only after dinner, in the drawing-room, while musiciansdiscoursed Offenbach and Rossini from behind a screen of fern andflower, that Vassili found an opportunity of addressing himself directlyto Etta. In part she desired this opportunity, with a breathlessapprehension behind her bright society smile. Without her assistance henever would have had it. 

"It is most kind of you, " he said in French, which language had beenspoken all the evening in courtesy to the marquise, who was nowasleep--"it is most kind of you to condescend to visit my poor house, princess. Believe me, I feel the honor deeply. When you first came intothe room--you may have observed it--I was quite taken aback. I--I haveread in books of beauty capable of taking away a man's breath. You mustexcuse me--I am a plain-spoken man. I never met it until this evening. "

Etta excused him readily enough. She could forgive plenty ofplain-speaking of this description. Had she not been inordinately vain, this woman, like many, would have been extraordinarily clever. Shelaughed, with little sidelong glances. 

"I only hope that you will honor Paris on your way home to England, "went on Vassili, who had a wonderful knack of judging men and women, especially shallow ones. "Now, when may that be? When may we hope to seeyou again? How long will you be in Russia, and--"

"Ce Vassili is the best English scholar I know!" broke in Steinmetz, whohad approached somewhat quietly. "But he will not talk, princess--he isso shy. "

Paul was approaching also. It was eleven o'clock, he said, andtravellers who had to make an early start would do well to get home tobed. 

When the tall doors had been closed behind the departing guests, Vassiliwalked slowly to the fire-place. He posted himself on the bear-skinhearthrug, his perfectly shod feet well apart--a fine dignified figureof a man, of erect and military carriage; a very mask of aface--soulless, colorless, emotionless ever. 

He stood biting at his thumb-nail, looking at the door through whichEtta Alexis had just passed in all the glory of her beauty, wealth, andposition. 

"The woman, " he said slowly, "who sold me the Charity League papers--andshe thinks I do not recognize her!"

CHAPTER XIX

ON THE NEVA

Karl Steinmetz had apparently been transacting business on the VassiliOstrov, which the travelled reader doubtless knows as the northern bankof the Neva, a part of Petersburg--an island, as the name tells us, where business is transacted; where steamers land their cargoes andriverside loafers impede the traffic. 

What the business of Karl Steinmetz may have been is not of moment orinterest; moreover, it was essentially the affair of a man capable ofholding his own and his tongue against the world. 

He was recrossing the river, not by the bridge, which requires a doffedhat by reason of its shrine, but by one of the numerous roads cut acrossthe ice from bank to bank. He duly reached the southern shore, ascendingto the Admiralty Gardens by a flight of sanded steps. Here he lighted acigar, and, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his fur coat, heproceeded to walk slowly through the bare and deserted public garden. 

A girl had crossed the river in front of him at a smart pace. She nowslackened her speed so much as to allow him to pass her. Karl Steinmetznoticed the action. He noticed most things--this dull German. Presentlyshe passed him again. She dropped her umbrella, and before picking it updescribed a circle with it--a manoeuvre remarkably like a signal. Thenshe turned abruptly and looked into his face, displaying a pleasinglittle round physiognomy with a smiling mouth and exaggeratedly graveeyes. It was a face of all too common a type in these days of cheapeducational literature--the face of a womanly woman engaged in unwomanlywork. 

Then she came back. 

Steinmetz raised his hat in his most fatherly way. 

"My dear young lady, " he said in Russian, "if my personal appearance hasmade so profound an impression as my vanity prompts me to believe, wouldit not be decorous of you to conceal your feelings beneath a maidenmodesty? If, on the other hand, the signals you have been making to meare of profound political importance, let me assure you that I am noNihilist. "

"Then, " said the girl, beginning to walk by his side, "what are you?"

"What you see--a stout middle-aged man in easy circumstances, happilyplaced in social obscurity. Which means that I have few enemies andfewer friends. "

The girl looked as if she would like to laugh, had such exercise been inkeeping with a professional etiquette. 

"Your name is Karl Steinmetz, " she said gravely. 

"That is the name by which I am known to a large staff of creditors, "replied he. 

"If you will go to No. 4, Passage Kazan, at the back of the cathedral, second-floor back room on the left at the top of the stairs, and gostraight into the room, you will find a friend who wishes to see you, "she said, as one repeating a lesson by rote. 

"And who are you, my dear young lady!"

"I--I am no one. I am only a paid agent. "

"Ah!"

They walked on in silence a few paces. The bells of St. Isaac's Churchsuddenly burst out into a wild carillon, as is their way, effectuallypreventing further conversation for a few moments. 

"Will you go?" asked the girl, when the sound had broken off as suddenlyas it had commenced. 

"Probably. I am curious and not nervous--except of damp sheets. Myanonymous friend does not expect me to stay all night, I presume. Didhe--or is it a she, my fatal beauty?--did _it_ not name an hour?"

"Between now and seven o'clock. "

"Thank you. "

"God be with you!" said the girl, suddenly wheeling round and walkingaway. 

Without looking after her Steinmetz walked on, gradually increasing hispace. In a few minutes he reached the large house standing within irongates at the upper end of the English quay, the house of Prince PavloHoward Alexis. 

He found Paul alone in his study. In a few words he explained thesituation. 

"What do you think it means?" asked the prince. 

"Heaven only knows!"

"And you will go?"

"Of course, " replied Steinmetz. "I love a mystery, especially inPetersburg. It sounds so like a romance written in the Kennington Roadby a lady who has never been nearer to Russia than Margate. "

"I had better go with you, " said Paul. 

"Gott! No!" exclaimed Steinmetz; "I must go alone. I will take Parks todrive the sleigh, if I may, though. Parks is a steady man, who loves arough-and-tumble. A typical British coachman--the brave Parks!"

"Back in time for dinner?" asked Paul. 

"I hope so. I have had such mysterious appointments thrust upon mebefore. It is probably a friend who wants a hundred-ruble note untilnext Monday. "

The cathedral clock struck six as Karl Steinmetz turned out of theNevski Prospekt into the large square before the sacred edifice. He soonfound the Kazan Passage--a very nest of toyshops--and, following thedirections given, he mounted a narrow staircase. He knocked at the dooron the left hand at the top of the stairs. 

"Come in!" said a voice which caused him to start. 

He pushed open the door. The room was a small one, brilliantly lightedby a paraffin lamp. At the table sat an old man with broad benevolentface, high forehead, thin hair, and that smile which savors of the milkof human kindness, and in England suggests Nonconformity. 

"You!" ejaculated Steinmetz. "Stépan!"

"Yes. Come in and close the door. "

He laid aside his pen, extended his hand, and, rising, kissed KarlSteinmetz on both cheeks after the manner of Russians. 

"Yes, my dear Karl. It seems that the good God has still a little workfor Stépan Lanovitch to do. I got away quite easily, in the usual way, through a paid Evasion Agency. I have been forwarded from pillar to postlike a prize fowl, and reached Petersburg last night. I have not long tostay. I am going south. I may be able to do some good yet. I hear thatPaul is working wonders in Tver. "

"What about money?" asked Steinmetz, who was always practical. 

"Catrina sent it, the dear child! That is one of the conditions made bythe Agency--a hard one. I am to see no relations. My wife--well, bonDieu! it does not matter much. She is occupied in keeping herself warm, no doubt. But Catrina! that is a different matter. Tell me--how is she?That is the first thing I want to know. "

"She is well, " answered Steinmetz. "I saw her yesterday. "

"And happy?" The broad-faced man looked into Steinmetz's face withconsiderable keenness. 

"Yes. "

It was a moment for mental reservations. One wonders whether such aretaken account of in heaven. 

"And Paul?" asked the Count Stépan Lanovitch at once. "Tell me abouthim. "

"He is married, " answered Steinmetz. 

The Count Lanovitch was looking at the lamp. He continued to look at itas if interested in the mechanism of the burner. Then he turned his eyesto the face of his companion. 

"I wonder, my friend, " he said slowly, "how much you know?"

"Nothing, " answered Steinmetz. 

The count looked at him enquiringly, heaved a sharp sigh, and abandonedthe subject. 

"Well, " he said, "let us get to business. I have much to ask and to tellyou. I want you to see Catrina and to tell her that I am safe and well, but she must not attempt to see me or correspond with me for some yearsyet. Of course you heard no account of my trial. I was convicted, on theevidence of paid witnesses, of inciting to rebellion. It was easyenough, of course. I shall live either in the south or in Austria. It isbetter for you to be in ignorance. "

Steinmetz nodded his head curtly. 

"I do not want to know, " he said. 

"Will you please ask Catrina to send me money through the usual channel?No more than she has been sending. It will suffice for my small wants. Perhaps some day we may meet in Switzerland or in America. Tell the dearchild that. Tell her I pray the good God to allow that meeting. As forRussia, her day has not come yet. It will not come in our time, my dearfriend. We are only the sowers. So much for the future. Now about thepast. I have not been idle. I know who stole the papers of the CharityLeague and sold them. I know who bought them and paid for them. "

Steinmetz closed the door. He came back to the table. He was not smilingnow--quite the contrary. 

"Tell me, " he said. "I want to know that badly. "

The Count Lanovitch looked up with a peculiar soft smile--acquired inprison. There is no mistaking it. 

"Oh, I bear no ill will, " he said. 

"I do, " answered Steinmetz bluntly. "Who stole the papers from Thors?"

"Sydney Bamborough. "

"Good God in heaven! Is that true?"

"Yes, my friend. "

Steinmetz passed his broad hand over his forehead as if dazed. 

"And who sold them?" he asked. 

"His wife. "

Count Lanovitch was looking at the burner of the lamp. There was apeculiar crushed look about the man, as if he had reached the end of hislife, and was lying like a ship, hopelessly disabled in smooth water, where nothing could affect him more. 

Steinmetz scratched his forehead with one finger, reflectively. 

"Vassili bought them, " he said; "I can guess that. "

"You guess right, " returned Lanovitch quietly. 

Steinmetz sat down. He looked round as if wondering whether the room wasvery hot. Then with a large handkerchief he wiped his brow. 

"You have surprised me, " he admitted. "There are complications. I shallsit up all night with your news, my dear Stépan. Have you details?Wonderful--wonderful! Of course there is a God in heaven. How can peopledoubt it--eh?"

"Yes, " said Stépan Lanovitch quietly. "There is a God in heaven, and atpresent he is angry with Russia. Yes, I have details. Sydney Bamboroughcame to stay at Thors. Of course he knew all about the CharityLeague--you remember that. It appears that his wife was waiting for himand the papers at Tver. He took them from my room, but he did not getthem all. Had he got them all you would not be sitting there, my friend. The general scheme he got--the list of committee names, the localagents, the foreign agents. But the complete list of the League hefailed to find. He secured the list of subscribers, but learned nothingfrom it because the sums were identified by a numeral only, the clue tothe numbers being the complete list, which I burned when I missed theother papers. "

Steinmetz nodded curtly. 

"That was wise, " he said. "You are a clever man, Stépan, but too goodfor this world and its rascals. Go on. "

"It would appear that Bamborough rode to Tver with the papers, which hehanded to his wife. She took them to Paris while he intended to comeback to Thors. He had a certain cheap cunning and unboundedimpertinence. But--as you know, perhaps--he disappeared. "

"Yes, " said Steinmetz, scratching his forehead with one finger. "Yes--hedisappeared. "

Karl Steinmetz had one great factor of success in this world--aninfinite capacity for holding his cards. 

"One more item, " said the count, in his businesslike, calm way. "Vassilipaid that woman seven thousand pounds for the papers. "

"And probably charged his masters ten, " added Steinmetz. 

"And now you must go!"

The count rose and looked at his watch--a cheap American article, with aloud tick. He held it out with his queer washed-out smile, and Steinmetzsmiled. 

The two embraced again--and there was nothing funny in the action. It isa singular thing that the sight of two men kissing is conducive eitherto laughter or to tears. There is no medium emotion. 

"My dear friend--my very dear friend, " said the count, "God be with youalways. We may meet again--or we may not. "

Steinmetz walked down the Nevski Prospekt on the left-hand pavement--noone walks on the other--and the sleigh followed him. He turned into alarge, brilliantly lighted café, and loosened his coat. 

"Give me beer, " he said to the waiter; "a very large quantity of it. "

The man smiled obsequiously as he set the foaming mug before him. 

"Is it that his Excellency is cold?" he enquired. 

"No, it isn't, " answered Steinmetz. "Quite the contrary. "

He drank the beer, and holding out his hand in the shadow of the table, he noticed that it trembled only a little. 

"That is better, " he murmured. "But I must sit here a while longer. Isuppose I was upset. That is what they call it--upset! I have never beenlike that before. Those lamps in the Prospekt! Gott! how they jumped upand down!"

He pressed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the brightness ofthe room--the glaring gas and brilliant decorations--the shining bottlesand the many tables which would not keep still. 

"Here, " he said to the man, "give me more beer. "

Presently he rose, and, getting rather clumsily into his sleigh, droveback at the usual breakneck pace to the palace at the upper end of theEnglish Quay. 

He sent an ambiguous message to Paul, saying that he had returned andwas dressing for dinner. This ceremony he went through slowly, as onedazed by a great fall or a heavy fatigue. His servant, a quick, silentman, noticed the strangeness of his manner, and like a wise servant onlybetrayed the result of his observation by a readier service, a quickerhand, a quieter motion. 

As Steinmetz went to the drawing-room he glanced at his watch. It wastwenty minutes past seven. He still had ten minutes to spare beforedinner. 

He opened the drawing-room door. Etta was sitting by the fire, alone. She glanced back over her shoulder in a quick, hunted way which had onlybecome apparent to Steinmetz since her arrival at Petersburg. 

"Good-evening, " she said. 

"Good-evening, madame, " he answered. 

He closed the door carefully behind him. 

CHAPTER XX

AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP

Etta did not move when Steinmetz approached, except, indeed, to push onefoot farther out toward the warmth of the wood fire. She certainly wasvery neatly shod. Steinmetz was one of her few failures. She had nevergot any nearer to the man. Despite his gray hair and bulky person sheargued that he was still a man, and therefore an easy victim toflattery--open to the influence of beauty. 

"I wonder why, " she said, looking into the fire, "you hate me. "

Steinmetz looked down at her with his grim smile. The mise en scène wasperfect, from the thoughtful droop of the head to the innocent displayof slipper. 

"I wonder why you think that of me, " he replied. 

"One cannot help perceiving that which is obvious. "

"While that which is purposely made obvious serves to conceal that whichmay exist behind it, " replied the stout man. 

Etta paused to reflect over this. Was Steinmetz going to make love toher? She was not an inexperienced girl, and knew that there was nothingimpossible or even improbable in the thought. She wondered what KarlSteinmetz must have been like when he was a young man. He had a deft wayeven now of planting a double entendre when he took the trouble. Howcould she know that his manner was always easiest, his attitude alwayspolitest, toward the women whom he despised. In his way this man was aphilosopher. He had a theory that an exaggerated politeness is an insultto a woman's intellect. 

"You think I do not care, " said the Princess Howard Alexis. 

"You think I do not admire you, " replied Steinmetz imperturbably. 

She looked up at him. 

"Do you not give me every reason to think so?" she returned, with a tossof the head. 

She was one of those women--and there are not a few--who would quarrelwith you if you do not admire them. 

"Not intentionally, princess. I am, as you know, a German of no verysubtle comprehension. My position in your household appears to me to bea little above the servants, although the prince is kind enough to makea friend of me and his friends are so good as to do the same. I do notcomplain. Far from it. I am well paid. I am interested in my work. I ammore or less my own master. I am very fond of Paul. You--are kind andforbearing. I do my best--in a clumsy way, no doubt--to spare you myheavy society. But of course I do not presume to form an opinion uponyour--upon you. "

"But I want you to form an opinion, " she said petulantly. 

"Then you must know that I could only form one which would be pleasingto you. "

"I know nothing of the sort, " replied Etta. "Of course I know that allthat you say about position and work is mere irony. Paul thinks there isno one in the world like you. "

Steinmetz glanced sharply down at her. He had never considered thepossibility that she might love Paul. Was this, after all, jealousy? Hehad attributed it to vanity. 

"And I have no doubt he is right, " she went on. Suddenly she gave alittle laugh. "Don't you understand?" she said. "I want to be friends. "

She did not look at him, but sat with pouting lips holding out her hand. 

Karl Steinmetz had been up to the elbows, as it were, in the diplomacyof an unscrupulous, grasping age ever since his college days. He hadbeen behind the scenes in more than one European crisis, and that whichgoes on behind the scenes is not always edifying or conducive to asqueamishness of touch. He was not the man to be mawkishly afraid ofsoiling his fingers. But the small white hand rather disconcerted him. 

He took it, however, in his great, warm, soft grasp, held it for amoment, and relinquished it. 

"I don't want you to address all your conversation to Maggie, and toignore me. Do you think Maggie so very pretty?"

There was a twist beneath the gray mustache as he answered, "Is that allthe friendship you desire? Does it extend no farther than a passing wishto be first in petty rivalries of daily existence? I am afraid, my dearprincess, that my friendship is a heavier matter--a clumsier thing thanthat. "

"A big thing not easily moved, " she suggested, looking up with herdauntless smile. 

He shrugged his great shoulders. 

"It may be--who knows? I hope it is, " he answered. 

"The worst of those big things is that they are sometimes in the way, "said Etta reflectively, without looking at him. 

"And yet the life that is only a conglomeration of trifles is a poorlife to look back upon. "

"Meaning mine?" she asked. 

"Your life has not been trifling, " he said gravely. 

She looked up at him, and then for some moments kept silence while sheidly opened and shut her fan. There was in the immediate vicinity ofKarl Steinmetz a sort of atmosphere of sympathy which had the effect ofcompelling confidence. Even Etta was affected by it. During the silencerecorded she was quelling a sudden desire to say things to this manwhich she had never said to any. She only succeeded in part. 

"Do you ever feel an unaccountable sensation of dread, " she asked, witha weary little laugh; "a sort of foreboding with nothing definite toforebode?"

"Unaccountable--no, " replied Steinmetz. "But then I am a German--andstout, which may make a difference. I have no nerves. "

He looked into the fire through his benevolent gold-rimmed spectacles. 

"Is it nerves--or is it Petersburg?" she asked abruptly. "I think it isPetersburg. I hate Petersburg. "

"Why Petersburg more than Moscow or Nijni or--Tver?"

She drew in a long, slow breath, looking him up and down the while fromthe corners of her eyes. 

"I do not know, " she replied collectedly; "I think it is damp. Thesehouses are built on reclaimed land, I believe. This was all marsh, wasit not?"

He did not answer her question, and somehow she seemed to expect noreply. He stood blinking down into the fire while she watched himfurtively from the corners of her eyes, her lips parched and open, herface quite white. 

A few moments before she had protested that she desired his friendship. She knew now that she could not brave his enmity. And the one word"Tver" had done it all! The mere mention of a town, obscure and squalid, on the upper waters of the mighty Volga in Mid-Russia!

During those few moments she suddenly came face to face with herposition. What had she to offer this man? She looked him up anddown--stout, placid, and impenetrable. Here was no common adventurerseeking place--no coxcomb seeking ladies' favors--no pauper to be boughtwith gold. She had no means of ascertaining how much he knew, how muchhe suspected. She had to deal with a man who held the best cards andwould not play them. She could never hope to find out whether hisknowledge and his suspicions were his alone or had been imparted toothers. In her walk through life she had jostled mostly villains; and avillain is no very dangerous foe, for he fights on slippery ground. Except Paul she had never had to do with a man who was quite honest, upright, and fearless; and she had fallen into the common error ofthinking that all such are necessarily simple, unsuspicious, and alittle stupid. 

She breathed hard, living through years of anxiety in a few moments oftime, and she could only realize that she was helpless, bound hand andfoot in this man's power. 

It was he who spoke first. In the smaller crises of life it is usuallythe woman who takes this privilege upon herself; but the largersituations need a man's steadier grasp. 

"My dear lady, " he said, "if you are content to take my friendship as itis, it is yours. But I warn you it is no showy drawing-room article. There will be no compliments, no pretty speeches, no little gifts offlowers, and such trumpery amenities. It will all be very solid andmiddle-aged, like myself. "

"You think, " returned the lady, "that I am fit for nothing better thanpretty speeches and compliments and floral offerings?"

She broke off with a forced little laugh, and awaited his verdict withdefiant eyes upraised. He returned the gaze through his placidspectacles; her beauty, in its setting of brilliant dress and furniture, soft lights, flowers, and a thousand feminine surroundings, failed todazzle him. 

"I do, " he said quietly. 

"And yet you offer me your friendship?"

He bowed in acquiescence. 

"Why?" she asked. 

"For Paul's sake, my dear lady. "

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from him. 

"Of course, " she said, "it is quite easy to be rude. As it happens, itis precisely for Paul's sake that I took the trouble of speaking to youon this matter. I do not wish him to be troubled with such smalldomestic affairs; and therefore, if we are to live under the same roof, I shall deem it a favor if you will, at all events, conceal yourdisapproval of me. "

He bowed gravely and kept silence. Etta sat with a little patch of coloron either cheek, looking into the fire until the door was opened andMaggie came in. 

Steinmetz went toward her with his grave smile, while Etta hid a facewhich had grown haggard. 

Maggie glanced from one to the other with frank interest. Therelationship between these two had rather puzzled her of late. 

"Well, " said Steinmetz, "and what of St. Petersburg?"

"I am not disappointed, " replied Maggie. "It is all I expected and more. I am not blasée like Etta. Every thing interests me. "

"We were discussing Petersburg when you came in, " said Steinmetz, drawing forward a chair. "The princess does not like it. She complainsof--nerves. "

"Nerves!" exclaimed Maggie, turning to her cousin. "I did not suspectyou of having them. "

Etta smiled, a little wearily. 

"One never knows, " she answered, forcing herself to be light, "what onemay come to in old age. I saw a gray hair this morning. I am nearlythirty-three, you know. When glamour goes, nerves come. "

"Well, I suppose they do--especially in Russia, perhaps. There is aglamour about Russia, and I mean to cultivate it rather than nerves. There is a glamour about every thing--the broad streets, the Neva, thesnow, and the cold. Especially the people. It is always especially thepeople, is it not?"

"It is the people, my dear young lady, that lend interest to the world. "

"Paul took me out in a sleigh this morning, " went on Maggie, in hercheerful voice that knew no harm. "I liked every thing--the policemen intheir little boxes at the street corners, the officers in their furcoats, the cabmen, every-body. There is something so mysterious aboutthem all. One can easily make up stories about every-body one meets inPetersburg. It is so easy to think that they are not what they seem. Paul, Etta, even you, Herr Steinmetz, may not be what you seem. "

"Yes, that is so, " answered Steinmetz, with a laugh. 

"You may be a Nihilist, " pursued Maggie. "You may have bombs concealedup your sleeves; you may exchange mysterious passwords with people inthe streets; you may be much less innocent than you appear. "

"All that may be so, " he admitted. 

"You may have a revolver in the pocket of your dress-coat, " went onMaggie, pointing to the voluminous garment with her fan. 

His hand went to the pocket in question, and produced exactly what shehad suggested. He held out his hand with a small silver-mounted revolverlying in the palm of it. 

"Even that, " he said, "may be so. "

Maggie looked at it with a sudden curiosity, her bright eyes grave. 

"Loaded?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"Then I will not examine it. How curious! I wonder how near to the markI may have been in other ways. "

"I wonder, " said Steinmetz, looking at Etta. "And now tell us somethingabout the princess. What do you suspect her of?"

At this moment Paul came into the room, distinguished-looking and grave. 

"Miss Delafield, " pursued Steinmetz, turning to the new-comer, "istelling us her suspicions about ourselves. I am already as good ascondemned to Siberia. She is now about to sit in judgment on theprincess. "

Maggie laughed. 

"Herr Steinmetz has pleaded guilty to the worst accusation, " she said. "On the other counts I leave him to his own conscience. "

"Any thing but that, " urged Steinmetz. 

Paul came forward, and Maggie rather obviously avoided looking at him. 

"Tell us of Paul's crimes first, " said Etta, rather hurriedly. Sheglanced at the clock, whither Karl Steinmetz's eyes had also travelled. 

"Oh, Paul, " said Maggie, rather indifferently. Indeed, it seemed as ifher lightness of heart had suddenly failed her. "Well, perhaps he isdeeply involved in schemes for the resurrection of the Polish kingdom, or something of that sort. "

"That sounds tame, " put in Steinmetz. "I think you would construct abetter romance respecting the princess. In books it is always thebeautiful princesses who are most deeply dyed in crime. "

Maggie opened her fan and closed it again. 

"Well, " she said, tapping on the arm of her chair with it; "I give Ettaa mysterious past. She is the sort of person who would laugh and danceat a ball with the knowledge that there was a mine beneath the floor. "

"I do not think I am, " said Etta, with a shudder. She rose ratherhurriedly, and crossed the room with a great rustle of silks. 

"Stop her!" she whispered, as she passed Steinmetz. 

CHAPTER XXI

A SUSPECTED HOUSE

The Countess Lanovitch and Catrina were sitting together in thetoo-luxurious drawing-room that overlooked the English Quay and theNeva. The double windows were rigorously closed, while the inner paneswere covered with a thick rime. The sun was just setting over themarshes that border the upper waters of the Gulf of Finland, and lit upthe snow-clad city with a rosy glow which penetrated to the room wherethe two women sat. 

Catrina was restless, moving from chair to chair, from fire-place towindow, with a lack of repose which would certainly have touched thenerves of a less lethargic person than the countess. 

"My dear child!" that lady was exclaiming with lackadaisical horror, "wecannot go to Thors yet. The thought is too horrible. You never think ofmy health. Besides, the gloom of the everlasting snow is too painful. Itmakes me think of your poor mistaken father, who is probably shovellingit in Siberia. Here, at all events, one can avoid the window--one neednot look at it. "

"The policy of shutting one's eyes is a mistake, " said Catrina. 

She had risen, and was standing by the window, her stunted form beingframed, as it were, in a rosy glow of pink. 

The countess heaved a little sigh and gazed idly at the fire. She didnot understand Catrina. She was afraid of her. There was somethingrugged and dogged which the girl had inherited from her father--thatSlavonic love of pain for its own sake--which makes Russian patriots andthinkers strange, incomprehensible beings. 

"I question it, Catrina, " said the elder lady; "but perhaps it is amatter of health. Dr. Stantovitch told me, quite between ourselves, thatif I had given way to my grief at the time of the trial he would nothave held himself responsible for the consequences. "

"Dr. Stantovitch, " said Catrina, "is a humbug. "

"My dear child!" exclaimed the countess, "he attends all the nobleladies of Petersburg. "

"Precisely, " answered Catrina. 

She was woman enough to enter into futile arguments with her mother, andman enough to despise herself for doing it. 

"Why do you want to go back to Thors so soon?" murmured the elder lady, with a little sigh of despair. She knew she was playing a losing gamevery badly. She was mentally shuddering at the recollection of formersleigh-journeying from Tver to Thors. 

"Because I am sure father would like us to be there this hard winter. "

"But your father is in Siberia, " put in the countess, which remark wasignored. 

"Because if we do not go before the snow begins to melt we shall have todo the journey in carriages over bad roads, which is sure to knock youup. Because our place is at Thors, and no one wants us here. I hatePetersburg. It is no use living here unless one is rich and beautifuland popular. We are none of those things, so we are better at Thors. "

"But we have many nice friends here, dear. You will see, this afternoon. I expect quite a reception. By the way, I hope Kupfer has sent thelittle cakes. Your father used to be so fond of them. I wonder if wecould send him a box to Siberia. He would enjoy them, poor man! He mightgive some to the prison people, and thus obtain a little alleviation. Yes; the Comte de Chauxville said he would come on my firstreception-day, and, of course, Paul and his wife must return my call. They will come to-day. I am anxious to see her. They say she isbeautiful and dresses well. "

Catrina's broad white teeth gleamed for a moment in the flickeringfirelight, as she clenched them over her lower lip. 

"And therefore Paul's happiness in life is assured, " she said, in a hardvoice. 

"Of course. What more could he want?" murmured the countess, in blissfulignorance of any irony. 

Catrina looked at her mother with a gleam of utter contempt in her eyes. That is one of the privileges of a great love, whether it bringhappiness or misery--the contempt for all who have never known it. 

While they remained thus the sound of sleigh-bells on the quiet EnglishQuay made itself heard through the double windows. There was a clang ofmany tones, and the horses pulled up with a jerk. The color leftCatrina's face quite suddenly, as if wiped away, leaving her ghastly. She was going to see Paul and his wife. 

Presently the door opened, and Etta came into the room with theindomitable assurance which characterized her movements and earned forher a host of feminine enemies. 

"Mme. La Comtesse, " she said, with her most gracious smile, taking thelimp 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. Hewas not a society man. Catrina came forward and exchanged a formal bowwith Etta, who took in her plainness and the faults of her dress at onecontemptuous glance. She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figurefor no figure at all. Paul was shaking hands with the countess. When hetook Catrina's hand her fingers were icy, and twitched nervously withinhis grasp. 

The countess was already babbling to Etta in French. The Princess HowardAlexis always began by informing Paul's friends that she knew noRussian. For a moment Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone. When the countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy hervoice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated any otherconversation that might be going on in the room. 

"I wish you happiness, " said Catrina, and no one heard her but Paul. Shedid not raise her eyes to his, but looked vaguely at his collar. Hervoice was short and rather breathless, as if she had just emerged fromdeep water. 

"Thank you, " answered Paul simply. 

He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife. Catrina's thoughtsfollowed his. A man is at a disadvantage in the presence of the womanwho loves him. She usually sees through him--a marked difference betweenmasculine and feminine love. Catrina looked up sharply and caught hiseyes resting on Etta. 

"He does not love her--he does not love her!" was the thought thatinstantly leaped into her brain. 

And if she had said it to him he would have contradicted her flatly andhonestly, and in vain. 

"Yes, " the countess was saying with lazy volubility; "Paul is one of ouroldest friends. We are neighbors in the country, you know. He has alwaysbeen in and out of our house like one of the family. My poor husband wasvery fond of him. "

"Is your husband dead, then?" asked Etta in a low voice, with a strangehaste. 

"No; he is only in Siberia. You have perhaps heard of hismisfortune--Count Stépan Lanovitch. "

Etta nodded her head with the deepest sympathy. 

"I feel for you, countess, " she said. "And yet you are so brave--andmademoiselle, " she said, turning to Catrina. "I hope we shall see moreof 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 whichspreads the conversation out, "that Paul and Mlle. De Lanovitch wereplaymates?"

The reply lay with either of the ladies, but Catrina turned away. 

"Yes, " answered the countess; "but Catrina is only twenty-four--tenyears younger than Paul. "

"Indeed!" with a faint, cutting surprise. 

Indeed Etta looked younger than Catrina. On a l'âge de son coeur, and ifthe heart be worn it transmits its weariness to the face, where suchsigns are ascribed to years. So the little stab was justified byCatrina's appearance. 

While the party assembled were thus exchanging social amenities, a pastmaster in such commerce joined them in the person of Claude deChauxville. 

He smiled his mechanical, heartless smile upon them all, but when hebowed over Etta's hand his face was grave. He expressed no surprise atseeing Paul and Etta, though his manner betokened that emotion. Therewas no sign of this meeting having been a prearranged matter, broughtabout by himself through the easy and innocent instrumentality of thecountess. 

"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. Itis strange how an obscure geographical name may force its way into ourlives, never to be forgotten. Queen Mary of England struck a note of thehuman octave when she protested that the word "Calais" was graven on herheart. It seemed to Etta that "Tver" was written large wheresoever sheturned, for the conscience looks through a glass and sees whatever maybe written thereon overspreading every prospect. 

"The prince, " continued De Chauxville, turning to Paul, "is a greatsportsman, I am told--a mighty hunter. I wonder why Englishmen alwayswant to kill something. "

Paul smiled, without making an immediate answer. He was not the man tobe 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 wasyounger. I was immensely afraid, and so was the bear. I have a greatdesire to try again. "

Etta glanced at Paul, who returned De Chauxville's bland gaze with allthe imperturbability of a prince. 

The countess's cackling voice broke in at this juncture, as perhaps DeChauxville had intended it to do. 

"Then why not come and shoot ours?" she said. "We have quite a number ofthem 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 andyour well-known kindness. "

He turned to Catrina, who received him with a half-concealed frown. Thecountess bridled and looked at her daughter with obvious maternalmeaning, as one who was saying, "There--you bungled your prince, but Ihave procured you a baron. "

"The abuse of hospitality is the last refuge of the needy, " continued DeChauxville oracularly. "But my temptation is strong; shall I yield toit, mademoiselle?"

Catrina smiled unwillingly. 

"I would rather leave it to your own conscience, " she said. "But I failto see the danger you anticipate. "

"Then I accept, madame, " said De Chauxville, with the engagingfrankness which ever had a false ring in it. 

If the whole affair had been prearranged in Claude de Chauxville's mind, it certainly succeeded more fully than is usually the case with humanschemes. If, on the other hand, this invitation was the result ofchance, Fortune had favored Claude de Chauxville beyond his deserts. 

The little scene had played itself out before the eyes of Paul, who didnot want it; of Etta, who desired it; and of Catrina, who did notexactly know what she wanted, with the precision of a stage-playcarefully rehearsed. 

Claude de Chauxville had unscrupulously made use of feminine vanity withall the skill that was his. A little glance toward Etta, as he acceptedthe invitation, conveyed to her the fact that she was the object of hisclever little plot; that it was in order to be near her that he hadforced the Countess Lanovitch to invite him to Thors; and Etta, with allher shrewdness, was promptly hoodwinked. Vanity is a handicap assignedto clever women by Fate, who handicaps us all without appeal. DeChauxville saw by a little flicker of the eyelids that he had not missedhis mark. He had hit Etta where his knowledge of her told him she wasunusually vulnerable. He had made one ally. The countess he looked uponwith a wise contempt. She was easier game than Etta. Catrina heunderstood well enough. Her rugged simplicity had betrayed her secret tohim before he had been five minutes in the room. Paul he despised as aman lacking finesse and esprit--a truly French form of contempt. ForFrenchmen have yet to learn that such qualities have remarkably littleto do with love. 

Claude de Chauxville was one of those men--alas! too many--who owe theirsuccess in life almost entirely to some feminine influence or another. Whenever he came into direct opposition to men it was his instinct toretire from the field. Behind Paul's back he despised him; before hisface he cringed. 

"Then, perhaps, " he said, when the princess was engaged in the usualfarewells with the countess, and Paul was moving toward the door--"then, perhaps, prince, we may meet again before the spring--if the countessintends her invitation to be taken seriously. "

"Yes, " answered Paul; "I often shoot at Thors. "

"If you do not happen to come over, perhaps I may be allowed to call andpay my respects--or is the distance too great?"

"You can do it in an hour and a half with a quick horse, if the snow isgood, " answered Paul. 

"Then I may make it au revoir?" enquired De Chauxville, holding out afrank hand. 

"Au revoir, " said Paul, "if you wish it. "

And he turned to say good-by to Catrina. 

As De Chauxville had arrived later than the other visitors, it was quitenatural that he should remain after they had left, and it may be safelypresumed that he took good care to pin the Countess Lanovitch down toher rash invitation. 

"Why is that man coming to Tver?" said Paul, rather gruffly, when Ettaand he were settled beneath the furs of the sleigh. "We do not want himthere. "

"I expect, " replied Etta rather petulantly, "that we shall be sohorribly dull that even M. De Chauxville will be a welcome alleviation. "

Paul said nothing. He gave a little sign to the driver, and the horsesleaped forward with a musical clash of their silver bells. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

It is to be feared that there is a lamentable lack of local color in thepresent narrative. Having safely arrived at Petersburg, we have nothingto tell of that romantic city--no hints at deep-laid plots, no prison, nor tales of jail-birds--tales with salt on them, bien entendu--theusual grain. We have hardly mentioned the Nevski Prospekt, which streetby ancient right must needs figure in all Russian romance. We haveinstead been prating of drawing-rooms and mere interiors of houses, which to-day are the same all the world over. A Japanese fan is but aJapanese fan, whether it hang on the wall of a Canadian drawing-room orthe matting of an Indian bungalow. An Afghan carpet is the same on anyfloor. It is the foot that treads the carpet which makes one to differfrom another. 

Whether it be in Petersburg or Pekin, it still must be the human beingthat lends the interest to the still life around it. A truce, therefore, to picturesque description--sour grapes to the present pen--of churchand fort and river, with which the living persons of whom we tell havelittle or nothing to do. 

Maggie was alone in the great drawing-room of the house at the end ofthe English Quay--alone and grave. Some people, be it noted, are gravestwhen alone, and they are wise, for the world has too much gravity for usto go about it with a long face, making matters worse. Let each of us bethe centre of his own gravity. Maggie Delafield had, perhaps, that sparkin the brain for which we have but an ugly word. We call it "pluck. " Andby it we are enabled to win a losing game--and, harder still, to lose alosing game--without much noise or plaint. 

Whatever this girl's joys or sorrows may have been--and pray you, madam, remember that no man ever knows his neighbor's heart!--she succeeded aswell as any in concealing both. There are some women who tell one justenough about themselves to prove that they can understand andsympathize. Maggie was of these; but she told no more. 

She was alone when Paul came into the room. It was a large room, withmore than one fire-place. Maggie was reading, and she did not lookround. Paul stopped--warming himself by the fire nearest to the door. Hewas the sort of man to come into a room without any remark. 

Maggie looked up for a moment, glancing at the wood fire. She seemed toknow for certain that it was Paul. 

"Have you been out?" she asked. 

"Yes--calling. "

He came toward her, standing beside her with his hands clasped behindhis back, looking into the fire. 

"Socially, " he said, with a quiet humor, "I am not a success. "

Her book dropped upon her knees, her two hands crossed upon its pages. She stared at the glowing logs as if his thoughts were written there. 

"I do not want to give way, " he went on, "to a habit of morbidintrospection, but socially I am a horrid failure. "

There was a little smile on the girl's face, not caused by his gravehumor. It would appear that she was smiling at something beyondthat--something only visible to her own mental vision. 

"Perhaps you do not try, " she suggested practically. 

"Oh, yes, I do. I try in several languages. I have no small-talk. "

"You see, " she said gravely, "you are a large man. "

"Does that make any difference?" he asked simply. 

She turned and looked at him as he towered by her side--looked at himwith a queer smile. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I think so. "

For some moments they remained thus without speaking--in a peacefulsilence. Although the room was very large, it was peaceful. What is it, by the way, that brings peace to the atmosphere of a room, of a wholehouse sometimes? It can only be something in the individuality of someperson in it. We talk glibly of the comfort of being settled--thepeacefulness, the restfulness of it. Some people, it would appear, arealways settled--of settled convictions, settled mind, settled purpose. Paul Howard Alexis was perhaps such a person. 

At all events, the girl sitting in the low chair by his side seemed tobe under some such influence, seemed to have escaped the unrest which issaid to live in palaces. 

When she spoke it was with a quiet voice, as one having plenty of timeand leisure. 

"Where have you been?" she asked practically. Maggie was alwayspractical. 

"To the Lanovitches', where we met the Baron de Chauxville. "

"Ah!"

"Why--ah?"

"Because I dislike the Baron de Chauxville, " answered Maggie in herdecisive way. 

"I am glad of that--because I hate him!" said Paul. "Have you any reasonfor your dislike?"

Miss Delafield had a reason, but it was not one that she could mentionto Paul. So she gracefully skirted the question. 

"He has the same effect upon me as snails, " she explained airily. 

Then, as if to salve her conscience, she gave the reason, but disguised, so that he did not recognize it. 

"I have seen more of M. De Chauxville than you have, " she said gravely. "He is one of those men of whom women do see more. When men are presenthe loses confidence, like a cur when a thoroughbred terrier is about. Hedislikes you. I should take care to give M. De Chauxville a wide berthif I were you, Paul. "

She had risen, after glancing at the clock. She turned down the page ofher book, and looking up suddenly, met his eyes, for a moment only. 

"We are not likely to drop into a close friendship, " said Paul. "But--heis coming to Thors, twenty miles from Osterno. "

There was a momentary look of anxiety in the girl's eyes, which sheturned away to hide. 

"I am sorry for that, " she said. "Does Herr Steinmetz know it?"

"Not yet. "

Maggie paused for a moment. She was tracing with the tip of her finger apattern stamped on the binding of the book. It would seem that she hadsomething more to say. Then suddenly she went away without saying it. 

In the meantime Claude de Chauxville had gently led the CountessLanovitch to invite him to stay to dinner. He accepted the invitationwith becoming reluctance, and returned to the Hotel de Berlin, where hewas staying, in order to dress. He was fully alive to the expediency ofstriking while the iron is hot--more especially where women areconcerned. Moreover, his knowledge of the countess led him to fear thatshe would soon tire of his society. This lady had a lamentable facilityfor getting to the bottom of her friends' powers of entertainment withina few days. It was De Chauxville's intention to make secure hisinvitation to Thors, and then to absent himself from the countess. 

At dinner he made himself vastly agreeable, recounting many anecdotesfresh from Paris, which duly amused the Countess Lanovitch, and somewhatshocked Catrina, who was not advanced or inclined to advance. 

After dinner the guest asked Mlle. Catrina to play. He opened the grandpiano in the inner drawing-room with such gallantry and effusion thatthe sanguine countess, post-prandially somnolescent in her luxuriouschair, began rehearsing different modes of mentioning her son-in-law, the baron. 

"Yes, " she muttered to herself, "and Catrina is plain--terribly plain. "

Thereupon she fell asleep. 

De Chauxville had a good memory, and was, moreover, a good and capableliar. So Catrina did not find out that he knew nothing whatever ofmusic. He watched the plain face as the music rose and fell, himselfimpervious to its transcendent tones. With practised cunning he waiteduntil Catrina was almost intoxicated with music--an intoxication towhich all great musicians are liable. 

"Ah!" he said. "I envy you your power. With music like that one canalmost imagine that life is what one would wish it to be. "

She did not answer, but she wandered off into another air--a slumbersong. 

"The Schlummerlied, " said De Chauxville softly. "It almost has the powerto send a sorrow to sleep. "

This time she answered him--possibly because he had not looked at her. 

"Such never sleep, " she said. 

"Do you know that, too?" he asked, not in a tone that wanted reply. 

She made no answer. 

"I am sorry, " he went on. "For me it is different, I am a man. I haveman's work to do. I can occupy myself with ambition. At all events, Ihave a man's privilege of nursing revenge. "

He saw her eyes light up, her breast heave with a sudden sigh. Somethinglike a smile wavered for a moment beneath his waxed mustache. 

Catrina's fingers, supple and strong, struck in great chords the air ofa gloomy march from the half-forgotten muse of some monastic composer. While she played, Claude de Chauxville proceeded with his delicate touchto play on the hidden chords of an untamed heart. 

"A man's privilege, " he repeated musingly. 

"Need it be such?" she asked. 

For the first time his eyes met hers. 

"Not necessarily, " he answered, and her eyes dropped before his narrowgaze. 

He sat back in his chair, content for the moment with the progress hehad made. He glanced at the countess. He was too experienced a man to betricked. The countess was really asleep. Her cap was on one side, hermouth open. A woman who is pretending to sleep usually does so inbecoming attitudes. 

De Chauxville did not speak again for some minutes. He sat back in hischair, leaning his forehead on his hand, while he peeped through hisslim fingers. He could almost read the girl's thoughts as she put theminto music. 

"She does not hate him yet, " he was reflecting. "But she needs only tosee him with Etta a few times and she will come to it. "

The girl played on, throwing all the pain in her passionate, untamedheart into the music. She knew nothing of the world; for half of itstemptations, its wiles, its wickednesses were closed to her by the plainface that God had given her. For beautiful women see the worst side ofhuman nature--they usually deal with the worst of men. Catrina was aneasy tool in the hands of such as Claude de Chauxville; for he had dealtwith women and that which is evil in women all his life, and the onlymistakes he ever made were those characteristic errors of omissionattaching to a persistent ignorance of the innate good in human nature. It is this same innate good that upsets the calculations of mostvillains. 

Absorbed as she was in her great grief, Catrina was in no mood to seekfor motives--to split a moral straw. She only knew that this man seemedto understand her as no one had ever understood her. She was contentwith the knowledge that he took the trouble to express and to show asympathy of which those around her had not suspected her to be in need. 

The moment had been propitious, and Claude de Chauxville, with trueGallic insight, had seized it. Her heart was sore and lonely--almostbreaking--and she was without the worldly wisdom which tells us thatsuch hearts must, at all costs, be hidden from the world. She waswithout religious teaching--quite without that higher moral teachingwhich is independent of creed and conformity, which is only learnt at agood mother's knee. Catrina had not had a good mother. She had had thecountess--a weak-minded, self-indulgent, French-novel-reading woman. Heaven protect our children from such mothers!

In the solitude of her life Catrina Lanovitch had conceived a greatlove--a passion such as a few only are capable of attaining, be it forweal or woe. She had seen this love ignored--walked under foot by itsobject with a grave deliberation which took her breath away when shethought of it. It was all in all to her; to him it was nothing. Herphilosophy was simple. She could not sit still and endure. At this timeit seemed unbearable. She must turn and rend some one. She did not knowwhom. But some one must suffer. It was in this that Claude de Chauxvilleproposed to assist her. 

"It is preposterous that people should make others suffer and gounpunished, " he said, intent on his noble purpose. 

Catrina's eyelids flickered, but she made no answer. The soreness of herheart had not taken the form of a definite revenge as yet. Her love forPaul was still love, but it was perilously near to hatred. She had notreached the point of wishing definitely that he should suffer, but thesight of Etta--beautiful, self-confident, carelessly possessive inrespect to Paul--had brought her within measurable distance of it. 

"The arrogance of those who have all that they desire is insupportable, "the Frenchman went on in his favorite, non-committing, epigrammatic way. 

Catrina--a second Eve--glanced at him, and her silence gave himpermission to go on. 

"Some men have a different code of honor for women, who are helpless. "

Catrina knew vaguely that unless a woman is beloved by the object of herdispleasure, she cannot easily make him suffer. 

She clenched her teeth over her lower lip. As she played, a new lightwas dawning in her eyes. The music was a marvel, but no one in the roomheard it. 

"I would be pitiless to all such men, " said De Chauxville. "They deserveno pity, for they have shown none. The man who deceives a woman isworthy of--"

He never finished the sentence. Her deep, passionate eyes met his. Herhands came down with one final crash on the chords. She rose and crossedthe room. 

"Mother, " she said, "shall I ring for tea?"

When the countess awoke, De Chauxville was turning over some sheets ofmusic at the piano. 

CHAPTER XXIII

A WINTER SCENE

Between Petersburg and the sea there are several favorite islands moreor less assigned to the foreigners residing in the Russian capital. Herethe English live, and in summer the familiar cries of the tennis-lawnmay be heard, while in winter snow-shoeing, skating, and tobogganinghold merry sway. 

It was here, namely, on the island of Christeffsky, that a great icefête was held on the day preceding the departure of the Howard Alexishousehold for Tver. The fête was given by one of the foreignambassadors--a gentleman whose wife was accredited to the first placein Petersburg society. It was absolutely necessary, Steinmetz averred, for the whole Howard Alexis party to put in an appearance. 

The fête was supposed to begin at four in the afternoon, and by fiveo'clock all St. Petersburg--all, c'est à dire, worthy of mention in thataristocratic city--had arrived. One may be sure Claude de Chauxvillearrived early, in beautiful furs with a pair of silver-plated skatesunder his arm. He was an influential member of the Cercle des Patineursin Paris. Steinmetz arrived soon after, to look on, as he told his manyfriends. He was, he averred, too stout to skate and too heavy for thelittle iron sleds on the ice-hills. 

"No, no!" he said, "there is nothing left for me but to watch. I shallwatch De Chauxville, " he added, turning to that graceful skater with agrim smile. De Chauxville nodded and laughed. 

"You have been doing that any time this twenty years, mon ami, " he said, as he stood upright on his skates and described an easy little figure onthe outside edge backward. 

"And have always found you on slippery ground. "

"And never a fall, " said De Chauxville over his shoulder, as he shotaway across the brilliantly lighted pond. 

It was quite dark. A young moon was rising over the city, throwing outin dark relief against the sky a hundred steeples and domes. The long, thin spire of the Fortress Church--the tomb of the Romanoffs--shot upinto the heavens like a dagger. Near at hand, a thousand electric lightsand colored lanterns, cunningly swung on the branches of the pines, madea veritable fairyland. The ceaseless song of the skates, on ice as hardas iron, mingled with the strains of a band playing in a kiosk with openwindows. From the ice-hills came the swishing scream of the iron runnersdown the terrific slope. The Russians are a people of great emotions. There is a candor in their recognition of the needs of the senses whichdoes not obtain in our self-conscious nature. These strangelyconstituted people of the North--a budding nation, a nation which shallsome day overrun the world--are easily intoxicated. And there is adeliberation about their methods of seeking this enjoyment which appearsat times almost brutal. There is nothing more characteristic than theice-hill. 

Imagine a slope as steep as a roof, paved with solid blocks of ice, which are subsequently frozen together by flooding with water; imagine asledge with steel runners polished like a knife; imagine a thousandlights on either side of this glittering path, and you have some idea ofan ice-hill. It is certainly the strongest form of excitementimaginable--next, perhaps, to whale-fishing. 

There is no question of breathing, once the sledge has been started bythe attendant. The sensation is somewhat suggestive of a fall from aballoon, and yet one goes to the top again, as surely as the drunkardwill return to his bottle. Fox-hunting is child's play to it, and yetgrave men have prayed that they might die in pink. 

Steinmetz was standing at the foot of the ice-hill when an arm wasslipped within his. 

"Will you take me down?" asked Maggie Delafield. 

He turned and smiled at her--fresh and blooming in her furs. 

"No, my dear young lady. But thank you for suggesting it. "

"Is it very dangerous?"

"Very. But I think you ought to try it. It is a revelation. It is anepoch in your life. When I was a younger man I used to sneak away to anice-hill where I was not known, and spend hours of the keenestenjoyment. Where is Paul?"

"He has just gone over there with Etta. "

"She refuses to go?"

"Yes, " answered Maggie. 

Steinmetz looked down at his companion with his smile of quietresignation. 

"You tell me you are afraid of mice, " he said. 

"I hate mice, " she replied. "Yes--I suppose I am afraid of them. "

"The princess is not afraid of _rats_--she is afraid of very little, theprincess--and yet she will not go on the ice-hill. What strangecreatures, mademoiselle! Come, let us look for Paul. He is the only manwho may be trusted to take you down. "

They found Paul and Etta together in one of the brilliantly lightedkiosks where refreshments were being served, all hot and steaming, byfur-clad servants. It was a singular scene. If a coffee-cup was left fora few moments on the table by the watchful servitors, the spoon froze tothe saucer. The refreshments--bread and butter, dainty sandwiches ofcaviare, of pâté de foie gras, of a thousand delicatessen from Berlinand Petersburg--were kept from freezing on hot-water dishes. The wholescene was typical of life in the northern capital, where wealth wages asuccessful fight against climate. Open fires burned brilliantly in irontripods within the doorway of the tent, and at intervals in the gardens. In a large hall a string band consoled those whose years or lungs wouldnot permit of the more vigorous out-door entertainments. 

Steinmetz made known to Paul Maggie's desire to risk her life on theice-hills, and gallantly proposed to take care of the princess until hisreturn. 

"Then, " said Etta gayly, "you must skate. It is much too cold to standabout. They are going to dance a cotillon. "

"If it is your command, princess, I obey with alacrity. "

Etta spoke rapidly, looking round her all the while with the brightenjoyment which overspreads the faces of some women at almost any formof entertainment, provided there be music, brilliant lights, and a crowdof people. One cannot help wondering a little what the minds of suchfair ladies must consist of, to be thrown off their balance by suchoutward influences. Etta's eyes gleamed with excitement. She wasbeautifully dressed in furs, which adornment she was tall and statelyenough to carry to full advantage. She held her graceful head with regalhauteur, every inch a princess. She was enjoying her keenest pleasure--asocial triumph. No whisper escaped her, no glance, no nudge of admiringor envious notice. On Steinmetz's arm she passed out of the tent; thetouch of her hand on his sleeve reminded him of a thoroughbred horsestepping on to turf, so full of life, of electric thrill, of excitementwas it. But then, Karl Steinmetz was a cynic. No one else could havethought of comparing Etta's self-complaisant humor to that of a horse ina racing paddock. 

They procured skates and glided off hand in hand, equally proficient, equally practised, maybe on this same lake; for both had learned toskate in Russia. 

They talked only of the present, of the brilliancy of the fête, of themusic, of the thousand lights. Etta was quite incapable of thinking ortalking of any other subject at that moment. 

Steinmetz distinguished Claude de Chauxville easily enough, and avoidedhim with some success for a short time. But De Chauxville soon caughtsight of them. 

"Here is M. De Chauxville, " said Etta, with a pleased ring in her voice. "Leave me with him. I expect you are tired. "

"I am not tired, but I am obedient, " replied Steinmetz, as the Frenchmancame up with his fur cap in his hand, bowing gracefully. Claude deChauxville usually overdid things. There is something honest in a clumsybow which had no place in his courtly obeisance. 

Although Steinmetz continued to skate in a leisurely way, he also heldto his original intention of looking on. He saw Paul and Maggie comeback to the edge of the lake, accompanied by an English lady of someimportance in Russia, with whom Maggie presently went away to theconcert-room. 

Steinmetz glided up to Paul, who was lighting a cigarette at the edge ofthe pond, where an attendant stood by an open wood fire with cigarettesand hot beverages. 

"Get a pair of skates, " said the German. "This ice ismarvellous--colossa-a-a-l. "

He amused himself with describing figures, like a huge grave-minded boy, until Paul joined him. 

"Where is Etta?" asked the prince at once. 

"Over there with De Chauxville. "

Paul said nothing for a few moments. They skated side by side round thelake. It was too cold to stand still even for a minute. 

"I told you, " remarked Paul at length, "that that fellow is coming toThors. "

"I wish he would go to the devil, " said Steinmetz. 

"No doubt he will in time, " answered Paul carelessly. 

"Yes; but not soon enough. I assure you, Paul, I do not like it. We arejust in that position that the least breath of suspicion will get usinto endless trouble. The authorities know that Stépan Lanovitch hasescaped. At any moment the Charity League scandal may be resuscitated. We do not want fellows like De Chauxville prowling about. I know theman. He is a d--d scoundrel who would sell his immortal soul if he couldget a bid for it. What is he coming to Thors for? He is not a sportsman;why, he would be afraid of a cock pheasant, though he would be pluckyenough among the hens. You don't imagine he is in love with Catrina, doyou?"

"No, " said Paul sharply, "I don't. "

Steinmetz raised his bushy eyebrows. Etta and De Chauxville skated pastthem at that moment, laughing gayly. 

"I have been thinking about it, " went on Steinmetz, "and I have come tothe conclusion that our friend hates you personally. He has a grudgeagainst you of some sort. Of course he hates me--cela va sans dire. Hehas come to Russia to watch us. That I am convinced of. He has come herebent on mischief. It may be that he is hard up and is to be bought. Heis always to be bought, ce bon De Chauxville, at a price. We shall see. "

Steinmetz paused and glanced at Paul. He could not tell him more. Hecould not tell him that his wife had sold the Charity League papers tothose who wanted them. He could not tell him all that he knew of Etta'spast. None of these things could Karl Steinmetz, in the philosophy thatwas his, tell to the person whom they most concerned. And who are wethat we may hold him wrong? The question of telling and withholding isnot to be dismissed in a few words. But it seems very certain that thereis too much telling, too much speaking out, and too little holding in, in these days of much publicity. There is a school of speakers-out, andwould to Heaven they would learn to hold their tongues. There is aschool for calling a spade by no other name, and they have still tolearn that the world is by no means interested in their clatter ofshovels. 

The Psalmist knew much of which he did not write, and the young men ofthe modern school of poesy and fiction know no more, but they lack thegood taste of the singer of old. That is all. 

Karl Steinmetz was a man who formed his opinion on the bestbasis--namely, experience, and that had taught him that a bold reticencedoes less harm to one's neighbor than a weak volubility. 

Paul was an easy subject for such treatment. His own method inclined toerr on the side of reticence. He gave few confidences and asked none, asis the habit of Englishmen. 

"Well, " he said, "I do not suppose he will stay long at Thors, and Iknow that he will not stay at all at Osterno. Besides, what harm can heactually do to us? He cannot well go about making enquiries. To beginwith, he knows no Russian. "

"I doubt that, " put in Steinmetz. 

"And, even if he does, he cannot come poking about in Osterno. Catrinawill give him no information. Maggie hates him. You and I know him. There is only the countess. "

"Who will tell him all she knows! She would render that service to adrosky driver. "

Paul shrugged his shoulders. 

There was no mention of Etta. They stood side by side, both thinking ofher, both looking at her, as she skated with De Chauxville. There laythe danger, and they both knew it. But she was the wife of one of themand their lips were necessarily sealed. 

"And it will be permitted, " Claude de Chauxville happened to be sayingat that moment, "that I call and pay my respects to an exiled princess?"

"There will be difficulties, " answered Etta, in that tone which makes itnecessary to protest that difficulties are nothing under somecircumstances--the which De Chauxville duly protested with much fervor. 

"You think that twenty miles of snow would deter me, " he said. 

"Well, they might. "

"They might if--well--"

He left the sentence unfinished--the last resource of the sneak and thecoward who wishes to reserve to himself the letter of the denial in thespirit of the meanest lie. 

CHAPTER XXIV

HOME

A tearing, howling wind from the north--from the boundless snow-cladplains of Russia that lie between the Neva and the Yellow Sea; a graysky washed over as with a huge brush dipped in dirty whitening; and theplains of Tver a spotless, dazzling level of snow. 

The snow was falling softly and steadily, falling, as it never falls inEngland, in little more than fine powder, with a temperature fortydegrees below freezing-point. A drift--constant, restless, neveraltering--sped over the level plain like the dust on a high-road beforea steady wind. This white scud--a flying scud of frozen water--wassingularly like the scud that is blown from the crest of the waves by acyclone in the China Seas. Any object that broke the wind--a stuntedpine, a broken tree-trunk, a Government road-post--had at its leewardside a high, narrow snow-drift tailing off to the dead level of theplain. Where the wind dropped the snow rose at once. But these objectswere few and far between. The deadly monotony of the scene--thetrackless level, the preposterous dimensions of the plain, the sense ofdistance that is conveyed only by the steppe and the great desert ofGobi when the snow lies on it--all these tell the same grim truth to allwho look on them: the old truth that man is but a small thing and hislife but as the flower of the grass. 

Across the plain of Tver, before the north wind, a single sleigh wastearing as fast as horse could lay hoof to ground--a sleigh driven byPaul Howard Alexis, and the track of it was as a line drawn from pointto point across a map. 

A striking feature of the winter of Northern Russia is the gloriousuncertainty of its snowfalls. At Tver the weather-wise had said:

"The snow has not all fallen yet. More is coming. It is yellow in thesky, although March is nearly gone. "

The landlord of the hotel (a good enough resting-place facing the broadVolga) had urged upon M. Le Prince the advisability of waiting, as isthe way of landlords all the world over. But Etta had shown a strangerestlessness, a petulant desire to hurry forward at all risks. She hatedTver; the hotel was uncomfortable, there was an unhealthy smell aboutthe place. 

Paul acceded readily enough to her wishes. He rather liked Tver. In away he was proud of this busy town--a centre of Russian civilization. Hewould have liked Etta to be favorably impressed with it, as anyprejudice would naturally reflect upon Osterno, 140 miles across thesteppe. But with a characteristic silent patience he made the necessarypreparations for an immediate start. 

The night express from St. Petersburg had deposited them on the platformin the early morning. Steinmetz had preceded them. Closed sleighs fromOsterno were awaiting them. A luxurious breakfast was prepared at thehotel. Relays of horses were posted along the road. The journey toOsterno had been carefully planned and arranged by Steinmetz--a kingamong organizers. The sleigh drive across the steppe was to beaccomplished in ten hours. 

The snow had begun to fall as they clattered across the floating bridgeof Tver. It had fallen ever since, and the afternoon lowered gloomily. In America such visitations are called "blizzards"; here in Russia it ismerely "the snow. " The freezing wind is taken as a matter of course. 

At a distance of one hundred miles from Tver, the driver of the sleighcontaining Etta, Maggie, and Paul had suddenly rolled off his perch. Hishands were frostbitten; a piteous blue face peered out at his masterthrough ice-laden eyebrows, mustache, and beard. In a moment Maggie wasout in the snow beside the two men, while Etta hastily closed the door. 

"He is all right, " said Paul; "it is only the cold. Pour some brandyinto his mouth while I hold the ice aside. _Don't_ take off your gloves. The flask will stick to your fingers. "

Maggie obeyed with her usual breezy readiness, turning to nodreassurance to Etta, who, truth to tell, had pulled up the rime-coveredwindows, shutting out the whole scene. 

"He must come inside, " said Maggie. "We are nice and warm with all thehot-water cans. "

Paul looked rather dubiously toward the sleigh. 

"You can carry him, I suppose?" said the girl cheerfully. "He is notvery big--he is all fur coat. "

Etta looked rather disgusted, but made no objection, while Paul liftedthe frozen man into the seat he had just vacated. 

"When you are cold I will drive, " cried Maggie, as Paul shut the door. "I should love it. "

Thus it came about that a single sleigh was speeding across the plain ofTver. 

Paul, with the composure that comes of a large experience, gathered thereins in his two hands, driving with both and with extended arms, afterthe manner of Russian yemschiks. For a man must accommodate himself tocircumstance, and fingerless gloves are not conducive to a finishedstyle of handling the ribbons. 

This driver knew that the next station was twenty miles off; that at anymoment the horses might break down or plunge into a drift. He knew thatin the event of such emergencies it would be singularly easy for fourpeople to die of cold within a few miles of help. But he had faced suchpossibilities a hundred times before in this vast country, where thestandard price of a human life is no great sum. He was not, therefore, dismayed, but rather took delight in battling with the elements, as allstrong men should, and most of them, thank Heaven, do. 

Moreover he battled successfully, and before the moon was well up drewrein outside the village of Osterno, to accede at last to theoft-repeated prayer of the driver that he might return to his task. 

"It is not meet, " the man had gruffly said, whenever a short halt wasmade to change horses, "that a great prince should drive a yemschik. "

"It is meet, " answered Paul simply, "for one man to help another. "

Then this man of deeds and not of words clambered into the sleigh anddrew up the windows, hiding his head as he drove through his ownvillage, where every man was dependent for life and being on hischarity. 

They were silent, for the ladies were tired and cold. 

"We shall soon be there, " said Paul reassuringly. But he did not lowerthe windows and look out, as any man might have wished to do onreturning to the place of his birth. 

Maggie sat back, wrapped in her furs. She was meditating over the eventsof the day, and more particularly over a certain skill, a quickness oftouch, a deft handling of stricken men which she had noted far out onthe snowy steppe a few hours earlier. Paul was a different man when hehad to deal with pain and sickness; he was quicker, brighter, full ofconfidence in himself. For the great sympathy was his--that love of theneighbor which is thrown like a mantle over the shoulders of some men, making them different from their fellows, securing to them that love ofgreat and small which, perchance, follows some when they are dead tothat place where a human testimony may not be all in vain. 

At the castle all was in readiness for the prince and princess, theirdeparture from Tver having been telegraphed. On the threshold of thegreat house, before she had entered the magnificent hall, Etta's eyesbrightened, her fatigue vanished. She played her part before the crowdof bowing servants with that forgetfulness of mere bodily fatigue whichis expected of princesses and other great ladies. She swept up the broadstaircase, leaning on Paul's arm, with a carriage, a presence, adazzling wealth of beauty, which did not fail to impress the onlookers. Whatever Etta may have failed to bring to Paul Howard Alexis as a wife, she made him a matchless princess. 

He led her straight through the drawing-room to the suite of rooms whichwere hers. These consisted of an ante-room, a small drawing-room, andher private apartments beyond. 

Paul stopped in the drawing-room, looking round with a simplesatisfaction in all that had been done by his orders for Etta's comfort. 

"These, " he said, "are your rooms. "

He was no adept at turning a neat phrase--at reeling off a prettyhoneymoon welcome. Perhaps he expected her to express delight, to cometo him, possibly, and kiss him, as some women would have done. 

She looked round critically. 

"Yes, " she said, "they are very nice. "

She crossed the room and drew aside the curtain that covered thedouble-latticed windows. The room was so warm that there was no rime onthe panes. She gave a little shudder, and he went to her side, puttinghis strong, quiet arm around her. 

Below them, stretching away beneath the brilliant moonlight, lay thecountry that was his inheritance, an estate as large as a large Englishcounty. Immediately beneath them, at the foot of the great rock uponwhich the castle was built, nestled the village of Osterno--straggling, squalid. 

"Oh!" she said dully, "this is Siberia; this is terrible!"

It had never presented itself to him in that light, the wonderfulstretch of country over which they were looking. 

"It is not so bad, " he said, "in the daylight. "

And that was all; for he had no persuasive tongue. 

"That is the village, " he went on, after a little pause. "Those are thepeople who look to us to help them in their fight against terrible odds. I hoped--that you would be interested in them. "

She looked down curiously at the little wooden huts, half-buried in thesnow; the smoking chimneys; the twinkling, curtainless windows. 

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked in a queer voice. 

He looked at her in a sort of wonderment. Perhaps it seemed to him thata woman should have no need to ask such a question. 

"It is a long story, " he said; "I will tell you about it another time. You are tired now, after your journey. "

His arm slipped from her waist. They stood side by side. And both wereconscious of a feeling of difference. They were not the same as they hadbeen in London. The atmosphere of Russia seemed to have had some subtleeffect upon them. 

Etta turned and sat slowly down on a low chair before the fire. She hadthrown her furs aside, and they lay in a luxurious heap on the floor. The maids, hearing that the prince and princess were together, waitedsilently in the next room behind the closed door. 

"I think I had better hear it now, " said Etta. 

"But you are tired, " protested her husband. "You had better rest untildinner-time. "

"No; I am not tired. "

He came toward her and stood with one elbow on the mantel-piece, lookingdown at her--a quiet, strong man, who had already forgotten his feat ofendurance of a few hours earlier. 

"These people, " he said, "would die of starvation and cold and sicknessif we did not help them. It is simply impossible for them in the fewmonths that they can work the land to cultivate it so as to yield anymore than their taxes. They are overtaxed, and no one cares. The armymust be kept up and a huge Civil Service, and no one cares what happensto the peasants. Some day the peasants _must_ turn, but not yet. It is aquestion for all Russian land-owners to face, and nobody faces it. Ifany one tries to improve the condition of his peasants--they werehappier a thousand times as serfs--the bureaucrats of Petersburg markhim down and he is forced to leave the country. The whole fabric of thisGovernment is rotten, but every-one, except the peasants, would sufferby its fall, and therefore it stands. "

Etta was staring into the fire. It was impossible to say whether sheheard with comprehension or not. Paul went on:

"There is nothing left, therefore, but to go and do good by stealth. Istudied medicine with that view. Steinmetz has scraped and economizedthe working of the estate for the same purpose. The Government will notallow us to have a doctor; they prevent us from organizing relief andeducation on anything like an adequate scale. They do it all byunderhand means. They have not the pluck to oppose us openly! For yearswe have been doing what we can. We have almost eradicated cholera. Theydo not die of starvation now. And they are learning--very slowly, butstill they are learning. We--I--thought you might be interested in yourpeople; you might want to help. "

She gave a short little nod. There was a suggestion of suspense in herwhole being and attitude, as if she were waiting to hear something whichshe knew could not be avoided. 

"A few years ago, " he went on, "a gigantic scheme was set on foot. Itold you a little about it--the Charity League. "

Her lips moved, but no sound came from them, so she nodded a secondtime. A tiny carriage-clock on the mantel-piece struck seven, and shelooked up in a startled way, as if the sound had frightened her. Thecastle was quite still. Silence seemed to brood over the old walls. 

"That fell through, " he went on, "as I told you. It was betrayed. StépanLanovitch was banished. He has escaped, however; Steinmetz has seen him. He succeeded in destroying some of the papers before the place wassearched after the robbery--one paper in particular. If he had notdestroyed that, I should have been banished. I was one of the leaders ofthe Charity League. Steinmetz and I got the thing up. It would have beenfor the happiness of millions of peasants if it had not been betrayed. In time--we shall find out who did it. "

He paused. He did not say what he would do when he had found out. 

Etta was staring into the fire. Her lips were dry. She hardly seemed tobe breathing. 

"It is possible, " he went on in his strong, quiet, inexorable voice, "that Stépan Lanovitch knows now. "

Etta did not move. She was staring into the fire--staring--staring. 

Then she slowly fainted, rolling from the low chair to the furhearth-rug. 

Paul picked her up like a child and carried her to the bedroom, wherethe maids were waiting to dress her. 

"Here, " he said, "your mistress has fainted from the fatigue of thejourney. "

And, with his practised medical knowledge, he himself tended her. 

CHAPTER XXV

OSTERNO

"Always gay; always gay!" laughed Steinmetz, rubbing his broad handstogether and looking down into the face of Maggie, who was busy at thebreakfast-table. 

"Yes, " answered the girl, glancing toward Paul, leaning against thewindow reading his letters. "Yes, always gay. Why not?"

Karl Steinmetz saw the glance. It was one of the little daily incidentsthat one sees and half forgets. He only half forgot it. 

"Why not, indeed?" he answered. "And you will be glad to hear thatIvanovitch is as ready as yourself this morning to treat the matter as ajoke. He is none the worse for his freezing, and all the better for hisexperience. You have added another friend, my dear young lady, to a listwhich is, doubtless, a very long one. "

"He is a nice man, " answered Maggie. "How is it, " she asked, after alittle pause, "that there are more men in the lower classes whom one cancall nice than among their betters?"

Paul paused between two letters, hearing the question. He looked up asif interested in the answer, but did not join in the conversation. 

"Because dealing with animals and with nature is more conducive toniceness than too much trafficking with human beings, " replied Steinmetzpromptly. 

"I suppose that is it, " said Maggie, lifting the tea-pot lid and lookingin. "At all events, it is the sort of answer one might expect from you. You are always hard on human nature. "

"I take it as I find it, " replied Steinmetz, with a laugh, "but I do notworry about it like some people. Now, Paul would like to alter thecourse of the world. "

As he spoke he half turned toward Paul, as if suggesting that he shouldgive an opinion, and this little action had the effect of putting a stopto the conversation. Maggie had plenty to say to Steinmetz, but towardPaul her mental attitude was different. She was probably unaware of thislittle fact. 

"There, " she said, after a pause, "I have obeyed Etta's instructions. She does not want us to begin, I suppose?"

"No, " replied Paul. "She will be down in a minute. "

"I hope the princess is not overtired, " said Steinmetz, with a certainformal politeness which seemed to accompany any mention of Etta's name. 

"Not at all, thank you, " replied Etta herself, coming into the room atthat moment. She looked fresh and self-confident. "On the contrary, I amfull of energy and eagerness to explore the castle. One naturally takesan interest in one's baronial halls. "

With this she walked slowly across to the window. She stood therelooking out, and every one in the room was watching. On looking for thefirst time on the same view, a few moments earlier, Maggie had uttered alittle cry of surprise, and had then remained silent. Etta looked out ofthe window and said nothing. It was a most singular out-look--weird, uncouth, prehistoric, as some parts of the earth still are. The castlewas built on the edge of a perpendicular cliff. On this side it wasimpregnable. Any object dropped from the breakfast-room window wouldfall a clear two hundred feet to the brawling Oster River. The rock wasblack, and shining like the topmost crags of an Alpine mountain wheresnow and ice have polished the bare stone. Beyond and across the riverlay the boundless steppe--a sheet of virgin snow. 

Etta stood looking over this to the far horizon, where the white snowand the gray sky softly merged into one. Her first remark wascharacteristic, as first and last remarks usually are. 

"And as far as you can see is yours?" she asked. 

"Yes, " answered Paul simply, with that calm which only comes withhereditary possession. 

The observation attracted Steinmetz's attention. He went to anotherwindow, and looked across the waste critically. 

"Four times as far as we can see is his, " he said. 

Etta looked out slowly and comprehensively, absorbing it all like along, sweet drink. There was no hereditary calmness in her sense ofpossession. 

"And where is Thors?" she asked. 

Paul stretched out his arm, pointing with a lean, steady finger:

"It lies out there, " he answered. 

Another of the little incidents that are only half forgotten. Some ofthe persons assembled in that room remembered the pointing finger longafterward. 

"It makes one feel very small, " said Etta, turning to thebreakfast-table--"at no time a pleasant sensation. Do you know, " shesaid, after a little pause, "I think it probable that I shall becomevery fond of Osterno, but I wish it was nearer to civilization. "

Paul looked pleased. Steinmetz had a queer expression on his face. Maggie murmured something about one's surroundings making but littledifference to one's happiness, and the subject was wisely shelved. 

After breakfast Steinmetz withdrew. 

"Now, " said Paul, "shall I show you the old place, you and Maggie?"

Etta signified her readiness, but Maggie said that she had letters towrite, that Etta could show her the castle another time, when the menwere out shooting, perhaps. 

"But, " said Etta, "I shall do it horribly badly. They are not myancestors, you know. I shall attach the stories to the wrong people, andlocate the ghost in the wrong room. You will be wise to take Paul'sguidance. "

"No, thank you, " replied Maggie, quite firmly and frankly. "I feelinclined to write; and the feeling is rare, so I must take advantage ofit. "

The girl looked at her cousin with something in her honest blue eyesthat almost amounted to wonder. Etta was always surprising her. Therewas a whole gamut of feeling, an octave of callow, half-formed girlishinstincts, of which Etta seemed to be deprived. If she had ever hadthem, no trace was left of their whilom presence. At first Maggie hadflatly refused to come to Russia. When Paul pressed her to do so, sheaccepted with a sort of wonder. There was something which she did notunderstand. 

The same instinct made her refuse now to accompany Paul and Etta overtheir new home. Again Etta pressed her, showing her lack of some feelingwhich Maggie indefinitely knew she ought to have had. This time Paulmade no sign. He added no word to Etta's persuasions, but stood gravelylooking at his wife. 

When the door had closed behind them, Maggie stood for some minutes bythe window looking out over the snow-clad plain, the rugged, brokenrocks beneath her. 

Then she turned to the writing-table. She resolutely took pen and paper, but the least thing seemed to distract her attention--the coronet on thenote-paper cost her five minutes of far-off reflection. She took up thepen again, and wrote "Dear Mother. "

The room grew darker. Maggie looked up. The snow had begun again. It wasdriving past the window with a silent, purposeful monotony. The girldrew the writing-case toward her. She examined the pen critically anddipped it into the ink. But she added nothing to the two words alreadywritten. 

The castle of Osterno is almost unique in the particular that one roofcovers the ancient and the modern buildings. The vast reception-rooms, worthy of the name of state-rooms, adjoin the small stone-builtapartments of the fortress which Paul's ancestors held against theTartars. This grimmer side of the building Paul reserved to the last forreasons of his own, and Etta's manifest delight in the grandeur of themore modern apartments fully rewarded him. Here, again, that side of hercharacter manifested itself which has already been shown. She wasdazzled and exhilarated by the splendor of it all, and the immediateeffect was a feeling of affection toward the man to whom this belonged;who was in act, if not in word, laying it at her feet. 

When they passed from the lofty rooms to the dimmer passages of the oldcastle Etta's spirits visibly dropped, her interest slackened. He toldher of tragedies enacted in by-gone times--such ancient tales of violentdeath and broken hearts as attach themselves to gray stone walls anddungeon keeps. She only half listened, for her mind was busy with thesplendors they had left behind, with the purposes to which suchsplendors could be turned. And the sum total of her thoughts wasgratified vanity. 

Her bright presence awakened the gloom of ages within the dimly lithistoric rooms. Her laugh sounded strangely light and frivolous andshallow in the silence of the ages which had brooded within these wallssince the days of Tamerlane. It was perhaps the greatest tragedy of theAlexis family, this beautiful tragedy that walked by the side of Paul. 

"I am glad your grandfather brought French architects here and built themodern side, " she said. "These rooms are, of course, very interesting, but gloomy--horribly gloomy, Paul. There is a smell of ghosts anddulness. "

"All the same, I like these rooms, " answered Paul. "Steinmetz and I usedto live entirely on this side of the house. This is the smoking-room. Weshot those bears, and all the deer. That is a wolf's head. He killed akeeper before I finished him off. "

Etta looked at her husband with a curious little smile. She sometimesfelt proud of him, despite the ever present knowledge that, intellectually speaking, she was his superior. There was somethingstrong and simple and manly in a sort of mediaeval way that pleased herin this big husband of hers. 

"And how did you finish him off?" she asked. 

"I choked him. That bear knocked me down, but Steinmetz shot him. Wewere four days out in the open after that elk. This is a lynx--a queerface--rather like De Chauxville; the dogs killed him. "

"But why do you not paper the room, " asked Etta, with a shiver, "insteadof this gloomy panelling? It is so mysterious and creepy. Quitesuggestive of secret passages. "

"There are no secret passages, " answered Paul. "But there is a roombehind here. This is the door. I will show it to you presently. I havethings in there I want to show you. I keep all my medicines andappliances in there. It is our secret surgery and office. In that roomthe Charity League was organized. "

Etta turned away suddenly and went to the narrow window, where she saton a low window-seat, looking down into the snow-clad depths. 

"I did not know you were a doctor, " she said. 

"I doctor the peasants, " replied Paul, "in a rough-and-ready way. I tookmy degree on purpose. But, of course, they do not know that it is I;they think I am a doctor from Moscow. I put on an old coat, and wear ascarf, so that they cannot see my face. I only go to them at night. Itwould never do for the Government to know that we attempt to do good tothe peasants. We have to keep it a secret even from the peoplethemselves. And they hate us. They groan and hoot when we drive throughthe village. But they never attempt to do us any harm; they are too muchafraid of us. "

When Etta rose and came toward him her face was colorless. 

"Let me see this room, " she said. 

He opened the door and followed her into the apartment, which hasalready been described. Here he told further somewhat bald details ofthe work he had attempted to do. It is to be feared that he made neitheran interesting nor a romantic story of it. There were too manydetails--too much statistic, and no thrilling realism whatever. Theexperiences of a youthful curate in Bethnal Green would have made hightragedy beside the tale that this man told his wife of the land uponwhich God has assuredly laid His curse--Aceldama, the field of blood. 

Etta listened, and despite herself she became interested. She wassitting in a chair usually occupied by Steinmetz. There was a faintaroma of tobacco-smoke. The atmosphere of the room was manly andenergetic. 

Paul showed her his simple stores of medicine--the old coat saturatedwith disinfectants which had become the recognized outward sign of theMoscow doctor. 

"And do other people, other noblemen, try to do this sort of thing too?"asked Etta at length. 

"Catrina Lanovitch does, " replied Paul. 

"What? The girl with the hair?"

"Yes, " answered Paul. He had never noticed Catrina's hair. Etta'sappraising eye had seen more in one second than Paul had perceived intwenty years. 

"Yes, " he answered. "But, of course, she is handicapped. "

"By her appearance?"

"No; by her circumstances. Her name is sufficient to handicap her everymoment in this country. But she does a great deal. She--she found meout, confound her!"

Etta had risen; she was looking curiously at the cupboard where Paul'sinfected clothes were hanging. He had forbidden her to go near it. Sheturned and looked at him. 

"Found you out! How?" she asked, with a queer smile. 

"Saw through my disguise. "

"Yes--she would do that!" said Etta aloud to herself. 

"What is this door?" she asked, after a pause. 

"It leads to an inner room, " replied Paul, "where Steinmetz usuallyworks. "

He passed in front of her and opened the door. As he was doing so Ettawent on in the train of her thoughts:

"So Catrina knows?"

"Yes. "

"And no one else?"

Paul made no answer; for he had passed on into the smaller room, whereSteinmetz was seated at a writing-table. 

"Except, of course, Herr Steinmetz?" Etta went on interrogatively. 

"Madame, " said the German, looking up with his pleasant smile, "I know_every thing_. "

And he went on writing. 

CHAPTER XXVI

BLOODHOUNDS

The table d'hôte of the Hôtel de Moscou at Tver had just begun. The souphad been removed; the diners were engaged in igniting their firstcigarette at the candles placed between each pair of them for thatpurpose. By nature the modern Russian is a dignified and somewhatreserved gentleman. By circumstance he has been schooled into a state ofguarded unsociability. If there is a seat at a public table convenientlyremoved from those occupied by earlier arrivals the new-comer invariablytakes it. In Russia one converses--as in Scotland one jokes--withdifficulty. 

A Russian table d'hôte is therefore any thing but hilarious in itstendency. A certain number of grave-faced gentlemen and a fewbroad-jowled ladies are visibly constrained by the force of circumstanceto dine at the same table and hour, et voilà tout. There is no pretencethat any more sociable and neighborly motive has brought them together. Indeed, they each suspect the other of being a German, or a Nihilist, or, worse still, a Government servant. They therefore sit as far apartas possible, and smoke cigarettes between and during the courses withthat self-centred absorption which would be rude, if it were notentirely satisfactory, to the average Briton. The ladies, of course, have the same easy method of showing a desire for silence and reflectionin a country where nurses carrying infants usually smoke in the streets, and where a dainty confectioner's assistant places her cigarette betweenher lips in order to leave her hands free for the service of hercustomers. 

The table d'hôte of the Hôtel de Moscou at Tver was no exception to thegeneral rule. In Russia, by the way, there are no exceptions to generalrules. The personal habits of the native of Cronstadt differ in no wayfrom those of the Czar's subject living in Petropavlovsk, eight thousandmiles away. 

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 totime, while the host himself smiled broadly upon them all from that endof the room where the lift and the smell of cooking exercise theircalling--the one to spoil the appetite, the other to pander to it whenspoilt. 

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 whatwas 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 usethe word bon in its English sense of "good. "

M. Vassili was evidently desirous of attracting as little attention ascircumstances would allow. He was obviously doing his best to look likeone who travelled in the interest of braid or buttons. Moreover, whenClaude de Chauxville entered the table d'hôte room, he concealedwhatever 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 cookprofessing a knowledge of French _cuisine_ without taking anycompromising notice of each other. When the meal was over Vassiliinscribed the number of his bedroom in large figures on the label of hisbottle of St. Emilion--after the manner of wise commercial-travellers incontinental hotels. He subsequently turned the bottle round so thatClaude de Chauxville could scarcely fail to read the number, and with avague and general bow he left the room. 

In his apartment the genial Vassili threw more wood into the stove, drewforward the two regulation arm-chairs, and lighted all the candlesprovided. He then rang the bell and ordered liqueurs. There wasevidently something in the nature of an entertainment about to takeplace in apartment No. 44 of the Hôtel de Moscou. 

Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of the expectedvisitor. 

"Entrez!" cried Vassili; and De Chauxville stood before him, with asmile which in French is called crâne. 

"A pleasure, " said Vassili, behind his wooden face, "that I did notanticipate in Tver. "

"And consequently one that carries its own mitigation. An unanticipatedpleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune. I make no doubt that you weresorry to see me. "

"On the contrary. Will you sit?"

"I can hardly believe, " went on De Chauxville, taking the profferedchair, "that my appearance was opportune--on the principle, ha! ha! thata flower growing out of place is a weed. Gentlemen of the--eh--HomeOffice prefer, I know, to travel quietly!" He spread out his expressivehands 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 theRussian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, "especially if it happento be not quite obscure; but between friends, my dear baron--betweenfriends. "

"Yes. Then what are you doing in Tver?" enquired De Chauxville, withengaging frankness. 

"Ah, that is a long story. But I will tell you--never fear--I will tellyou on the usual terms. "

"Viz?" enquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette. 

Vassili accepted the match with a bow, and did likewise. He blew aguileless cloud of smoke toward the dingy ceiling. 

"Exchange, my dear baron, exchange. "

"Oh, certainly, " replied De Chauxville, who knew that Vassili was in allprobability fully informed as to his movements past and prospective. "Iam 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 hiscigarette, as much as to say, "Why ask?"

De Chauxville looked at his companion keenly. He was wondering whetherthis man knew that he--Claude de Chauxville--loved Etta Howard Alexis, and consequently hated her husband. He was wondering how much or howlittle this impenetrable individual knew and suspected. 

"I have always said, " observed Vassili suddenly, "that for unmitigatedimpertinence 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 featherreflected. 

Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his forefinger. 

"It was I, " he said, "who crushed that very dangerous movement--theCharity League. "

"I know it. "

"A movement, my dear baron, to educate the moujik, if you please. Tofeed 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 betreated as such. Let him work. If he will not work, let him starve anddie. "

"The man who cannot contribute toward the support of those above him inlife is superfluous, " said De Chauxville glibly. 

"Precisely. Now, my dear baron, listen to me!" The genial Vassili leanedforward and tapped with one finger on the knee of De Chauxville, as ifknocking 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 favorfrom Vassili for the moment, and the manner of the latter was verging onthe familiar. 

"The woman--who--sold--me--the Charity League papers dined at my housein Paris--a fortnight ago, " said Vassili, with a staccato tap on hiscompanion's knee by way of emphasis to each word. 

"Then, my friend, I cannot--congratulate--you--on the society--in--whichyou 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 withher--eh--husband--the Prince Paul Howard Alexis. "

This was news indeed. De Chauxville leaned back and passed his slimwhite hand across his brow with a slow pressure, as if wiping somewriting from a slate--as if his forehead bore the writing of histhoughts and he was wiping it away. And the thoughts he thusconcealed--who can count them? For thoughts are the quickest and thelongest and the saddest things of this life. The first thought was thatif he had known this three months earlier he could have made Etta marryhim. And that thought had a thousand branches. With Etta for his wife hemight have been a different man. One can never tell what the effect ofan acquired desire may be. One can only judge by analogy, and it wouldseem that it is a frustrated desire that makes the majority of villains. 

But the news coming, thus too late, only served an evil purpose. For inthat flash of thought Claude de Chauxville saw Paul's secrets given tohim; Paul's wealth meted out to him; Paul in exile; Paul dead inSiberia, where death comes easily; Paul's widow Claude de Chauxville'swife. He wiped all the thoughts away, and showed to Vassili a face thatwas as composed and impertinent as usual. 

"You said 'her--eh--husband, '" he observed. "Why? Why did you add thatlittle 'eh, ' my friend?"

Vassili rose and walked to the door that led through into his bedroomfrom the salon in which they were sitting. It was possible to enter thebedroom from another door and overhear any conversation that might bepassing in the sitting-room. The investigation was apparentlysatisfactory, for the Russian came back. But he did not sit down. Instead, he stood leaning against the tall china stove. 

"Needless to tell you, " he observed, "the antecedents of the--princess. "

"Quite needless. "

"Married seven years ago to Charles Sydney Bamborough, " promptly givingthe unnecessary information which was not wanted. 

De Chauxville nodded. 

"Where is Sydney Bamborough?" asked Vassili, with his mask-like smile. 

"Dead, " replied the other quietly. 

"Prove it. "

De Chauxville looked up sharply. The cigarette dropped from his fingersto the floor. His face was yellow and drawn, with a singular tremble ofthe lips, which were twisted to one side. 

"Good God!" he whispered hoarsely. 

There was only one thought in his mind--a sudden wild desire to rise upand stand by Etta against the whole world. Verily we cannot tell whatlove may make of us, whither it may lead us. We only know that it neverleaves us as it found us. 

Then, leaning quietly against the stove, Vassili stated his case. 

"Rather more than a year ago, " he said, "I received an offer of thepapers connected with a great scheme in this country. After certainenquiries had been made I accepted the offer. I paid a fabulous pricefor the papers. They were brought to me by a lady wearing a thickveil--a lady I had never seen before. I asked no questions, and paid herthe money. It subsequently transpired that the papers had been stolen, as you perhaps know, from the house of Count Stépan Lanovitch--the houseto which you happen to be going--at Thors. Well, that is all ancienthistory. It is to be supposed that the papers were stolen by SydneyBamborough, who brought them here--probably to this hotel, where hiswife was staying. He handed her the papers, and she conveyed them to mein Paris. But before she reached Petersburg they would have been missedby Stépan Lanovitch, who would naturally suspect the man who had beenstaying in his house, Bamborough--a man with a doubtful reputation inthe diplomatic world, a professed doer of dirty jobs. Foreseeing this, and knowing that the League was a big thing, with a few violent memberson its books, Sydney Bamborough did not attempt to leave Russia by thewestern route. He probably decided to go through Nijni, down the Volga, across the Caspian, and so on to Persia and India. You follow me?"

"Perfectly!" answered De Chauxville coldly. 

"I have been here a week, " went on the Russian spy, "making enquiries. Ihave worked the whole affair out, link by link, till the evening whenthe husband and wife parted. She went west with the papers. Where did hego?"

De Chauxville picked up the cigarette, looked at it curiously, as at arelic--the relic of the moment of strongest emotion through which he hadever passed--and threw it into the ash-tray. He did not speak, andafter a moment Vassili went on, stating his case with lawyer-likeclearness. 

"A body was found on the steppe, " he said; "the body of a middle-agedman dressed as a small commercial traveller would dress. He had a littlemoney in his pocket, but nothing to identify him. He was buried here inTver by the police, who received their information by an anonymouspost-card posted in Tver. The person who had found the body did not wantto be implicated in any enquiry. Now, who found the body? Who was thedead man? Mrs. Sydney Bamborough has assumed that the dead man was herhusband; on the strength of that assumption she has become a princess. Afrail foundation upon which to build up her fortunes, eh?"

"How did she know that the body had been found?" asked De Chauxville, perceiving the weak point in his companion's chain of argument. 

"It was reported shortly in the local newspapers, " replied Vassili, "andrepeated in one or two continental journals, as the police were ofopinion that the man was a foreigner. Any one watching the newspaperswould see it--otherwise the incident might pass unobserved. "

"And you think, " said De Chauxville, suppressing his excitement with aneffort, "that the lady has risked every thing upon a supposition?"

"Knowing the lady, I do. "

De Chauxville's dull eyes gleamed for a moment with an unwonted light. All the civilization of the ages will not eradicate the primaryinstincts of men--and one of these, in good and bad alike, is to protectwomen. The Frenchman bit the end of his cigarette, and angrily wiped thetobacco from his lips. 

"She may have information of which you are ignorant, " he suggested. 

"Precisely. It is that particular point which gives me trouble at thepresent moment. It is that that I wish to discover. "

De Chauxville looked up coolly. He saw his advantage. 

"Hence your sudden flow of communicativeness?" he said. 

Vassili nodded. 

"You cannot find out for yourself, so you seek my help?" went on theFrenchman. 

Again the Russian nodded his head. 

"And your price?" said De Chauxville, drawing in his feet and leaningforward, apparently to study the pattern of the carpet. The actionconcealed his face. He was saving Etta, and he was ashamed of himself. 

"When you have the information you may name your own price, " said theRussian coldly. 

There was a long silence. Before speaking De Chauxville turned and tooka glass of liqueur from the table. His hand was not quite steady. Heraised the glass quickly and emptied it. Then he rose and looked at hiswatch. The silence was a compact. 

"When the lady dined with you in Paris, did she recognize you?" heasked. 

"Yes; but she did not know that I recognized her. "

For the moment they both overlooked Steinmetz. 

De Chauxville stood reflecting. 

"And your theory, " he said, "respecting Sydney Bamborough--what is it?"

"If he got away to Nijni and the Volga, it is probable that he is inEastern Siberia or in Persia at this moment. He has not had time to getright across Asia yet. "

De Chauxville moved toward the door. With his fingers on the handle hepaused again. 

"I leave early to-morrow morning, " he said. 

Vassili nodded, or rather he bowed, in his grand way. 

Then De Chauxville went out of the room. They did not shake hands. Thereis sometimes shame among thieves. 

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE WEB

"What I propose is that Catrina takes you for a drive, my dear baron, with her two ponies. "

The countess had taken very good care to refrain from making thisproposal to Catrina alone. She was one of those mothers who rule theirdaughters by springing surprises upon them in a carefully selectedcompany where the daughter is not free to reply. 

De Chauxville bowed with outspread hands. 

"If it will not bore mademoiselle, " he replied. 

The countess looked at her daughter with an unctuous smile, as if tourge her on to make the most of this opportunity. It was one of thecountess's chief troubles that she could not by hook or crook involveCatrina in any sort of a love intrigue. She was the sort of mother whowould have preferred to hear scandal about her daughter to hearingnothing. 

"If it will not freeze monsieur, " replied Catrina, with uncompromisinghonesty. 

De Chauxville laughed in his frank way. 

"I am not afraid of coldness--of the atmosphere, mademoiselle, " hereplied. "I am most anxious to see your beautiful country. It was quitedark during the last hour of my journey last night, and I hadsnow-sleepiness. I saw nothing. "

"You will see nothing but snow, " said Catrina. 

"Which is like the reserve of a young girl, " added the Frenchman. "Itkeeps warm that which is beneath it. "

"You need not be afraid with Catrina, " chimed in the countess, noddingand becking in a manner that clearly showed her assumption to herself ofsome vague compliment. "She drives beautifully. She is not nervous inthat way. I have never seen any one drive like her. "

"I have no doubt, " said De Chauxville, "that mademoiselle's hands arefirm, despite their diminutiveness. "

The countess was charmed--and showed it. She frowned at Catrina, whoremained grave and looked at the clock. 

"When would you like to go?" she asked De Chauxville, with that completeabsence of affectation which the Russian, of all women of the world, alone have mastered in their conversation with men. 

"Am I not at your service--now and always?" responded the gallant baron. 

"I hope not, " replied Catrina quietly. "There are occasions when I haveno use for you. Shall we say eleven o'clock?"

"With pleasure. Then I will go and write my letters now, " said thebaron, quitting the room. 

"A charming man!" ejaculated the countess, before the door was wellclosed. 

"A fool!" corrected Catrina. 

"I do not think you can say that, dear, " sighed the countess, more insorrow than in anger. 

"A clever one, " answered Catrina. "There is a difference. The cleverones are the worst. "

The countess shrugged her shoulders hopelessly, and Catrina left theroom. She went upstairs to her own little den, where the piano stood. Itwas the only room in the house that was not too warm, for here thewindow was occasionally opened--a proceeding which the countessconsidered scarcely short of criminal. 

Catrina began to play, feverishly, nervously, with all the weird forceof her nature. She was like a very sick person seeking a desperateremedy--racing against time. It was her habit to take her breaking heartthus to the great masters, to interpret their thoughts in their music, welding their melodies to the needs of her own sorrow. She only had halfan hour. Of late music had failed her a little. It had not given her thecomfort she had usually extracted from solitude and the piano. She wasin a dangerous humor. She was afraid of trusting herself to DeChauxville. The time fled, and her humor did not change. She was stillplaying when the door opened, and the countess stood before her flushedand angry, either or both being the effect of stairs upon emotion. 

"Catrina!" the elder lady exclaimed. "The sleigh is at the door, and thecount is waiting. I cannot tell what you are thinking of. It is notevery-body who would be so attentive to you. Just look at your hair. Whycan't you dress like other girls?"

"Because I am not made like other girls, " replied Catrina--and who knowswhat bitterness of reproach there was in such an answer from daughter tomother?

"Hush, child, " replied the countess, whose anger usually took the formof personal abuse. "You are as the good God made you. "

"Then the good God must have made me in the dark, " cried Catrina, flinging out of the room. 

"She will be down directly, " said the Countess Lanovitch to DeChauxville, whom she found smoking a cigarette in the hall. "Shenaturally--he! he!--wishes to make a careful toilet. "

De Chauxville bowed gravely, without committing himself to anyobservation, and offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. Havingachieved his purpose, he did not now propose to convey the impressionthat he admired Catrina. 

In a few moments the girl appeared, drawing on her fur gloves. Beforethe door was opened the countess discreetly retired to the enervatingwarmth of her own apartments. 

Catrina gathered up the reins and gave a little cry, at which the poniesleaped forward, and in a whirl of driven snow the sleigh glided offbetween the pines. 

At first there was no opportunity of conversation, for the ponies werefresh and troublesome. The road over which they were passing had notbeen beaten down by the passage of previous sleighs, so that the powderysnow rose up like dust, and filled the eyes and mouth. 

"It will be better presently, " gasped Catrina, wrestling with herfractious little Tartar thoroughbreds, "when we get out on to thehigh-road. "

De Chauxville sat quite still. If he felt any misgiving as to her powerof mastering her team he kept it to himself. There was a subtledifference in his manner toward Catrina when they were alone together, asuggestion of camaraderie, of a common interest and a common desire, ofwhich she was conscious without being able to put definite meaning toit. 

It annoyed and alarmed her. While giving her full attention to themanagement of the sleigh, she was beginning to dread the first words ofthis man, who was merely wielding a cheap power acquired in the shadycourse of his career. There is nothing so disarming as the assumed airof intimate knowledge of one's private thoughts and actions. DeChauxville assumed this air with a skill against which Catrina's doggedstrength of character was incapable of battling. His manner conveyed theimpression that he knew more of Catrina's inward thoughts than any otherliving being, and she was simple enough to be frightened into theconclusion that she had betrayed herself to him. There is no simplermethod of discovering a secret than to ignore its existence. 

It is possible that De Chauxville became aware of Catrina's sidelongglances of anxiety in his direction. He may have divined that silencewas more effective than speech. 

He sat looking straight in front of him, as if too deeply absorbed inhis own thoughts to take even a passing interest in the scenery. 

"Why did you come here?" asked Catrina suddenly. 

De Chauxville seemed to awake from a revery. He turned and looked at herin assumed surprise. They were on the high-road now, where the snow wasbeaten down, so conversation was easy. 

"But--to see you, mademoiselle. "

"I am not _that_ sort of girl, " answered Catrina coldly. "I want thetruth. "

De Chauxville gave a short laugh and looked at her. 

"Prophets and kings have sought the truth, mademoiselle, and have notfound it, " he said lightly. 

Catrina made no answer to this. Her ponies required considerableattention. Also, there are some minds like large banking houses--notdealing in small change. That which passes in or out of such minds hasits own standard of importance. Such people are not of much use in thesedays, when we like to touch things lightly, adorning a tale but pointingno moral. 

"I would ask you to believe that your society was one incentive to makeme accept the countess's kind hospitality, " the Frenchman observed aftera pause. 

"And?"

De Chauxville looked at her. He had not met many women of solidintellect. 

"And?" repeated Catrina. 

"I have others, of course. "

Catrina gave a little nod and waited. 

"I wish to be near Alexis, " added De Chauxville. 

Catrina was staring straight in front of her. Her face had acquired ahabit of hardening at the mention of Paul's name. It was stone-like now, and set. Perhaps she might have forgiven him if he had loved her once, if only for a little while. She might have forgiven him, if only for theremembrance of that little while. But Paul had always been a man of setpurpose, and such men are cruel. Even for her sake, even for the sake ofhis own vanity, he had never pretended to love Catrina. He had nevermistaken gratified vanity for dawning love, as millions of men do. Orperhaps he was without vanity. Some few men are so constructed. 

"Do you love him so?" asked Catrina, with a grim smile distorting herstrong face. 

"As much as you, mademoiselle, " replied De Chauxville. 

Catrina started. She was not sure that she hated Paul. Toward Etta, there was no mistake in her feeling, and this was so strong that, likean electric current, there was enough of it to pass through the wife andreach the husband. 

Passion, like character, does not grow in crowded places. In greatcities men are all more or less alike. It is only in solitary abodesthat strong natures grow up in their own way. Catrina had grown towomanhood in one of the solitary places of the earth. She had no facileaxiom, no powerful precedent, to guide her every step through life. Thewoman who was in daily contact with her was immeasurably beneath her inmental power, in force of character, in those possibilities of love orhatred which go to make a strong life for good or for evil. By the sideof her daughter the Countess Lanovitch was as the willow, swayed byevery wind, in the neighborhood of the oak, crooked and still andstrong. 

"In Petersburg you pledged yourself to help me, " said De Chauxville. Andalthough she knew that in the letter this was false, she did notcontradict him. "I came here to claim fulfilment of your promise. "

The hard blue eyes beneath the fur cap stared straight in front of them. Catrina seemed to be driving like one asleep, for she noted nothing bythe roadside. So far as eye could reach over the snow-clad plain, through the silent pines, these two were alone in a white, dead world oftheir own. Catrina never drove with bells. There was no sound beyond thehigh-pitched drone of the steel runners over the powdery snow. They werealone; unseen, unheard save of that Ear that listens in the waste placesof the world. 

"What do you want me to do?" she asked. 

"Oh, not very much!" answered De Chauxville--a cautious man, who knew awoman's humor. Catrina driving a pair of ponies in the clear, sharp airof Central Russia, and Catrina playing the piano in the enervating, flower-scented atmosphere of a drawing-room, were two different women. De Chauxville was not the man to mistake the one for the other. 

"Not very much, mademoiselle, " he answered. "I should like Mme. LaComtesse to invite the whole Osterno party to dine, and sleep, perhaps, if one may suggest it. "

Catrina wanted this too. She wanted to torture herself with the sight ofEtta, beautiful, self-confident, carelessly cognizant of Paul's love. She wanted to see Paul look at his wife with the open admiration whichshe had set down as something else than love--something immeasurablybeneath love as Catrina understood that passion. Her soul, broodingunder a weight of misery, was ready to welcome any change, should itonly mean a greater misery. 

"I can manage that, " she said, "if they will come. It was a prearrangedmatter that there should be a bear-hunt in our forests. "

"That will do, " answered De Chauxville reflectively; "in a few days, perhaps, if it suits the countess. "

Catrina made no reply. After a pause she spoke again, in her strange, jerky way. 

"What will you gain by it?" she asked. 

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. 

"Who knows?" he answered. "There are many things I want to know; manyquestions which can be answered only by one's own observation. I want tosee them together. Are they happy?"

Catrina's face hardened. 

"If there is a God in heaven, and he hears our prayers, they ought notto be, " she replied curtly. 

"She looked happy enough in Petersburg, " said the Frenchman, who nevertold the truth for its own sake. Whenever he thought that Catrina'shatred needed stimulation he mentioned Etta's name. 

"There are other questions in my mind, " he went on, "some of which youcan answer, mademoiselle, if you care to. "

Catrina's face expressed no great willingness to oblige. 

"The Charity League, " said De Chauxville, looking at her keenly; "I havealways had a feeling of curiosity respecting it. Was, for instance, ourfriend the Prince Pavlo implicated in that unfortunate affair?"

Catrina flushed suddenly. She did not take her eyes from the ponies. Shewas conscious of the unwonted color in her cheeks, which was slowlydying away beneath her companion's relentless gaze. 

"You need not trouble to reply, mademoiselle, " said De Chauxville, withhis dark smile; "I am answered. "

Catrina pulled the ponies up with a jerk, and proceeded to turn theirwilling heads toward home. She was alarmed and disturbed. Nothing seemedto be safe from the curiosity of this man, no secret secure, noprevarication of the slightest avail. 

"There are other questions in my mind, " said De Chauxville quietly, "butnot now. Mademoiselle is no doubt tired. "

He leaned back, and when at length he spoke it was to give utterance tothe trite commonplace of which he made a conversational study. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

IN THE CASTLE OF THORS

A week later Catrina, watching from the window of her own small room, saw Paul lift Etta from the sleigh, and the sight made her clench herhands until the knuckles shone like polished ivory. 

She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. No one knew how she hadtried one dress after another since luncheon, alone in her two rooms, having sent her maid down stairs. No one knew the bitterness in thisgirl's heart as she contemplated her own reflection. 

She went slowly down stairs to the long, dimly lighted drawing-room. Asshe entered she heard her mother's cackling voice. 

"Yes, princess, " the countess was saying, "it is a quaint old house;little more than a fortified farm, I know. But my husband's family werealways strange. They seem always to have ignored the little comforts andelegancies of life. "

"It is most interesting, " answered Etta's voice, and Catrina steppedforward into the light. 

Formal greetings were exchanged, and Catrina saw Etta look anxiouslytoward the door through which she had just come. She thought that shewas looking for her husband. But it was Claude de Chauxville for whoseappearance Etta was waiting. 

Paul and Steinmetz entered at the same moment by another door, andCatrina, who was talking to Maggie in English, suddenly stopped. 

"Ah, Catrina, " said Paul, "we have broken new ground for you. There wasno track from here to Osterno through the forest. I made one thisafternoon, so you have no excuse for remaining away, now. "

"Thank you, " answered Catrina, withdrawing her cold hand hurriedly fromhis friendly grasp. 

"Miss Delafield, " went on Paul, "admires our country as much as you do. "

"I was just telling mademoiselle, " said Maggie, speaking French with anhonest English accent. 

Paul nodded, and left them together. 

"Yes, " the countess was saying at the other end of the gloomy room;"yes, we are greatly attached to Thors: Catrina, perhaps, more than I. Ihave some happy associations, and many sorrowful ones. But then--monDieu!--how isolated we are!"

"It is rather far from--anywhere, " acceded Etta, who was not attending, although she appeared to be interested. 

"Far! Princess, I often wonder how Paris and Thors can be in the sameworld! Before our--our troubles we used to live in Paris a portion ofthe year. At least I did, while my poor husband travelled about. He hada hobby, you know, poor man! Humanity was his hobby. I have always foundthat men who seek to do good to their fellows are never thanked. Haveyou noticed that? The human race is not grateful en gros. There is alittle gratitude in the individual, but none in the race. "

"None, " answered Etta absently. 

"It was so with the Charity League, " went on the countess volubly. Shepaused and looked round with her feeble eyes. 

"We are all friends, " she went on; "so it is safe to mention the CharityLeague, is it not?"

"No, " answered Steinmetz from the fire-place; "no, madame. There is onlyone friend to whom you may safely mention that. "

"Ah! Bad example!" exclaimed the countess playfully. "You are there! Idid not see you enter. And who is that friend?"

"The fair lady who looks at you from your mirror, " replied Steinmetz, with a face of stone. 

The countess laughed and shook her cap to one side. 

"Well, " she said, "I can do no harm in talking of such things, as I knownothing of them. My poor husband--my poor mistaken Stépan--placed noconfidence in his wife. And now he is in Siberia. I believe he works ina bootmaker's shop. I pity the people who wear the boots; but perhaps heonly puts in the laces. You hear, Paul? He placed no confidence in hiswife, and now he is in Siberia. Let that be a warning to you--eh, princess? I hope he tells you everything. "

"Put not your trust in princesses, " said Steinmetz from the hearth-rug, where he was still warming his hands, for he had driven Maggie over. "Itsays so in the Bible. "

"Princes, profane one!" exclaimed the countess with a laugh--"princes, not princesses!"

"It may be so. I bow to your superior literary attainments, " repliedSteinmetz, looking casually and significantly at a pile of yellow-backedforeign novels on a side-table. 

"No, " the countess went on, addressing her conversation to Etta; "no, myhusband--figure to yourself, princess--told me nothing. I never knewthat he was implicated in this great scheme. I do not know now who elsewas concerned in it. It was all so sudden, so unexpected, so terrible. It appears that he kept the papers in this very house--in that roomthrough there. It was his study--"

"My dear countess, silence!" interrupted Steinmetz at this moment, breaking into the conversation in his masterful way and enabling Etta toget away. Catrina, at the other end of the room, was listening, hard-eyed, breathless. It was the sight of Catrina's face that madeSteinmetz go forward. He had not been looking at Catrina, but at Etta, who was perfect in her composure and steady self-control. 

"Do you want to enter the boot trade also?" asked Steinmetz cheerfully, in a lowered voice. 

"Heaven forbid!" cried the countess. 

"Then let us talk of safer things. "

The short twilight was already brooding over the land. The room, lightedonly by small square windows, grew darker and darker until Catrina rangfor lamps. 

"I hate a dark room, " she said shortly to Maggie. 

When De Chauxville came in, a few minutes later, Catrina was at thepiano. The room was brilliantly lighted, and on the table gleamed andglittered the silver tea-things. The intermediate meal had been disposedof, but the samovar had been left alight, as is the habit at Russianafternoon teas. 

Catrina looked up when the Frenchman entered, but did not cease playing. 

"There is no need for introductions, I think, " said the countess. 

"We all know M. De Chauxville, " replied Paul quietly, and the two menexchanged a glance. 

De Chauxville shook hands with the new-comers, and, while the countessprepared tea for him, launched into a long description of thepreparations for the bear-hunt of the following day. He addressed hisremarks exclusively to Paul, as between enthusiasts andfellow-sportsmen. Gradually Paul thawed a little, and made one or twosuggestions which betrayed a deep knowledge and a dawning interest. 

"We shall only be three rifles, " said De Chauxville, "Steinmetz, you, and I; and I must ask you to bear in mind the fact that I am no shot--amere amateur, my dear prince. The countess has been good enough to leavethe whole matter in my hands. I have seen the keepers, and I havearranged that they come to-night at eleven o'clock to see us and toreport progress. They know of three bears, and are attempting to ringthem. "

The Frenchman was really full of information and enthusiasm. There weremany details upon which he required Paul's advice, and the two mentalked together with less constraint than they had hitherto done. DeChauxville had picked up a vast deal of technical matter, and handledhis little knowledge with a skill which bade fair to deprive it of itsproverbial danger. He presently left Steinmetz and the prince engaged ina controversy with the countess as to a meeting-place at theluncheon-hour. 

Maggie and Catrina were at the piano. Etta was looking at a book ofphotographs. 

"A charming house, princess, " said De Chauxville, in a voice that allcould hear while the music happened to be soft. But Catrina's music wasmore remarkable for strength than for softness. 

"Charming, " replied Etta. 

The music rose into a swelling burst of harmonious chords. 

"I must see you, princess, " said De Chauxville. 

Etta glanced across the room toward her husband and Steinmetz. 

"Alone, " added the Frenchman coolly. 

Etta turned a page of the album and looked critically into a photograph. 

"Must!" she said, with a little frown. 

"Must!" repeated De Chauxville. 

"A word I do not care about, " said Etta, with raised eyebrows. 

The music was soft again. 

"It is ten years since I held a rifle, " said De Chauxville. "Ah, madame, you do not know the excitement. I pity ladies, for they have nosport--no big game. "

"Personally, monsieur, " answered Etta, with a bright laugh, "I do notgrudge you your big game. Suppose you miss the bear, or whatever it maybe?"

"Then, " said De Chauxville, with a brave shrug of the shoulders, "it isthe turn of the bear. The excitement is his--the laugh is with him. "

Catrina's foot was upon the loud pedal again. 

"Nevertheless, madame, " said De Chauxville, "I make so bold as to usethe word. You perhaps know me well enough to be aware that I am rarelybold unless my ground is sure. "

"I should not boast of it, " answered Etta; "there is nothing to be proudof. It is easy enough to be bold if you are certain of victory. "

"When defeat would be intolerable, even a certain victory requires care!And I cannot afford to lose. "

"Lose what?" enquired Etta. 

De Chauxville looked at her, but he did not answer. The music was softagain. 

"I suppose that at Osterno you set no value upon a bear-skin, " he saidafter a pause. 

"We have many, " admitted Etta. "But I love fur, or trophies of anydescription. Paul has killed a great deal. "

"Ah!"

"Yes, " answered Etta, and the music rose again. "I should like to know, "she went on, "upon what assumption you make use of a word which does notoften--annoy me. "

"I have a good memory, madame. Besides, " he paused, looking round theroom, "there are associations within these walls which stimulate thememory. "

"What do you mean?" asked Etta, in a hard voice. The hand holding thealbum suddenly shook like a leaf in the wind. 

De Chauxville had stood upright, his hand at his mustache, after themanner of a man whose small-talk is exhausted. It would appear that hewas wondering how he could gracefully get away from the princess to payhis devoirs elsewhere. 

"I cannot tell you now, " he answered; "Catrina is watching us across thepiano. You must beware, madame, of those cold blue eyes. "

He moved away, going toward the piano, where Maggie was standing behindCatrina's chair. He was like a woman, inasmuch as he could not keep awayfrom his failures. 

"Are you advanced, Miss Delafield?" he asked, with his deferentiallittle bow. "Are you modern?"

"I am neither; I have no desire for even the cheapest form of notoriety. Why do you ask?" replied Maggie. 

"I was merely wondering whether we were to count you among our riflesto-morrow. One never knows what ladies will do next; not ladies--Iapologize--women. I suppose it is those who are not by birth ladies whoaspire to the proud name of women. The modern Woman--with a capitalW--is not a lady--n'est ce pas?"

"She does not mind your abuse, monsieur, " laughed Maggie. "So long asyou do not ignore her, she is happy. But you may set your mind at restas regards to-morrow. I have never let off a gun in my life, and I amsensible enough not to begin on bears. "

De Chauxville made a suitable reply, and remained by the piano talkingto the two young ladies until Etta rose and came toward them. He thencrossed to the other side of the room and engaged Paul in the discussionof further plans for the morrow. 

It was soon time to dress for dinner, and Etta was forced to forego theopportunity she sought to exchange a word alone with De Chauxville. Thatastute gentleman carefully avoided allowing her this opportunity. Heknew the value of a little suspense. 

During dinner and afterward, when at length the gentlemen came to thedrawing-room, the conversation was of a sporting tendency. Bears, bear-hunting, and bear stories held supreme sway. More than once DeChauxvilie returned to this subject. Twice he avoided Etta. 

In some ways this man was courageous. He delayed giving Etta heropportunity until there was a question of retiring to bed in view of theearly start required by the next day's arrangements. It had been finallysettled that the three younger ladies should drive over to a woodman'scottage at the far end of the forest, where luncheon was to be served. While this item of the programme was arranged De Chauxville lookedstraight at Etta across the table. 

At length she had the chance afforded to her, deliberately, by DeChauxville. 

"What did you mean?" she asked at once. 

"I have received information which, had I known it three months ago, would have made a difference in your life. "

"What difference?"

"I should have been your husband, instead of that thick-headed giant. "

Etta laughed, but her lips were for the moment colorless. 

"When am I to see you alone?"

Etta shrugged her shoulders. She had plenty of spirit. 

"Please do not be dramatic or mysterious; I am tired. Good-night. "

She rose and concealed a simulated yawn. 

De Chauxville looked at her with his sinister smile, and Etta suddenlysaw the resemblance which Paul had noted between this man and thegrinning mask of the lynx in the smoking-room at Osterno. 

"When?" repeated he. 

Etta shrugged her shoulders. 

"I wish to speak to you about the Charity League, " said De Chauxville. 

Etta's eyes dilated. She made a step or two away from him, but she cameback. 

"I shall not go to the luncheon to-morrow, if you care to leave the huntearly. "

De Chauxville bowed. 

CHAPTER XXIX

ANGLO-RUSSIAN

At bedtime Catrina went to Maggie's room with her to see that she hadall that she could desire. A wood fire was burning brightly in the openFrench stove; the room was lighted by lamps. It was warm and cheery. Asecond door led to the little music-room which Catrina had made her own, and beyond was her bedroom. 

Maggie had assured her hostess that she had every thing that she couldwish, and that she did not desire the services of Catrina's maid. Butthe Russian girl still lingered. She was slow to make friends--not shy, but diffident and suspicious. Her friendship once secured was a thingworth possessing. She was inclined to bestow it upon this quiet, self-contained English girl. In such matters the length of anacquaintance goes for nothing. A long acquaintanceship does notnecessarily mean friendship--one being the result of circumstance, theother of selection. 

"The princess knows Russian?" said Catrina suddenly. 

She was standing near the dressing-table, where she had been absentlyattending to the candles. She wheeled round and looked at Maggie, whowas hospitably sitting on a low chair near the fire. She was sorry forthe loneliness of this girl's life. She did not want her to go away justyet. There was another chair by the fire, inviting Catrina to indulge inthose maiden confidences which attach themselves to slippers andhair-brushings. 

Maggie looked up with a smile which slowly ebbed away. Catrina's remarkwas of the nature of a defiance. Her half-diffident rôle of hostess wassuddenly laid aside. 

"No; she does not, " answered the English girl. 

Catrina came forward, standing over Maggie, looking down at her witheyes full of antagonism. 

"Excuse me. I saw her understand a remark I made to one of the servants. She was not careful. I saw it distinctly. "

"I think you must be mistaken, " answered Maggie quietly. "She has beenin Russia before for a few weeks; but she did not learn the language. She told me so herself. Why should she pretend not to know Russian, ifshe does?"

Catrina made no answer. She sat heavily down in the vacant chair. Herattitudes were uncouth and strong--a perpetual source of tribulation tothe countess. She sat with her elbow on her knee, staring into the fire. 

"I did not mean to hate her; I did not want to, " she said. "If it hadbeen you, I should not have hated you. "

Maggie's clear eyes wavered for a moment. A faint color rose to herface. She leaned back so that the firelight did not reach her. There wasa silence, during which Maggie unclasped a bracelet with a little snapof the spring. Catrina did not hear the sound. She heard nothing. Shedid not appear to be aware of her surroundings. Maggie unclasped anotherbracelet noisily. She was probably regretting her former kindness ofmanner. Catrina had come too near. 

"Are you not judging rather hastily?" suggested Maggie, in a measuredvoice which heightened the contrast between the two. "I find it takessome time to discover whether one likes or dislikes new acquaintances. "

"Yes; but you English are so cold and deliberate. You do not know whatit is to hate--or to care. "

"Perhaps we do, " said Maggie; "but we say less about it. "

Catrina turned and looked at her with a queer smile. 

"Less!" she laughed. "Nothing--you say nothing. Paul is the same. I haveseen. I know. You have said nothing since you came to Thors. You havetalked and laughed; you have given opinions; you have spoken of manythings, but you have said nothing. You are the same as Paul--one neverknows. I know nothing about you. But I like you. You are her cousin?"

"Yes. "

"And I hate her!"

Maggie laughed. She was quite steady and loyal. 

"When you get to know her you will change, perhaps, " she said. 

"Perhaps I know her now better than you do!"

Maggie laughed in her cheery, practical way. 

"That seems hardly likely, considering that I have known her since wewere children. "

Catrina shrugged her shoulders in an honest if somewhat mannerlessrefusal to discuss the side issue. She returned to the main questionwith characteristic stubbornness. 

"I shall always hate her, " she said. "I am sorry she is your cousin. Ishall always regret that, and I shall always hate her. There issomething wrong about her--something none of you know except KarlSteinmetz. He knows every thing--Herr Steinmetz. "

"He knows a great deal, " admitted Maggie. 

"Yes; and that is why he is sad. Is it not so?"

Catrina sat staring into the fire, her strange, earnest eyes almostfierce in their concentration. 

"Did she pretend that she loved him at first?" she asked suddenly. 

Receiving no answer, she looked up and fixed her searching gaze on theface of her companion. Maggie was looking straight in front of her inthe direction of the fire, but not with eyes focussed to see any thingso near at hand. She bore the scrutiny without flinching. As soon asCatrina's eyes were averted the mask-like stillness of her featuresrelaxed. 

"She does not take that trouble now, " added the Russian girl, in replyto her own question. "Did you see her to-night when we were at thepiano? M. De Chauxville was talking to her. They were keeping twoconversations going at the same time. I could see by their faces. Theysaid different things when the music was loud. I hate her. She is nottrue to Paul. M. De Chauxville knows something about her. They havesomething in common which is not known to Paul or to any of us! Why doyou not speak? Why do you sit staring into the fire with your lips soclose together?"

"Because I do not think that we shall gain any thing by discussing Pauland his wife. It is no business of ours. "

Catrina laughed--a lamentable, mirthless laugh. 

"That is because she is your cousin; and he--he is nothing to you. Youdo not care whether he is happy or not!"

Catrina had turned upon her companion fiercely. Maggie swung round inher chair to pick up her bracelets, which had slipped from her knees tothe floor. 

"You exaggerate things, " she said quietly. "I see no reason to supposethat Paul is unhappy. It is because you have taken this unreasoningdislike to her. "

She took a long time to collect three bracelets. Then she rose andplaced them on the dressing-table. 

"Do you want me to go?" asked Catrina, in her blunt way. 

"No, " answered Maggie, civilly enough; but she extracted a couple ofhair-pins rather obviously. 

Catrina heeded the voice and not the action. 

"You English are all alike, " she said. "You hold one at arm's length. Isuppose there is some one in England for whom you care--who is out ofall this--away from all the troubles of Russia. This has nothing to dowith your life. It is only a passing incident--a few weeks to beforgotten when you go back. I wonder what he is like--the man inEngland. You need not tell me. I am not curious in that way. I am notasking you to tell me. I am just wondering. For I know there is someone. I knew it when I first saw you. You are so quiet, and settled, andself-contained--like a person who has played a game and knows forcertain that it is lost or won, and does not want to play again. Yourhair is very pretty; you are very pretty, you quiet English girl. Iwonder what you think about behind your steady eyes. "

"I?" said Maggie, with a little laugh. "Oh--I think about my dresses, and the new fashions, and parties, and all the things that girls dothink of. "

Catrina shook her head. She looked stubborn and unconvinced. Thensuddenly she changed the conversation. 

"Do you like M. De Chauxville?" she asked. 

"No. "

"Does Paul like him?"

"I don't know. "

Catrina looked up for a moment only. Then her eyes returned to thecontemplation of the burning pine-logs. 

"I wonder why you will not talk of Paul, " she said, in a voice requiringno answer. 

Maggie moved rather uneasily. She had her back turned toward Catrina. 

"I am afraid I am rather a dull person, " she answered. "I have not muchto say about any body. "

"And nothing about Paul?" suggested Catrina. 

"Nothing. We were talking of M. De Chauxville. "

"Yes; I do not understand M. De Chauxville. He seems to me to be theincarnation of insincerity. He poses--even to himself. He is alwayswatching for the effect. I wonder what the effect of himself uponhimself may be. "

Maggie laughed. 

"That is rather complicated, " she said. "It requires working out. Ithink he is deeply impressed with his own astuteness. If he were simplerhe would be cleverer. "

Catrina was afraid of Claude de Chauxville, and, because this was so, she stared in wonder at the English girl, who dismissed him from theconversation and her thoughts with a few careless words of contempt. Such minds as that of Miss Delafield were quite outside the field of DeChauxville's influence, while that Frenchman had considerable power overhighly strung and imaginative natures. 

Catrina Lanovitch had begun by tolerating him--had proceeded to make theserious blunder of permitting him to be impertinently familiar, and wasnow exaggerating in her own mind the hold that he had over her. She didnot actually dislike him. So few people had taken the trouble or foundthe expediency of endeavoring to sympathize with her or understand hernature, that she was unconsciously drawn toward this man whom she nowfeared. 

In exaggerating the power he exercised over herself she somewhatnaturally exaggerated also his importance in the world and in the livesof those around him. She had imagined him all-powerful; and the firstperson to whom she mentioned his name dismissed the subjectindifferently. Her own entire sincerity had enabled her to detect theinsincerity of her ally. She had purposely made mention of the weak spotwhich she had discovered, in order that her observation might becorroborated. And this Maggie had failed to do. 

With the slightest encouragement, Catrina would have told her companionall that had passed. The sympathy between women is so strong that thereis usually only one man who is safe from discussion. In Catrina's casethat one man was not Claude de Chauxville. But Maggie Delafield was ofdifferent material from this impressionable, impulsive Russian girl. Shewas essentially British in her capacity for steering a straight personalcourse through the shoals and quicksands of her neighbors' affairs, asalso in the firm grip she held upon her own thoughts. She was by nomeans prepared to open her mind to the first comer, and in her somewhatslow-going English estimate of such matters Catrina was as yet littlemore than the first comer. 

She changed the subject, and they talked for some time on indifferenttopics--such topics as have an interest for girls; and who are we thatwe may despise them? We jeer very grandly at girls' talk, and promptlyreturn to the discussion of our dogs and pipes and clothing. 

But Catrina was not happy under this judicious treatment. She had no onein the world to whom she could impart a thousand doubts and questions--ahundred grievances and one great grief. And it was just this one greatgrief of which Maggie dreaded the mention. She was quite well aware ofits existence--had been aware of it for some time. Karl Steinmetz hadthrown out one or two vague hints; everything pointed to it. Maggiecould hardly be ignorant of the fact that Catrina had grown to womanhoodloving Paul. 

A score of times Catrina approached the subject, and with imperturbablesteadfastness Maggie held to her determination that Paul was not to bediscussed by them. She warded, she evaded, she ignored with a skillwhich baffled the simple Russian. She had a hundred subterfuges--ahundred skilful turns and twists. Where women learn these matters, Heaven only knows! All our experience of the world, our falls andstumbles on the broken road of life, never teach us some things that areknown to the veriest schoolgirl standing on the smoother footpath thatwomen tread. 

At last Catrina rose to go. Maggie rose also. Women are relentless wherethey fight for their own secrets. Maggie morally turned Catrina out ofthe room. The two girls stood looking at each other for a moment. Theyhad nothing in common. The language in which they understood each otherbest was the native tongue of neither. Born in different countries, eachof a mixed race with no one racial strain in common, neither creed, noreducation, nor similarity of thought had aught to draw them together. They looked at each other, and God's hand touched them. They both lovedthe same man. They did not hate each other. 

"Have you every thing you want?" asked Catrina. 

The question was startling. Catrina's speech was ever abrupt. At firstMaggie did not understand. 

"Yes, thanks, " she answered. "I am very tired. I suppose it is thesnow. "

"Yes, " said Catrina mechanically; "it is the snow. "

She went toward the door, and there she paused. 

"Does Paul love her?" she asked abruptly. 

Maggie made no answer; and, as was her habit, Catrina replied to her ownquestion. 

"You know he does not--you know he does not!" she said. 

Then she went out, without waiting for an answer, closing the doorbehind her. The closed door heard the reply. 

"It will not matter much, " said Maggie, "so long as he never finds itout. "

CHAPTER XXX

WOLF!

The Countess Lanovitch never quitted her own apartments before mid-day. She had acquired a Parisian habit of being invisible untilluncheon-time. The two girls left the castle of Thors in a sleigh withone attendant at ten o'clock in order to reach the hut selected forluncheon by mid-day. Etta did not accompany them. She had a slightheadache. 

At eleven o'clock Claude de Chauxville returned alone, on horseback. After the sportsmen had separated, each to gain his prearranged positionin the forest, he had tripped over his rifle, seriously injuring thedelicate sighting mechanism. He found (he told the servant who openedthe door for him) that he had just time to return for another riflebefore the operation of closing in on the bears was to begin. 

"If Madame the Princess, " was visible, he went on, would the servanttell her that M. De Chauxville was waiting in the library to assure herthat there was absolutely no danger to be anticipated in the day'ssport. The princess, it would appear, was absurdly anxious about thewelfare of her husband--an experienced hunter and a dead shot. 

Claude de Chauxville then went to the library, where he waited, booted, spurred, rifle in hand, for Etta. 

After a lapse of five minutes or more, the door was opened, and Ettacame leisurely into the room. 

"Well?" she enquired indifferently. 

De Chauxville bowed. He walked past her and closed the door, which shehappened to have left open. 

Then he returned and stood by the window, leaning gracefully on hisrifle. His attitude, his hunting-suit, his great top-boots, made rathera picturesque object of him. 

"Well?" repeated Etta, almost insolently. 

"It would have been wiser to have married me, " said De Chauxvilledarkly. 

Etta shrugged her shoulders. 

"Because I understand you better; I _know_ you better than yourhusband. "

Etta turned and glanced at the clock. 

"Have you come back from the bear-hunt to tell me this, or to avoid thebears?" she asked. 

De Chauxville frowned. A man who has tasted fear does not like aquestion of his courage. 

"I have come to tell you that and other things, " he answered. 

He looked at her with his sinister smile and a little upward jerk of thehead. He extended his open hand, palm upward, with the fingers slightlycrooked. 

"I hold you, madame, " he said--"I hold you in my hand. You are my slave, despite your brave title; my thing, my plaything, despite your servants, and your great houses, and your husband! When I have finished tellingyou all that I have to tell, you will understand. You will perhaps thankme for being merciful. "

Etta laughed defiantly. 

"You are afraid of Paul, " she cried. "You are afraid of Karl Steinmetz;you will presently be afraid of me. "

"I think not, " said De Chauxville coolly. The two names just mentionedwere certainly not of pleasant import in his ears, but he was not goingto let a woman know that. This man had played dangerous cards beforenow. He was not at all sure of his ground. He did not know what Etta'sposition was in regard to Steinmetz. Behind the defiant woman therelurked the broad shadow of the man who never defied; who knew manythings, but was ignorant of fear. 

Unlike Karl Steinmetz, De Chauxville was not a bold player. He liked tobe sure of his trick before he threw down his trump card. His method wasnot above suspicion: he liked to know what cards his adversary held, andone may be sure that he was not above peeping. 

"Karl Steinmetz is no friend of yours, " he said. 

Etta did not answer. She was thinking of the conversation she had hadwith Steinmetz in Petersburg. She was wondering whether the friendshiphe had offered--the solid thing as he called it--was not better than thelove of this man. 

"I have information now, " went on De Chauxville, "which would have madeyou my wife, had I had it sooner. "

"I think not, " said the lady insolently. She had dealt with such menbefore. Hers was the beauty that appealed to De Chauxville and such ashe. It is not the beautiful women who see the best side of human nature. 

"Even now, " went on the Frenchman, "now that I know you--I still loveyou. You are the only woman I shall ever love. "

"Indeed!" murmured the lady, quite unmoved. 

"Yes; although in a way I despise you--now that I know you. "

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Etta. "If you have any thing to say, please sayit. I have no time to probe your mysteries--to discover your parables. You know me well enough, perhaps, to be aware that I am not to befrightened by your cheap charlatanism. "

"I know you well enough, " retorted De Chauxville hoarsely, "to be awarethat it was you who sold the Charity League papers to Vassili in Paris. I know you well enough, madame, to be aware of your present position inregard to your husband. If I say a word in the right quarter you wouldnever leave Russia alive. I have merely to say to Catrina Lanovitch thatit was you who banished her father for your own gain. I have merely tohand your name in to certain of the Charity League party, and even yourhusband could not save you. "

He had gradually approached her, and uttered the last words face toface, his eyes close to hers. She held her head up--erect, defiantstill. 

"So you see, madame, " he said, "you belong to me. "

She smiled. 

"Hand and foot, " he added. "But I am soft-hearted. "

He shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 

"What will you?" he said, looking out of the window. "I love you. "

"Nonsense!"

He turned slowly round. 

"What?"

"Nonsense!" repeated Etta. "You love power; you are a bully. You love toplease your own vanity by thinking that you have me in your power. I amnot afraid of you. "

De Chauxville leaned gracefully against the window. He still held hisrifle. 

"Reflect a little, " he said, with his cold smile. "It would appear thatyou do not quite realize the situation. Women rarely realize situationsin time. Our friend--your husband--has many of the Englishidiosyncrasies. He has all the narrow-minded notions of honor whichobtain in that country. Added to this, I suspect him of possessing atruly Slavonic fire which he keeps under. 'A smouldering fire--' Youknow, madame, our French proverb. He is not the man to take a rationaland broad-minded view of your little transaction with M. Vassili; moreespecially, perhaps, as it banished his friend Stépan Lanovitch--theowner of this house, by the way. His reception of the news I have totell him would be unpleasant--for you. "

"What do you want?" interrupted Etta. "Money?"

"I am not a needy adventurer. "

"And I am not such a fool, M. De Chauxville, as to allow myself to bedragged into a vulgar intrigue, borrowed from a French novel, to satisfyyour vanity. "

De Chauxville's dull eyes suddenly flashed. 

"I will trouble you to believe, madame, " he said, in a low, concentratedvoice, "that such a thought never entered my head. A De Chauxville isnot a commercial traveller, if you please. No; it may surprise you, butmy feeling for you has more good in it than you would seem capable ofinspiring. God only knows how it is that a bad woman can inspire a goodlove. "

Etta looked at him in amazement. She did not always understand DeChauxville. No matter for surprise, perhaps; for he did not alwaysunderstand himself. 

"Then what do you want?" she asked. 

"In the meantime, implicit obedience. "

"What are you going to use me for?"

"I have ends, " replied Claude de Chauxville, who had regained his usualhalf-mocking composure, "that you will serve. But they will be your endsas well as mine. You will profit by them. I will take very good carethat you come to no harm, for you are the ultimate object of all this. At the end of it all I see only--you. "

Etta shrugged her shoulders. It is to be presumed that she wasabsolutely heartless. Many women are. It is when a heartless woman hasbrains that one hears of her. 

"What if I refuse?" asked Etta, keenly aware of the fact that this manwas handicapped by his love for her. 

"Then I will force you to obedience. "

Etta raised her delicate eyebrows insolently. 

"Ah!"

"Yes, " said De Chauxville, with suppressed anger; "I will force you toobey me. "

The princess looked at him with her little mocking smile. She raised onehand to her head with a reflective air, as if a hair-pin were of greaterimportance than his words. She had dressed herself rather carefully forthis interview. She never for a moment overlooked the fact that she wasa woman, and beautiful. She did not allow him to forget it either. 

Her mood of outraged virtue was now suddenly thrown into the backgroundby a phase of open coquetry. Beneath her eyelids she watched for theeffect of her pretty, provoking attitude on the man who loved her. Shewas on her own territory at this work, playing her own game; and she wasmore alarmed by De Chauxville's imperturbability than by any thing hehad said. 

"You have a strange way of proving the truth of your own statements. "

"What statements?"

She gave a little laugh. Her attitude, her glance, the cunning displayof a perfect figure, the laugh, the whole woman, was the incarnation ofpractised coquetry. She did not admit, even to herself, that she wasafraid of De Chauxville. But she was playing her best cards, in her bestmanner. She had never known them fail. 

Claude de Chauxville was a little white about the lips. His eyelidsflickered, but by an effort he controlled himself, and she did not seethe light in his eyes for which she looked. 

"If you mean, " he said coldly, "the statement that I made to you beforeyou were married--namely, that I love you--I am quite content to leavethe proof till the future. I know what I am about, madame. "

He took his watch from his pocket and consulted it. 

"I must go in five minutes, " he said. "I have a few instructions to giveyou, to which I must beg your careful attention. "

He looked up, meeting Etta's somewhat sullen gaze with a smile oftriumph. 

"It is essential, " he went on, "that I be invited to Osterno. I do notwant to stay there long; indeed, I do not care to. But I must see theplace. I dare say you can compass the invitation, madame?"

"It will be difficult. "

"And therefore worthy of your endeavor. I have the greatest regard foryour diplomatic skill. I leave the matter in your hands, princess. "

Etta shrugged her shoulders and looked past him out of the window. DeChauxville was considering her face carefully. 

"Another point to be remembered, " he went on, "is your husband's dailylife at Osterno. The prince is not above suspicion; the authorities arewatching him. He is suspected of propagating revolutionary ideas amongthe peasantry. I should like you to find out as much as you can. Perhapsyou know already. Perhaps he has told you, princess. I know thatbeautiful face! He has told you! Good! Does he take an interest in thepeasants?"

Etta did not answer. 

"Kindly give me your attention, madame. Does the prince take an interestin the peasants?"

"Yes. "

"An active interest?"

"Yes. "

"Have you any details?"

"No, " answered Etta. 

"Then you will watch him, and procure those details. "

Etta's face was defiant and pale. De Chauxville never took his eyes fromit. 

"I have undertaken a few small commissions for an old friend of yours, M. Vassili, whom you obliged once before!" he said; and the defiancefaded from her eyes. 

"The authorities cannot, in these disturbed times, afford to tolerateprinces of an independent turn of mind. Such men are apt to make thepeasant think himself more important than he is. I dare say, madame, that you are already tired of Russia. It might perhaps serve your endsif this country was made a little too hot for your husband, eh? I seeyour proud lips quivering, princess! It is well to keep the lips undercontrol. We, who deal in diplomacy, know where to look for such signs. Yes; I dare say I can get you out of Russia--for ever. But you must beobedient. You must reconcile yourself to the knowledge that you havemet--your master. "

He bowed in his graceful way, spreading out his hands in mock humility. Etta did not answer him. For the moment she could see no outlet to thismaze of trouble, and yet she was conscious of not fearing De Chauxvilleso much as she feared Karl Steinmetz. 

"A lenient master, " pursued the Frenchman, whose vanity was tickled bythe word. "I do not ask much. One thing is to be invited to Osterno, that I may be near you. The other is a humble request for details ofyour daily life, that I may think of you when absent. "

Etta drew in her lips, moistening them as if they had suddenly becomeparched. 

De Chauxville glanced at her and moved toward the door. He paused withhis fingers on the handle, and looking back over his shoulder he said:

"Have I made myself quite clear?"

Etta was still looking out of the window with hard, angry eyes. She tookno notice of the question. 

De Chauxville turned the handle. 

"Again let me impress upon you the advisability of implicit obedience, "he said, with delicate insolence. "I mentioned the Charity League; butthat is not my strongest claim upon your attention. I have anotherinteresting little detail of your life, which I will reserve untilanother time. "

He closed the door behind him, leaving Etta white-lipped. 

CHAPTER XXXI

A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT

A Russian forest in winter is one of nature's places of worship. Thereare some such places in the world, where nature seems to stand in thepresence of the Deity; a sunrise at sea; night on a snow-clad mountain;mid-day in a Russian forest in winter. These places and these times aregood for convalescent atheists and such as pose as unbelievers--thecheapest form of notoriety. 

Paul had requested Catrina and Maggie to drive as quietly as possiblethrough the forest. The warning was unnecessary, for the stillness ofsnow is infectious, while the beauty of the scene seemed to commandsilence. As usual, Catrina drove without bells. The one attendant on hisperch behind was a fur-clad statue of servitude and silence. Maggie, leaning back, hidden to the eyes in her sables, had nothing to say toher companion. The way lay through forests of pine--trackless, motionless, virgin. The sun, filtering through the snow-laden branches, cast a subdued golden light upon the ruddy upright trunks of the trees. At times a willow-grouse, white as the snow, light and graceful on thewing, rose from the branch where he had been laughing to his mate with alow, cooing laugh, and fluttered away over the trees. 

"A kooropatka, " said Catrina, who knew the life of the forest almost aswell as Paul, whose very existence was wrapped up in these things. 

Far over the summits of the pines a snipe seemed to be wheeling asentinel round. He followed them as they sped along, calling out all thewhile his deep warning note, like that of a lamb crouching beneath ahedge where the wind is not tempered. 

Once or twice they heard the dismal howl of a wolf--the most melancholy, the weirdest, the most hopeless of nature's calls. The whole forestseemed to be on the alert--astir and in suspense. The wolf, disturbed inhis lair, no doubt heard and understood the cry of the watchful snipeand the sudden silence of the willow-grouse, who loves to sit and laughwhen all is safe. A clumsy capercailzie, swinging along over the treeswith a great flap and rush of wings, seemed to be intent on his ownsolitary, majestic business--a very king among the fowls of the air. 

Amid the topmost branches of the pines the wind whispered and stirredlike a child in sleep; but beneath all was still. Every branch stoodmotionless beneath its burden of snow. The air was thin, exhilarating, brilliant--like dry champagne. It seemed to send the blood coursingthrough the veins with a very joy of life. 

Catrina noted all these things while cleverly handling her ponies. Theyspoke to her with a thousand voices. She had roamed in these sameforests with Paul, who loved them and understood them as she did. 

Maggie, in the midst as it were of a revelation, leaned back andwondered at it all. She, too, was thinking of Paul, the owner of theseboundless forests. She understood him better now. This drive hadrevealed to her a part of his nature which had rather puzzled her--alarge, simple, quiet strength which had developed and grown to maturitybeneath these trees. We are all part of what we have seen. We all carrywith us through life somewhat of the scenes through which we passed inchildhood. 

Maggie knew now where Paul had learnt the quiet concentration of mind, the absorption in his own affairs, the complete lack of interest in thebusiness of his neighbor which made him different from other men. He hadlearnt these things at first hand from God's creatures. Theseforest-dwellers of fur and feather went about their affairs in the sameabsorbed way, with the same complete faith, the same desire to leave andbe left alone. The simplicity of Nature was his. His only craft wasforest craft. 

"Now you know, " said Catrina, when they reached the hut, "why I hatePetersburg. "

Maggie nodded. The effect of the forest was still upon her. She did notwant to talk. 

The woman who received them, the wife of a keeper, had prepared in arough way for their reception. She had a large fire and bowls of warmmilk. The doors and windows had been thrown wide open by Paul's orders. He wanted to spare Maggie too intimate an acquaintance with a Russianinterior. The hut was really a shooting-box built by Paul some yearsearlier, and inhabited by a head-keeper, one learned in the ways of bearand wolf and lynx. The large dwelling-room had been carefully scrubbed. There was a smell of pine-wood and soap. The table, ready spread with asimple luncheon, took up nearly the whole of the room. 

While the two girls were warming themselves, a keeper came to the doorof the hut and asked to see Catrina. He stood in the little door-way, completely filling it, and explained that he could not come in, as thebuckles and straps of his snow-shoes were clogged and frozen. He worethe long Norwegian snow-shoes, and was held to be the quickest runner inthe country. 

Catrina had a long conversation with the man, who stood hatless, ruddy, and shy. 

"It is, " she then explained to Maggie, "Paul's own man, who always loadsfor him and carries his spare gun. He has sent him to tell us that thegame has been ringed, and that the beaters will close in on a placecalled the Schapka Clearing, where there is a woodman's refuge. If wecare to put on our snow-shoes, this man will guide us to the clearingand take care of us till the battue is over. "

Of course Maggie welcomed the proposal with delight, and after a hastyluncheon the three glided off through the forest as noiselessly as theyhad come. After a tiring walk of an hour and more they came to theclearing, and were duly concealed in the hut. 

No one, the keeper told the ladies, except Paul, knew of their presencein the little wooden house. The arrangements of the beat had beenslightly altered at the last moment after the hunters had separated. Thekeeper lighted a small fire and shyly attended to the ladies, removingtheir snow-shoes with clumsy fingers. He closed the door, and arranged abranch of larch across the window so that they could stand near itwithout being seen. 

They had not been there long before De Chauxville appeared. He movedquickly across the clearing, skimming over the snow with long, sweepingstrides. Two keepers followed him, and after having shown him the roughhiding-place prepared for him, silently withdrew to their places. SoonKarl Steinmetz came from another direction, and took up his positionrather nearer to the hut, in a thicket of pine and dwarf oak. He wasonly twenty yards away from the refuge where the girls were concealed. 

It was not long before Paul came. He was quite alone, and suddenlyappeared at the far end of the clearing, in very truth a mighty hunter, standing nearly seven feet on his snow-shoes. One rifle he carried inhis hand, another slung across his back. It was like a silent scene on astage. The snow-white clearing, with long-drawn tracks across it wherethe snow-shoes had passed, the still trees, the brilliant sun, and theblue depths of the forest behind; while Paul, like the hero of some grimArctic saga, a huge fur-clad Northern giant, stood alone in thedesolation. 

From his attitude it was apparent that he was listening. It was probablethat the cries of the birds and the distant howl of a wolf told hispractised ears how near the beaters were. He presently moved across towhere De Chauxville was hidden, spoke some words of advice or warning tohim, and pointed with his gloved hand in the direction whence the gamemight be expected to come. 

It subsequently transpired that Paul was asking De Chauxville thewhereabouts of Steinmetz, who had gained his place of concealmentunobserved by either. De Chauxville could give him no information, andPaul went away to his post dissatisfied. Karl Steinmetz must have seenthem; he must have divined the subject of their conversation; but heremained hidden and gave no sign. 

Paul's post was behind a fallen tree, and the watchers in the hut couldsee him, while he was completely hidden from any animal that might enterthe open clearing from the far end. He turned and looked hard at thehut; but the larch branch across the window effectually prevented himfrom discovering whether any one was behind it or not. 

Thus they all waited in suspense. A blackcock skimmed across the openspace and disappeared unmolested. A wolf--gray, gaunt, sneaking, andlurching in his gait--trotted into the clearing and stood listening withevil lips drawn back. The two girls watched him breathlessly. When hetrotted on unmolested, they drew a deep breath as if they had been underwater. Paul, with his two rifles laid before him, watched the wolfdepart with a smile. The girls could see the smile, and from it learntsomewhat of the man. The keeper beside them gave a little laugh andlooked to the hammers of his rifle. 

And still there was no sound. It was still, unreal, and like a scene onthe stage. The birds, skimming over the tops of the trees from time totime, threw in as it were a note of fear and suspense. There wasbreathlessness in the air. A couple of hares, like white shadows intheir spotless winter coats, shot from covert to covert across the openground. 

Then suddenly the keeper gave a little grunt and held up his hand, listening with parted lips and eager eyes. There was a distinct sound ofbreaking branches and crackling underwood. 

They could see Paul cautiously rise from his knees to a crouchingattitude. They followed the direction of his gaze, and before them themonarch of these forests stood in clumsy might. A bear had shambled tothe edge of the clearing and was standing upright, growling andgrumbling to himself, his great paws waving from side to side, hisshaggy head thrust forward with a recurring jerk singularly suggestiveof a dandy with an uncomfortable collar. These bears of Northern Russiahave not the reputation of being very fierce unless they are arousedfrom their winter quarters, when their wrath knows no bounds and theircourage recognizes no danger. An angry bear is afraid of no living manor beast. Moreover, these kings of the Northern forests are huge beasts, capable of smothering a strong man by falling on him and lying there--adeath which has come to more than one daring hunter. The beast'sfavorite method of dealing with his foe is to claw him to death, or elsehug him till his ribs are snapped and crushed into his vitals. 

The bear stood poking his head and looking about with little, fiery, bloodshot eyes for something to destroy. His rage was manifest, and inhis strength he was a grand sight. The majesty of power and a dauntlesscourage were his. 

It was De Chauxville's shot, and while keeping his eye on the bear, Paulglanced impatiently over his shoulder from time to time, wondering whythe Frenchman did not fire. The bear was a huge one, and would probablycarry three bullets and still be a dangerous adversary. 

The keeper muttered impatiently. 

They were watching Paul breathlessly. The bear was approaching him. Itwould not be safe to defer firing another second. 

Suddenly the keeper gave a short exclamation of astonishment and threwup his rifle. 

There was another bear behind Paul, shambling toward him, unseen by him. All his attention was riveted on the huge brute forty yards in front ofhim. It was Claude de Chauxville's task to protect Paul from any flankor rear attack; and Claude de Chauxville was peering over his covert, watching with blanched face the second bear; and lifting no hand, makingno sign. The bear was within a few yards of Paul, who was crouchingbehind the fallen pine and now raising his rifle to his shoulder. 

In a flash of comprehension the two girls saw all, through the panes ofthe closed window. It was still singularly like a scene on the stage. The second bear raised his powerful fore-paws as he approached. One blowwould tear open Paul's brain. 

A terrific report sent the girls staggering back, for a momentparalyzing thought. The keeper had fired through the window, bothbarrels almost simultaneously. It was a question how much lead wouldbring the bear down before he covered the intervening dozen yards. Inthe confined space of the hut, the report of the heavy double charge waslike that of a cannon; moreover, Steinmetz, twenty yards away, had firedat the same moment. 

The room was filled with smoke. The two girls were blinded for aninstant. Then they saw the keeper tear open the door and disappear. Thecold air through the shattered casement was a sudden relief to theirlungs, choked with sulphur and the fumes of spent powder. 

In a flash they were out of the open door; and there again, with thesuddenness of a panorama, they saw another picture--Paul kneeling in themiddle of the clearing, taking careful aim at the retreating form of thefirst bear. They saw the puff of blue smoke rise from his rifle, theyheard the sharp report; and the bear rolled over on its face. 

Steinmetz and the keeper were walking toward Paul. Claude de Chauxville, standing outside his screen of brushwood, was staring with wide, fear-stricken eyes at the hut which he had thought empty. He did notknow that there were three people behind him, watching him. What hadthey seen? What had they understood?

Catrina and Maggie ran toward Paul. They were on snow-shoes, and madeshort work of the intervening distance. 

Paul had risen to his feet. His face was grave. There was a singulargleam in his eyes, which was not a gleam of mere excitement such as thechase brings into some men's eyes. 

Steinmetz looked at him and said nothing. For a moment Paul stood still. He looked round him, noting with experienced glance the lay of the wholeincident--the dead form of the bear ten yards behind his latehiding-place, one hundred and eighty yards from the hut, one hundred andsixty yards from the spot whence Karl Steinmetz had sent his unerringbullet through the bear's brain. Paul saw it all. He measured thedistances. He looked at De Chauxville, standing white-faced at his post, not fifty yards from the carcass of the second bear. 

Paul seemed to see no one but De Chauxville. He went straight towardhim, and the whole party followed in breathless suspense. Steinmetz wasnearest to him, watching with his keen, quiet eyes. 

Paul went up to De Chauxville and took the rifle from his hands. Heopened the breech and looked into the barrels. They were clean; therifle had not been fired off. 

He gave a little laugh of contempt, and, throwing the rifle at DeChauxville's feet, turned abruptly away. 

It was Catrina who spoke. 

"If you had killed him, " she said, "I would have killed you!"

Steinmetz picked up the rifle, closed the breech, and handed it to DeChauxville with a queer smile. 

CHAPTER XXXII

A CLOUD

When the Osterno party reached home that same evening the starosta waswaiting to see Steinmetz. His news was such that Steinmetz sent forPaul, and the three men went together to the little room beyond thesmoking-room in the old part of the castle. 

"Well?" said Paul, with the unconscious hauteur which made him a princeto these people. 

The starosta spread out his hands. 

"Your Excellency, " he answered, "I am afraid. "

"Of what?"

The starosta shrugged his narrow shoulders in cringing deprecation. 

"Excellency, I do not know. There is something in the village--somethingin the whole country. I know not what it is. It is a feeling--one cannotsee it, one cannot define it; but it is there, like the gleam of waterat the bottom of a deep well. The moujiks are getting dangerous. Theywill not speak to me. I am suspected. I am watched. "

His shifty eyes, like black beads, flitted from side to side as hespoke. He was like a weasel at bay. It was the face of a man who went inbodily fear. 

"I will go with you down to the village now, " said Paul. "Is there anyexcuse--any illness?"

"Ah, Excellency, " replied the chief, "there is always that excuse. "

Paul looked at the clock. 

"I will go now, " he said. He began his simple preparations at once. 

"There is dinner to be thought of, " suggested Steinmetz, with a resignedsmile. "It is half-past seven. "

"Dinner can wait, " replied Paul in English. "You might tell the ladiesthat I have gone out, and will dine alone when I come back. "

Steinmetz shrugged his broad shoulders. 

"I think you are a fool, " he said, "to go alone. If they discover youridentity they will tear you to pieces. "

"I am not afraid of them, " replied Paul, with his head in the medicinecupboard, "any more than I am afraid of a horse. They are like horses;they do not know their own strength. "

"With this difference, " added Steinmetz, "that the moujik will one daymake the discovery. He is beginning to make it now. The starosta isquite right, Paul. There is something in the air. It is about time thatyou took the ladies away from here and left me to manage it alone. "

"That time will never come again, " answered Paul. "I am not going toleave you alone again. "

He was pushing his arms into the sleeves of the old brown coat reachingto his heels, a garment which commanded as much love and respect inOsterno as ever would an angel's wing. 

Steinmetz opened the drawer of his bureau and laid a revolver on thetable. 

"At all events, " he said, "you may as well have the wherewithal to makea fight of it, if the worst comes to the worst. "

"As you like, " answered Paul, slipping the fire-arm into his pocket. 

The starosta moved away a pace or two. He was essentially a man ofpeace. 

Half an hour later it became known in the village that the Moscow doctorwas in the house of one Ivan Krass, where he was prepared to see allpatients who were now suffering from infectious complaints. The door ofthis cottage was soon besieged by the sick and the idle, while thestarosta stood in the door-way and kept order. 

Within, in the one dwelling-room of the cottage, were assembled aspicturesque and as unsavory a group as the most enthusiastic modern"slummer" could desire to see. 

Paul, standing by the table with two paraffin lamps placed behind him, saw each suppliant in turn, and all the while he kept up a runningconversation with the more intelligent, some of whom lingered on to talkand watch. 

"Ah, John the son of John, " he would say, "what is the matter with you?It is not often I see you. I thought you were clean and thrifty. "

To which John the son of John replied that the winter had been hard andfuel scarce, that his wife was dead and his children stricken withinfluenza. 

"But you have had relief; our good friend the starosta--"

"Does what he can, " grumbled John, "but he dare not do much. The bárinswill not let him. The nobles want all the money for themselves. TheEmperor is living in his palace, where there are fountains of wine. Wepay for that with our taxes. You see my hand--I cannot work; but I mustpay the taxes, or else we shall be turned out into the street. "

Paul, while attending to the wounded hand--an old story of an old woundneglected, and a constitution with all the natural healing power drainedout of it by hunger and want and vodka--Paul, ever watchful, glancedround and saw sullen, lowering faces, eager eyes, hungry, cruel lips. 

"But the winter is over now. You are mistaken about the nobles. They dowhat they can. The Emperor pays for the relief that you have had allthese months. It is foolish to talk as you do. "

"I only tell the truth, " replied the man, wincing as Paul deliberatelycut away the dead flesh. "We know now why it is that we are all sopoor. "

"Why?" asked Paul, pouring some lotion over a wad of lint and speakingindifferently. 

"Because the nobles--" began the man, and some one nudged him frombehind, urging him to silence. 

"You need not be afraid of me, " said Paul. "I tell no tales, and I takeno money. "

"Then why do you come?" asked a voice in the background. "Some one paysyou; who is it?"

"Ah, Tula, " said Paul, without looking up. "You are there, are you? Thegreat Tula. There is a hardworking, sober man, my little fathers, whonever beats his wife, and never drinks, and never borrows money. Auseful neighbor! What is the matter with you, Tula? You have been toosparing with the vodka, no doubt. I must order you a glass every hour. "

There was a little laugh. But Paul, who knew these people, was quitealive to the difference of feeling toward himself. They still acceptedhis care, his help, his medicine; but they were beginning to doubt him. 

"There is your own prince, " he went on fearlessly to the man whose handhe was binding up. "He will help you when there is real distress. "

An ominous silence greeted this observation. 

Paul raised his head and looked round. In the dim light of the two smokylamps he saw a ring of wild faces. Men with shaggy beards and hair allentangled and unkempt, with fierce eyes and lowering glances; women withfaces that unsexed them. There were despair and desperation and utterrecklessness in the air, in the attitude, in the hearts of these people. And Paul had worked among them for years. The sight would have beenheart-breaking had Paul Howard Alexis been the sort of man to admit thepossibility of a broken heart. All that he had done had been frustratedby the wall of heartless bureaucracy against which he had pitched hissingle strength. There was no visible progress. These were not the facesof men and women moving up the social scale by the aid of education andthe deeper self-respect that follows it. Some of them were young, although they hardly looked it. They were young in years, but old inlife and misery. Some of them he knew to be educated. He had paid forthe education himself. He had risked his own personal freedom to procureit for them, and misery had killed the seed. 

He looked on this stony ground, and his stout heart was torn with pity. It is easy to be patient in social economy when that vague jumble ofimpossible ideas is calmly discussed across the dinner-table. But theresult seems hopelessly distant when the mass of the poor and wretchedstand before one in the flesh. 

Paul knew that this little room was only a specimen of the whole ofRussia. Each of these poor peasants represented a million--equallyhopeless, equally powerless to contend with an impossible taxation. 

He could not give them money, because the tax-collector had them allunder his thumb and would exact the last kopeck. The question was farabove his single-handed reach, and he did not dare to meet it openly andseek the assistance of the few fellow-nobles who faced the positionwithout fear. 

He could not see in the brutal faces before him one spark ofintelligence, one little gleam of independence and self-respect whichcould be attributed to his endeavor; which the most sanguineconstruction could take as resulting from his time and money given to ahopeless cause. 

"Well, " he said. "Have you nothing to tell me of your prince?"

"You know him, " answered the man who had spoken from the safebackground. "We need not tell you. "

"Yes, " answered Paul; "I know him. "

He would not defend himself. 

"There, " he went on, addressing the man whose hand was now bandaged. "You will do. Keep clean and sober, and it will heal. Get drunk and godirty, and you will die. Do you understand, Ivan Ivanovitch?"

The man grunted sullenly, and moved away to give place to a woman with ababy in her arms. 

Paul glanced into her face. He had known her a few years earlier a happychild playing at her mother's cottage door. 

She drew back the shawl that covered her child, with a faint, far-offgleam of pride in her eyes. There was something horribly pathetic in thewhole picture. The child-mother, her rough, unlovely face lighted for amoment with that gleam from Paradise which men never know; the huge manbending over her, and between them the wizened, disease-stricken littlewaif of humanity. 

"When he was born he was a very fine child, " said the mother. 

Paul glanced at her. She was quite serious. She was looking at him witha strange pride on her face. Paul nodded and drew aside the shawl. Thebaby was staring at him with wise, grave eyes, as if it could have toldhim a thing or two if it had only been gifted with the necessary speech. Paul knew that look. It meant starvation. 

"What is it?" asked the child-mother. "It is only some little illness, is it not?"

"Yes; it is only a little illness. "

He did not add that no great illness is required to kill a small child. He was already writing something in his pocket-book. He tore the leafout and gave it to her. 

"This, " he said, "is for you--yourself, you understand? Take that eachday to the starosta and he will give you what I have written down. Ifyou do not eat all that he gives you and drink what there is in thebottle as he directs you, the baby will die--you understand? You mustgive nothing away; nothing even to your husband. "

The next patient was the man whose voice had been heard from the saferetreat of the background. His dominant malady was obvious. A shakyhand, an unsteady eye, and a bloated countenance spoke for themselves. But he had other diseases more or less developed. 

"So you have no good to tell of your prince, " said Paul, looking intothe man's face. 

"Our prince, Excellency! He is not our prince. His forefathers seizedthis land; that is all. "

"Ah! Who has been telling you that?"

"No one, " grumbled the man. "We know it; that is all. "

"But you were his father's serfs, before the freedom. Let me see yourtongue. Yes; you have been drinking--all the winter. Ah! is not that so, little father? Your parents were serfs before the freedom. "

"Freedom!" growled the man. "A pretty freedom! We were better offbefore. "

"Yes; but the world interfered with serfdom, because it got itsnecessary touch of sentiment. There is no sentiment in starvation. "

The man did not understand. He grunted acquiescence nevertheless. Thetrue son of the people is always ready to grunt acquiescence to all thatsounds like abuse. 

"And what is this prince like? Have you seen him?" went on Paul. 

"No; I have not seen him. If I saw him I would kick his head to pieces. "

"Ah, just open your mouth a little wider. Yes; you have a nasty throatthere. You have had diphtheria. So you would kick his head to pieces. Why?"

"He is a tchinovnik--a government spy. He lives on the taxes. But itwill not be for long. There is a time coming--"

"Ah! What sort of a time? Now, you must take this to the starosta. Hewill give you a bottle. It is not to drink. It is to wash your throatwith. Remember that, and do not give it to your wife by way of a tonicas you did last time. So there are changes coming, are there?"

"There is a change coming for the prince--for all the princes, " repliedthe man in the usual taproom jargon. "For the Emperor too. The poor manhas had enough of it. God made the world for the poor man as well as forthe rich. Riches should be equally divided. They are going to be. Thecountry is going to be governed by a Mir. There will be no taxes. TheMir makes no taxes. It is the tchinovniks who make the taxes and live onthem. "

"Ah, you are very eloquent, little father. If you talk like this in thekabak no wonder you have a bad throat. There, I can do no more for you. You must wash more and drink less. You might try a little work perhaps;it stimulates the appetite. And with a throat like that I should nottalk so much if I were you. Next!"

The next comer was afflicted with a wound that would not heal--a commontrouble in cold countries. 

While attending to this sickening sore Paul continued his conversationwith the last patient. 

"You must tell me, " he said, "when these changes are about to come. Ishould like to be there to see. It will be interesting. "

The man laughed mysteriously. 

"So the government is to be by a Mir, is it?" went on Paul. 

"Yes; the poor man is to have a say in it. "

"That will be interesting. But at the Mir every one talks at once and noone listens; is it not so?"

The man made no reply. 

"Is the change coming soon?" asked Paul coolly. 

But there was no reply. Some one had seized the loquacious orator of thekabak, and he was at that moment being quietly hustled out of the room. 

After this there was a sullen silence, which Paul could not charm away, charm he never so wisely. 

When his patients had at last ebbed away he lighted a cigarette andwalked thoughtfully back to the castle. There was danger in the air, andthis was one of those men upon whom danger acts as a pleasant stimulant. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE NET IS DRAWN

During the days following Paul's visit to the village the ladies did notsee much male society. Paul and Steinmetz usually left the castleimmediately after breakfast and did not return till nightfall. 

"Is there any thing wrong?" Maggie asked Steinmetz on the evening of thesecond day. 

Steinmetz had just come into the vast drawing-room dressed fordinner--stout, placid, and very clean-looking. They were alone in theroom. 

"Nothing, my dear young lady--yet, " he answered, coming forward andrubbing his broad palms slowly together. 

Maggie was reading an English newspaper. She turned its pages withoutpausing to notice the black and sticky obliterations effected by thepostal authorities before delivery. It was no new thing to her now tocome upon the press censor's handiwork in the columns of suchperiodicals and newspapers as Paul received from England. 

"Because, " she said, "if there is you need not be afraid of telling me. "

"To have that fear would be to offer you an insult, " replied Steinmetz. "Paul and I are investigating matters, that is all. The plain truth, mydear young lady, is that we do not know ourselves what is in the wind. We only know there is something. You are a horsewoman--you know thefeeling of a restive horse. One knows that he is only waiting for anexcuse to shy or to kick or to rear. One feels it thrilling in him. Pauland I have that feeling in regard to the peasants. We are going theround of the outlying villages, steadily and carefully. We are seekingfor the fly on the horse's body--you understand?"

"Yes, I understand. "

She gave a little nod. She had not lost color, but there was an anxiouslook in her eyes. 

"Some people would have sent to Tver for the soldiers, " Steinmetz wenton. "But Paul is not that sort of man. He will not do it yet. Youremember our conversation at the Charity Ball in London?"

"Yes. "

"I did not want you to come then. I am sorry you have come now. "

Maggie laid aside the newspaper with a little laugh. 

"But, Herr Steinmetz, " she said, "I am not afraid. Please remember that. I have absolute faith in you--and in Paul. "

Steinmetz accepted this statement with his grave smile. 

"There is only one thing I would recommend, " he said, "and that is aperfect discretion. Speak of this to no one, especially to no servants. You remember your own mutiny in India. Gott! what wonderful people youEnglish are--men and women alike! You remember how the ladies kept upand brazened it out before the servants. You must do the same. I think Ihear the rustle of the princess's dress. Yes! And there is no news inthe papers, you say?"

"None, " replied Maggie. 

It may not have been entirely by chance that Claude de Chauxville droveover to Osterno to pay his respects the next day, and expressed himselfdesolated at hearing that the prince had gone out with Herr Steinmetz ina sleigh to a distant corner of the estate. 

"My horses must rest, " said the Frenchman, calmly taking off his furgloves. "Perhaps the princess will see me. "

A few minutes later he was shown into the morning-room. 

"Did I see Mlle. Delafield on snow-shoes in the forest as I came along?"De Chauxville asked the servant in perfect Russian before the man leftthe room. 

"Doubtless, Excellency. She went out on her snow-shoes half an hourago. "

"That is all right, " said the Frenchman to himself when the door wasclosed. 

He went to the fire and warmed his slim white fingers. There was an evilsmile lurking beneath his mustache. 

When Etta opened the door a minute later he bowed low, without speaking. There was a suggestion of triumph in his attitude. 

"Well?" said the princess, without acknowledging his salutation. 

De Chauxville raised his eyebrows with the resigned surprise of a man towhom no feminine humor is new. He brought forward a chair. 

"Will you sit?" he said, with exaggerated courtesy. "I have much to sayto you. Besides, we have all the time. Your husband and his Germanfriend are miles away. I passed Miss Delafield in the forest. She is notquite at home on her snow-shoes yet. She cannot be back for at leasthalf an hour. "

Etta bit her lip as she looked at the chair. She sat slowly down anddrew in the folds of her rich dress. 

"I have the good fortune to find you alone. "

"So you have informed me, " she replied coldly. 

De Chauxville leaned against the mantel-piece and looked down at herthoughtfully. 

"At the bear-hunt the other day, " he said, "I had the misfortuneto--well, to fall out with the prince. We were not quite at one on aquestion of etiquette. He thought that I ought to have fired. I did notfire; I was not ready. It appears that the prince considered himself tobe in danger. He was nervous--flurried. "

"You are not always artistic in your untruths, " interrupted Etta. "Iknow nothing of the incident to which you refer, but in lying you shouldalways endeavor to be consistent. I am sure Paul was not nervous--orflurried. "

De Chauxville smiled imperturbably. His end was gained. Etta obviouslyknew nothing of his attempt to murder Paul at the bear-hunt. 

"It was nothing, " he went on; "we did not come to words. But we havenever been much in sympathy; the coldness is intensified, that is all. So I took the opportunity of calling when I knew he was away. "

"How did you know he was away?"

"Ah, madame, I know more than I am credited with. "

Etta gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders. 

"You do not care for Osterno?" suggested De Chauxville. 

"I hate it!"

"Precisely. And I am here to help you to get away from Russia once forall. Ah! you may shake your head. Some day, perhaps, I shall succeed inconvincing you that I have only your interests at heart. I am here, princess, to make a little arrangement with you--a final arrangement, Ihope. "

He paused, looking at her with a sudden gleam in his eyes. 

"Not the last of all, " he added in a different tone. "That will make youmy wife. "

Etta allowed this statement to pass unchallenged. Her courage and energywere not exhausted. She was learning to nurse her forces. 

"Your husband, " went on De Chauxville, after he had sufficiently enjoyedthe savor of his own words, "is a brave man. To frighten him it isnecessary to resort to strong measures. The last and the strongestmeasure in the diplomat's scale is the People. The People, madame, willtake no denial. It is a game I have played before--a dangerous game, butI am not afraid. "

"You need not trouble to be theatrical with me, " put in Etta scornfully. She was sitting with a patch of color in either cheek. At times this manhad the power of moving her, and she was afraid of allowing him toexercise it. She knew her own weakness--her inordinate vanity; forvanity is the weakness of strong women. She was ever open to flattery, and Claude de Chauxville flattered her in every word he spoke; for byact and speech he made it manifest that she was the motive power of hisexistence. 

"A man who plays for a high stake, " went on the Frenchman, in a quietervoice, "must be content to throw his all on the table time after time. Aweek to-night--Thursday, the 5th of April--I will throw down my all onthe turn of a card. For the People are like that. It is rouge ornoir--one never knows. We only know that there is no third color, nocompromise. "

Etta was listening now with ill-disguised interest. At last he had givenher something definite--a date. 

"On Thursday, " he went on, "the peasants will make a demonstration. Youknow as well as I do--as well as Prince Pavlo does, despite hisimperturbable face--that the whole country is a volcano which may breakforth at any moment. But the control is strong, and therefore there isnever a large eruption--a grumble here, a gleam of fire there, a sullenheat everywhere! But it is held in check by the impossibility ofcommunication. It seems strange, but Russia stands because she has nopenny postage. The great crash will come, not by force of arms, but byways of peace. The signal will be a postal system, the standard of therevolution will be a postage-stamp. All over this country there aremillions waiting and burning to rise up and crush despotism, but theyare held in check by the simple fact that they are far apart and theycannot write to each other. When, at last, they are brought together, there will be no fight at all, because they will overwhelm theirenemies. That time, madame, has not come yet. We are only at the stageof tentative underground rumblings. But a little eruption is enough towipe out one man if he be standing on the spot. "

"Go on, " said Etta quietly--too quietly, De Chauxville might havethought, had he been calmer. 

"I want you, " he went on, "to assist me. We shall be ready on Thursday. I shall not appear in the matter at all; I have strong colleagues at myback. Starvation and misery, properly handled, are strong incentives. "

"And how do you propose to handle them?" asked Etta in the same quietvoice. 

"The peasants will make a demonstration. The rest we must leaveto--well, to the course of fortune. I have no doubt that our astutefriend Karl Steinmetz will manage to hold them in check. But whateverthe end of the demonstration, the outcome will be the impossibility of alonger residence in this country for the Prince Pavlo Alexis. A regimentof soldiers could hardly make it possible. "

"I do not understand, " said Etta, "what you describe as ademonstration--is it a rising?"

De Chauxville nodded, with a grin. 

"In force, to take what they want by force?" asked the princess. 

De Chauxville spread out his hands in his graceful Gallic way. 

"That depends. "

"And what do you wish me to do?" asked Etta, with the same concentratedquiet. 

"In the first place, to believe that no harm will come to you, eitherdirectly or indirectly. They would not dare to touch the prince; theywill content themselves with breaking a few windows. "

"What do you want me to do?" repeated Etta. 

De Chauxville paused. 

"Merely, " he answered lightly, "to leave open a door--a side door. Iunderstand that there is a door in the old portion of the castle leadingup by a flight of stairs to the smoking-room, and thence to the new partof the building. "

Etta did not answer. De Chauxville glanced at his watch and walked tothe window, where he stood looking out. He was too refined a person towhistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time. 

"This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursdayevening, " 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 queenof anger. Her blazing eyes were on a level with his. 

"Yes, " she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till sheseemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. "Yes; I refuse tobetray my husband--"

"Stop! He is not your husband!"

Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Herfingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like thefingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches ofher majestic stature. 

"What do you mean?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"

"Sydney Bamborough is your husband, " said the Frenchman, without takinghis dull eyes from her face. 

"He is dead!" she hissed. 

"Prove it!"

He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose ofeasy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion oftheir 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 theplains of Tver and duly buried in the pauper cemetery, " said DeChauxville indifferently. "Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, I mean--was, for reasons which need not be gone into here, in the neighborhood ofTver at the time. A police officer, who has since been transferred toOdessa, was of the opinion that the dead man was a foreigner. There areabout twelve thousand foreigners in Tver--operatives in themanufactories. Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu--left Tverto proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to avoid theemissaries of the Charity League, who were looking out for him at thewestern frontier. He will be due at one of the treaty ports in China inabout a month. Upon the supposition that the body discovered on theplains of Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity ofbecoming a princess. It was enterprising. I admire your spirit. But itwas dangerous. I, madame, can suppress Sydney Bamborough when he turnsup. 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 yourpardon, the prince--would perhaps take a different view of the case. Itis a pretty story. I will tell it to him unless I have your implicitobedience. "

Etta stood dry-lipped before him. She tried to speak, but no words camefrom her lips. 

De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knewthat he loved her. There is no defining love, nor telling when it mergesinto hatred. 

"Thursday evening, before dinner, " said De Chauxville. 

And he left her standing on the hearth-rug, her lips moving and framingno words. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

AN APPEAL

"Have you spoken to the princess?" asked Steinmetz, without taking thecigar from his lips. 

They were driving home through the forest that surrounded Osterno as thesea surrounds an island. They were alone in the sleigh. That which theyhad been doing had required no servant. Paul was driving, andconsequently the three horses were going as hard as they could. The snowflew past their faces like the foam over the gunwale of a boat that isthrashing into a ten-knot breeze. Yet it was not all snow. There wereflecks of foam from the horses' mouths mingled with it. 

"Yes, " answered Paul. His face was set and hard, his eyes stern. Thistrouble with the peasants was affecting him more keenly than hesuspected. It was changing the man's face--drawing lines about his lips, streaking his forehead with the marks of care. His position can hardlybe realized by an Englishman unless it be compared to that of thecaptain of a great sinking ship full of human souls who have been placedunder 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 butthe eyes, by reason of the sable collar of his coat, which met the furof his cap; "yes, and why not?"

"I cannot leave them, " answered Paul. "I cannot go away now that thereis trouble among them. What it is, goodness only knows! They would neverhave got like this by themselves. Somebody has been at them, and I don'tthink it is the Nihilists. It is worse than that. Some devil has beenstirring them up, and they know no better. He is still at it. They aregetting 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 tiredof the moujik. He is an inveterate, incurable fool. If he is going to bea dangerous fool as well, I should almost be inclined to let him go tothe devil in his own way. "

"I dare say; but you are not in my position. "

"No; that is true, Pavlo. They were not my father's serfs. Generationsof my ancestors have not saved generations of their ancestors fromstarvation. My fathers before me have not toiled and slaved andlegislated for them. I have not learnt medicine that I might doctorthem. I have not risked my health and life in their sties, where pigswould refuse to live. I have not given my whole heart and soul to theirwelfare, to receive no thanks, but only hatred. No, it is different forme. I owe them nothing, mein lieber; that is the difference. "

"If I agree to make a bolt for Petersburg to-morrow will you come?"retorted Paul. 

"No, " answered the stout man. 

"I thought not. Your cynicism is only a matter of words, Steinmetz, andnot of deeds. There is no question of either of us leaving Osterno. Wemust stay and fight it right out here. "

"That is so, " answered Steinmetz, with the Teutonic stolidity of mannerwhich sometimes came over him. "But the ladies--what of them?"

Paul did not answer. They were passing over the rise of a heavy drift. It was necessary to keep the horses up to their work, to prevent therunners of the sleigh sinking into the snow. With voice and whip Paulencouraged them. He was kind to animals, but never spared them--a strongman, who gave freely of his strength and expected an equal generosity. 

"This is no place for Miss Delafield, " added Steinmetz, looking straightin front of him. 

"I know that!" answered Paul sharply. "I wish to God she was not here!"he added in a lower tone, and the words were lost beneath the frozenmustache. 

Steinmetz made no answer. They drove on through the gathering gloom. Thesky was of a yellow gray, and the earth reflected the dismal hue of it. Presently it began to snow, driving in a fine haze from the north. Thetwo men lapsed into silence. Steinmetz, buried in his furs like a great, cumbrous bear, appeared to be half asleep. They had had a long andwearisome day. The horses had covered their forty miles and more fromvillage to village, where the two men had only gathered discouragementand foreboding. Some of the starostas were sullen; others openly scared. None of them were glad to see Steinmetz. Paul had never dared to betrayhis identity. With the gendarmes--the tchinovniks--they had not deemedit wise to hold communication. 

"Stop!" cried Steinmetz suddenly, and Paul pulled the horses on to theirhaunches. 

"I thought you were asleep, " he said. 

There was no one in sight. They were driving along the new road now, thehigh-way Paul had constructed from Osterno to Tver. The road itself was, of course, indistinguishable, but the telegraph posts marked its course. 

Steinmetz tumbled heavily out of his furs and went toward the nearesttelegraph post. 

"Where is the wire?" he shouted. 

Paul followed him in the sleigh. Together they peered up into thedarkness and the falling snow. The posts were there, but the wire wasgone. A whole length of it had been removed. They were cut off fromcivilization by one hundred and forty miles of untrodden snow. 

Steinmetz clambered back into the sleigh and drew up the fur apron. Hegave a strange little laugh that had a ring of boyish excitement in it. This man had not always been stout and placid. He too had had his day, and those who knew him said that it had been a stirring one. 

"That settles one question, " he said. 

"Which question?" asked Paul. 

He was driving as hard as the horses could lay hoof to ground, takenwith a sudden misgiving and a great desire to reach Osterno before dark. 

"The question of the ladies, " replied Steinmetz. "It is too late forthem to go now. "

The village, nestling beneath the grim protection of Osterno, wasdeserted and forlorn. All the doors were closed, the meagre curtainsdrawn. It was very cold. There was a sense of relief in this greatfrost; for when Nature puts forth her strength men are usually cowedthereby. 

At the castle all seemed to be in order. The groom, in his greatsheepskin coat, was waiting in the doorway. The servants threw open thevast doors, and stood respectfully in the warm, brilliantly lighted hallwhile their master passed in. 

"Where is the princess?" Steinmetz asked his valet, while he wasremoving the evidences of a long day in the open air. 

"In her drawing-room, Excellency. "

"Then go and ask her if she will give me a cup of tea in a few minutes. "

And the man, a timorous German, went. 

A few minutes later Steinmetz, presenting himself at the door of thelittle drawing-room attached to Etta's suite of rooms, found theprincess in a matchless tea-gown waiting beside a table laden withsilver tea appliances. A dainty samovar, a tiny tea-pot, a spirit-lampand the rest, all in the wonderful silver-work of the Slavonski Bazaarin Moscow. 

"You see, " she said with a smile, for she always smiled on men, "I haveobeyed your orders. "

Steinmetz bowed gravely. He was one of the few men who could see thatsmile and be strong. He closed the door carefully behind him. No mentionwas made of the fact that his message had implied, and she hadunderstood, that he wished to see her alone. Etta was rather pale. Therewas an anxious look in her eyes--behind the smile, as it were. She wasafraid of this man. She looked at the flame of the samovar, busyingherself among the tea-things with pretty curving fingers and rustlingsleeves. But the tea was never made. 

"I begin to think, " said Steinmetz, coming to the point in his bluffway, "that you are a sort of beautiful Jonah, a graceful stormy petrel, a fair Wandering Jewess. There is always trouble where you go. "

She glanced at his broad face, and read nothing there. 

"Go on, " she said. "What have I been doing now? How you do hate me, HerrSteinmetz!"

"Perhaps it is safer than loving you, " he answered, with his grim humor. 

"I suppose, " she said, with a quaint little air of resignation which wasvery disarming, "that you have come here to scold me--you do not wantany tea?"

"No; I do not want any tea. "

She turned the wick of the spirit-lamp, and the peaceful music of thesamovar was still. In her clever eyes there was a little air of sidelongindecision. She could not make up her mind how to take him. Her chiefestmethod was so old as to be biblical. Yet she could not take him with hereyelids. She had tried. 

"You are horribly grave, " she said. 

"The situation, " he replied, "is horribly grave. "

Etta looked up at him as he stood before her, and the lamp-light, falling on the perfect oval of her face, showed it to be white anddrawn. 

"Princess, " said the man, "there are in the lives of some of us timeswhen we cease to be men and women, and become mere human beings. Thereare times, I mean, when the thousand influences of sex die at one blowof fate. This is such a time. We must forget that you are a beautifulwoman; I verily believe that there is none more beautiful in the world. I once knew one whom I admired more, but that was not because she wasmore beautiful. That, however, is my own story, and this"--he paused andlooked round the little room, furnished, decorated for hercomfort--"this is your story. We must forget that I am a man, andtherefore subject to the influence of your beauty. "

She sat looking up into his strong, grave face, and during all thatfollowed she never moved. 

"I know you, " he said, "to be courageous, and must ask you to believethat I exaggerate nothing in what I am about to tell you. I tell it toyou instead of leaving Paul to do so because I know his completefearlessness, and his blind faith in a people who are unworthy of it. Hedoes not realize the gravity of the situation. They are his own people. A sailor never believes that his own ship is unseaworthy. "

"Go on!" said Etta, for he had paused. 

"This country, " he continued, "is unsettled. The people of the estateare on the brink of a revolt. You know what the Russian peasant is. Itwill be no Parisian émeute, half noise, half laughter. We cannot hope tohold this old place against them. We cannot get away from it. We cannotsend for help because we have no one to send. Princess, this is no timefor half-confidences. I know--for I know these people better even thanPaul knows them--I am convinced that this is not the outcome of theirown brains. They are being urged on by some one. There is some one attheir backs. This is no revolt of the peasants, organized by thepeasants. Princess, you must tell me all you know!"

"I--I, " she stammered, "I know nothing!"

And then suddenly she burst into tears, and buried her face in a tiny, useless handkerchief. It was so unlike her and so sudden that Steinmetzwas startled. 

He laid his great hand soothingly on her shoulder. 

"I know, " he said quietly, "I know more than you think. I am no saint, princess, myself. I too have had my difficulties. I have had mytemptations, and I have not always resisted. God knows it is difficultfor men to do always the right thing. It is a thousand times moredifficult for women. When we spoke together in Petersburg, and I offeredyou my poor friendship, I was not acting in the dark. I knew as muchthen as I do now. Princess, I knew about the Charity League papers. Iknew more than any except Stépan Lanovitch, and it was he who told me. "

He was stroking her shoulder with the soothing movements that one usestoward a child in distress. His great hand, broad and thick, had acertain sense of quiet comfort and strength in it. Etta ceased sobbing, and sat with bowed head, looking through her tears into the gay woodfire. It is probable that she failed to realize the great charity of theman who was speaking to her. For the capacity for evil merges at somepoint or other into incapability for comprehending good. 

"Is that all he knows?" she was wondering. 

The suggestion that Sydney Bamborough was not dead had risen up toeclipse all other fear in her mind. In some part her thought reachedhim. 

"I know so much, " he said, "that it is safest to tell me more. I offeredyou my friendship because I think that no woman could carry through yourdifficulties unaided. Princess, the admiration of Claude de Chauxvillemay be pleasant, but I venture to think that my friendship isessential. "

Etta raised her head a little. She was within an ace of handing over toKarl Steinmetz the rod of power held over her by the Frenchman. Therewas something in Steinmetz that appealed to her and softened her, something that reached a tender part of her heart through the coating ofvanity, through the hardness of worldly experience. 

"I have known De Chauxville twenty-five years, " he went on, and Ettadeferred her confession. "We have never been good friends, I admit. I amno saint, princess, but De Chauxville is a villain. Some day you maydiscover, when it is too late, that it would have been for Paul'shappiness, for your happiness, for every one's good to have nothing moreto do with Claude de Chauxville, I want to save you that discovery. Willyou act upon my advice? Will you make a stand now? Will you come to meand tell me all that De Chauxville knows about you that he could everuse against you? Will you give yourself into my hands--give me yourbattle to fight? You cannot do it alone. Only believe in my friendship, princess. That is all I ask. "

Etta shook her head. 

"I think not, " she answered, in a voice too light, too superficial, toohopelessly shallow for the depth of the moment. She was thinking only ofSydney Bamborough, and of that dread secret. She fought with what armsshe wielded best--the lightest, the quickest, the most baffling. 

"As you will, " said Steinmetz. 

CHAPTER XXXV

ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM

A Russian village kabak, with a smoking lamp, of which the chimney isbroken. The greasy curtains drawn across the small windows exclude thefaintest possibility of a draught. The moujik does not like a draught;in fact, he hates the fresh air of heaven. Air that has been breathedthree or four times over is the air for him; it is warmer. Theatmosphere of this particular inn is not unlike that of every other innin the White Empire, inasmuch as it is heavily seasoned with the scentof cabbage soup. The odor of this nourishing compound is only exceededin unpleasantness by the taste of the same. Added to this warm smellthere is the smoke of a score of the very cheapest cigarettes. TheRussian peasant smokes his cigarette now. It is the first step, and itdoes not cost him much. It is the dawn of progress--the thin end of thewedge which will broaden out into anarchy. The poor man who smokes acigarette is sure to pass on to socialistic opinions and troubles in themarket-place. Witness the cigarette-smoking countries. Moreover, thissame poor man is not a pleasant companion. He smokes a poor cigarette. 

There is also the smell of vodka, which bottled curse is standing intumblers all down the long table. The news has spread in Osterno thatvodka is to be had for the asking at the kabak, where there is ameeting. Needless to say, the meeting is a large one. Foolishness andthirst are often found in the same head--a cranium which, by the way, isexceptionally liable to be turned by knowledge or drink. 

If the drink at the kabak of Osterno was dangerous, the knowledge was noless so. 

"I tell you, little fathers, " an orator was shouting, "that the day ofthe capitalist has gone. The rich men--the princes, the nobles, thegreat merchants, the monopolists, the tchinovniks--tremble. They knowthat the poor man is awakening at last from his long lethargy. What havewe done in Germany? What have we done in America? What have we done inEngland and France?"

Whereupon he banged an unwashed fist upon the table with such emphasisthat more than one of the audience clutched his glass of vodka in alarm, lest a drop of the precious liquor should be wasted. 

No one seemed to know what had been done in Germany, in America, inEngland, or in France. The people's orator is a man of many questionsand much fist-banging. The moujiks of Osterno gazed at him beneath theirshaggy brows. Half of them did not understand him. They were as yetuneducated to a comprehension of the street orator's periods. A few ofthe more intelligent waited for him to answer his own questions, whichhe failed to do. A vague and ominous question carries as much weightwith some people as a statement, and has the signal advantage of beingless incriminating. 

The speaker--a neckless, broad-shouldered ruffian of the type known inEngland as "unemployed"--looked round with triumphant head well thrownback. From his attitude it was obvious that he had been the salvation ofthe countries named, and had now come to Russia to do the same for her. He spoke with the throaty accent of the Pole. It was quite evident thathis speech was a written one--probably a printed harangue issued to himand his compeers for circulation throughout the country. He deliveredmany of the longer words with a certain unctuous roll of the tongue, andan emphasis indicating the fact that he did not know their meaning. 

"From afar, " he went on, "we have long been watching you. We have notedyour difficulties and your hardships, your sickness, your starvation. 'These men of Tver, ' we have said, 'are brave and true and steadfast. Wewill tell them of liberty. ' So I have come to you, and I am glad to seeyou. Alexander Alexandrovitch, pass the bottle down the table. You see, little fathers, I have not come begging for your money. No; keep yourkopecks in your pocket. We do not want your money. We are notchinovniks. We prove it by giving you vodka to keep your throats wetand your ears open. Fill up your glasses--fill up your glasses!"

The little fathers of Osterno understood this part of the harangueperfectly, and acted upon it. 

The orator scratched his head reflectively. There was a certainbusiness-like mouthing of his periods, showing that he had learnt allthis by heart. He did not press all his points home in the manner of onespeaking from his own brain. 

"I see before me, " he went on, without an overplus of sequence, "menworthy to take their place among the rulers of the world--eh--er--rulersof the world, little fathers. "

He paused and drank half a tumbler of vodka. His last statement was soobviously inapplicable--what he actually did see was so very far removedfrom what he said he saw--that he decided to relinquish the point. 

"I drink, " he cried, "to Liberty and Equality!"

Some of the little fathers also drank, to assuage an hereditary thirst. 

"And now, " continued the orator, "let us get to business. I think weunderstand each other?"

He looked round with an engaging smile upon faces brutal enough to suithis purpose, but quite devoid of intelligence. There was not muchunderstanding there. 

"The poor man has one only way of making himself felt--force. We haveworked for generations, we have toiled in silence, and we have gatheredstrength. The time has now come for us to put forth our strength. Thetime has gone by for merely asking for what we want. We asked, and theyheard us not. We will now go and take!"

A few who had heard this speech or something like it before shoutedtheir applause at this moment. Before the noise had subsided the dooropened, and two or three men pushed their way into the alreadyovercrowded room. 

"Come in, come in!" cried the orator; "the more the better. You are allwelcome. All we require, then, little fathers, is organization. Thereare nine hundred souls in Osterno; are you going to bow down before oneman? All men are equal--moujik and bárin, krestyanin and prince. Why doyou not go up to the castle that frowns down upon the village, and tellthe man there that you are starving, that he must feed you, that you arenot going to work from dawn till eve while he sits on his velvet couchand smokes his gold-tipped cigarettes. Why do you not go and tell himthat you are not going to starve and die while he eats caviare andpeaches from gold plates and dishes?"

A resounding bang of the fist finished this fine oration, and again thequestions were unanswered. 

"They are all the same, these aristocrats, " the man thundered on. "Yourprince is as the others, I make no doubt. Indeed, I know; for I havebeen told by our good friend Abramitch here. A clever man our friendAbramitch, and when you get your liberty--when you get your Mir--youmust keep him in mind. Your prince, then--this Howard Alexis--treats youlike the dirt beneath his feet. Is it not so? He will not listen to yourcry of hunger. He will not give you a few crumbs of food from his golddishes. He will not give you a few kopecks of the millions of rublesthat he possesses. And where did he get those rubles? Ah! where did heget them--eh? Tell me that!"

Again the interrogative unwashed fist. As the orator's wild and frenziedeye travelled round the room it lighted on a form near the door--a manstanding a head and shoulders above any one in the room, a man envelopedin an old brown coat, with a woollen shawl round his throat, hiding halfhis face. 

"Who is that?" cried the orator, with an unsteady, pointing finger. "Heis no moujik. Is that a tchinovnik, little fathers? Has he come here toour meeting to spy upon us?"

"You may ask them who I am, " replied the giant. "They know; they willtell you. It is not the first time that I tell them they are fools. Itell them again now. They are fools and worse to listen to such windbagsas you. "

"Who is it?" cried the paid agitator. "Who is this man?"

His eyes were red with anger and with vodka; his voice was unsteady. Hisoutstretched hand shook. 

"It is the Moscow doctor, " said a man beside him--"the Moscow doctor. "

"Then I say he is no doctor!" shouted the orator. "He is a spy--aGovernment spy, a tchinovnik! He has heard all we have said. He has seenyou all. Brothers, that man must not leave this room alive. If he does, you are lost men!"

Some few of the more violent spirits rose and pressed tumultuouslytoward the door. The agitator shouted and screamed, urging them on, taking good care to remain in the safe background himself. Every man inthe room rose to his feet. They were full of vodka and fury andignorance. Spirit and tall talk, taken on an empty stomach, aredangerous stimulants. 

Paul stood with his back to the door and never moved. 

"Sit down, fools!" he cried. "Sit down! Listen to me. You dare not touchme; you know that. "

It seemed that he was right, for they stopped with staring, stupid eyesand idle hands. 

"Will you listen to me, whom you have known for years, or to this talkerfrom the town? Choose now. I am tired of you. I have been patient withyou for years. You are sheep; are you fools also, to be dazzled by thewords of an idle talker who promises all and gives nothing?"

There was a sullen silence. Paul had lost his power over them, and heknew it. He was quite cool and watchful. He knew that he was in danger. These men were wild and ignorant. They were mad with drink and the bravewords of the agitator. 

"Choose now!" he shouted, feeling for the handle of the door behind hisback. 

They made no sign, but watched the faces of their leaders. 

"If I go now, " said Paul, "I never come again!"

He opened the door. The men whom he had nursed and clothed and fed, whose lives he had saved again and again, stood sullen and silent. 

Paul passed slowly out and closed the door behind him. Without it wasdark and still. There would be a moon presently, and in the meantime itwas preparing to freeze harder than ever. 

Paul walked slowly up the village street, while two men emergedseparately from the darkness of by-lanes and followed him. He did notheed them. He was not aware that the thermometer stood somewhere belowzero. He did not even trouble to draw on his fur gloves. 

He felt like a man whose own dogs have turned against him. The placethat these peasants had occupied in his heart had been precisely thatvacancy which is filled by dogs and horses in the hearts of many men. There was in his feeling for them that knowledge of a completedependence by which young children draw and hold a mother's love. 

Paul Howard Alexis was not a man to analyze his thoughts. Your strongman is usually ignorant of the existence of his own feelings. He isnever conscious of them. Paul walked slowly through the village ofOsterno, and realized, in his uncompromising honesty, that of the ninehundred men who lived therein there were not three upon whom he couldrely. He had upheld his peasants for years against the cynic truths ofKarl Steinmetz. He had resolutely refused to admit even to himself thatthey were as devoid of gratitude as they were of wisdom. And this wasthe end of all!

One of the men following him hurried on and caught him up. 

"Excellency, " he gasped, breathless with his haste, "you must not comehere alone any longer. I am afraid of them--I have no control. "

Paul paused, and suited his pace to the shorter legs of his companion. 

"Starosta!" he said. "Is that you?"

"Yes, Excellency. I saw you go into the kabak, so I waited outside andwatched. I did not dare to go inside. They will not allow me there. Theyare afraid that I should give information. "

"How long have these meetings been going on?"

"The last three nights, Excellency, in Osterno; but it is the same allover the estate. "

"Only on the estate?"

"Yes, Excellency. "

"Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, Excellency. "

Paul walked on in silence for some paces. The third man followed themwithout catching them up. 

"I do not understand, Excellency, " said the starosta anxiously. "It isnot the Nihilists. "

"No; it is not the Nihilists. "

"And they do not want money, Excellency; that seems strange. "

"Very!" admitted Paul ironically. 

"And they give vodka. "

This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the starosta's road to asolution of the mystery. 

"Find out for me, " said Paul, after a pause, "who this man is, where hecomes from, and how much he is paid to open his mouth. We will pay himmore to shut it. Find out as much as you can, and let me knowto-morrow. "

"I will try, Excellency; but I have little hope of succeeding. Theydistrust me. They send the children to my shop for what they want, andthe little ones have evidently been told not to chatter. The moujiksavoid me when they meet me. What can I do?"

"You can show them that you are not afraid of them, " answered Paul. "That goes a long way with the moujik. "

They walked on together through the lane of cottages, where furtiveforms lurked in door-ways and behind curtains. And Paul had only oneword of advice to give, upon which he harped continually: "Be thou verycourageous--be thou very courageous. " Nothing new, for so it was writtenin the oldest book of all. The starosta was a timorous man, needing suchstrong support as his master gave him from time to time. 

At the great gates of the park they paused, and Paul gave the mayor ofOsterno a few last words of advice. While they were standing there theother man who had been following joined them. 

"Is that you, Steinmetz?" asked Paul, his hand thrust with suspiciousspeed into his jacket pocket. 

"Yes. "

"What are you doing here?"

"Watching you, " answered Karl Steinmetz, in his mild way. "It is nolonger safe for either of us to go about alone. It was mere foolery yourgoing to that kabak. "

CHAPTER XXXVI

À TROIS

Of all the rooms in the great castle Etta liked the morning-room best. Persons of a troubled mind usually love to look upon a wide prospect. The mind, no doubt, fears the unseen approach of detection or danger, and transmits this dread to the eye, which likes to command a wide viewall around. 

The great drawing-room was only used after dinner. Until that time theladies spent the day either in their own boudoirs or in the morning-roomlooking over the cliff. Here, while the cold weather lasted, Etta hadtea served, and thither the gentlemen usually repaired at the hour setapart for the homely meal. They had come regularly the last fewevenings. Paul and Steinmetz had suddenly given up their long drives todistant parts of the estate. 

Here the whole party was assembled on the Sunday afternoon followingPaul's visit to the village kabak, and to them came an unexpected guest. The door was thrown open, and Claude de Chauxville, pale, butself-possessed and quiet, came into the room. The perfect ease of hismanner bespoke a practised familiarity with the position difficult. Hislast parting with Paul and Steinmetz had been, to say the least of it, strained. Maggie, he knew, disliked and distrusted him. Etta hated andfeared him. 

He was in riding costume--a short fur jacket, fur gloves, a cap in hishand, and a silver-mounted crop. A fine figure of a man--smart, wellturned out, well-groomed--a gentleman. 

"Prince, " he said frankly, "I have come to throw myself upon yourgenerosity. Will you lend me a horse? I was riding in the forest when myhorse fell over a root and lamed himself. I found I was only three milesfrom Osterno, so I came. My misfortune must be my excuse forthis--intrusion. "

Paul performed graciously enough that which charity and politenessdemanded of him. There are plenty of people who trade unscrupulouslyupon these demands, but it is probable that they mostly have theirreward. Love and friendship are stronger than charity and politeness, and those who trade upon the latter are rarely accorded the former. 

So Paul ignored the probability that De Chauxville had lamed his horseon purpose, and offered him refreshment while his saddle was beingtransferred to the back of a fresh mount. Farther than that he did notgo. He did not consider himself called upon to offer a night'shospitality to the man who had attempted to murder him a week before. 

With engaging frankness De Chauxville accepted every thing. It is an artsoon acquired and soon abused. There is something honest in anungracious acceptance of favors. Steinmetz suggested that perhaps M. DeChauxville had lunched sparsely, and the Frenchman admitted that suchwas the case, but that he loved afternoon tea above all meals. 

"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 theservants were setting before this uninvited guest a few more substantialdelicacies. 

"Ah, no, prince! This is my first attempt, and if it had not procured methis pleasure I should say that it will be my last. "

"It is easy to lose yourself, " said Paul; "besides"--and the two friendswatched the Frenchman's face closely--"besides, the country is disturbedat 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--astranger in the land. "

"And an orphan, too, I have no doubt, " added Steinmetz, with a laugh. "But would the moujik pause to enquire, my very dear De Chauxville?"

"At all events, I should not pause to answer, " replied the Frenchman, inthe same, light tone. "I should evacuate. Ah, mademoiselle, " he went on, addressing Maggie, "they have been attempting to frighten you, Isuspect, with their stories of disturbed peasantry. It is to keep up thelurid local color. They must have their romance, these Russians. "

And so the ball was kept rolling. There was never any lack ofconversation when Steinmetz and De Chauxville were together, nor was thetalk without sub-flavor of acidity. At length the centre of attentionhimself diverted that attention. He inaugurated an argument over thebest cross-country route from Osterno to Thors, which sent Steinmetz outof the room for a map. During the absence of the watchful German headmired the view from the window, and this strategetic movement enabledhim 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 respectingthe road to Thors, Etta left the room, and a few minutes later theservant announced that the baron's horse was at the door. 

De Chauxville took his leave at once, with many assurances of lastinggratitude. 

"Kindly, " he added, "make my adieux to the princess; I will not troubleher. "

Quite by accident he met Etta at the head of the state staircase, andexpressed such admiration for the castle that she opened the door of thelarge drawing-room and took him to see that apartment. 

"What I arranged for Thursday is for the day after to-morrow--Tuesday, "said De Chauxville, as soon as they were alone. "We cannot keep themback any longer. You understand--the side door to be opened at seveno'clock. Ah! who is this?"

They both turned. Steinmetz was standing behind them, but he could nothave heard De Chauxville's words. He closed the door carefully, and cameforward with his grim smile. 

"À nous trois!" he said, and the subsequent conversation was in thelanguage in which these three understood each other best. 

De Chauxville bit his lip and waited. It was a moment of the tensestsuspense. 

"À nous trois!" repeated Steinmetz. "De Chauxville, you love an epigram. The man who overestimates the foolishness of others is himself thebiggest fool concerned. A lame horse--the prince's generosity--makingyour adieux. Mon Dieu! you should know me better than that after allthese years. No, you need not look at the door. No one will interruptus. 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 itwas impossible to say. There was in the man something strong and goodand 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 befeared. The strength of his will made itself felt. 

He turned to the princess with the grave courtesy that always marked hisattitude toward her. 

"Madame, " he said, "I fully recognize your cleverness in raisingyourself to the position you now occupy. But I would remind you thatthat position carries with it certain obligations. It is hardlydignified for a princess to engage herself in a vulgar love intrigue inher own house. "

"It is not a vulgar love intrigue!" cried Etta, with blazing eyes. "Iwill not allow you to say that! Where is your boasted friendship? Isthis 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 hismustache as he watched Etta's face. For a moment the woman stood--notthe first woman to stand thus--between two fears. Then she turned toSteinmetz. The victory was his--the greatest he had ever torn from thegrasp 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. Youinterfere in what does not concern you. "

"My very dear De Chauxville, I think not. At all events, I am going tocontinue to interfere. "

Etta looked from one to the other. She had at the first impulse goneover to Steinmetz. She was now meditating drawing back. If De Chauxvillekept cool all might yet be well--the dread secret of the probability ofSydney Bamborough being alive might still be withheld from Steinmetz. For the moment it would appear that she was about to occupy theignominious position of the bone of contention. If these two men weregoing to use her as a mere excuse to settle a lifelong quarrel of manyissues, it was probable that there would not be much left of hercharacter 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 not going until I have finished with him, madame. This may be the last time we meet. I hope it is. "

De Chauxville looked uneasy. His was a ready wit, and fear was the onlyfeeling that paralyzed it. Etta looked at him. Was his wit going todesert him now when he most needed it? He had ridden boldly into thelion's den. Such a proceeding requires a certain courage, but a higherform of intrepidity is required to face the lion standing before theexit. 

De Chauxville looked at Steinmetz with shifty eyes. He was very like themask of the lynx in the smoking-room, even to the self-conscious, deprecatory smile on the countenance of the forest sneak. 

"Keep your temper, " he said; "do not let us quarrel in the presence of alady. "

"No; we will keep the quarrel till afterward. "

Steinmetz turned to Etta. 

"Princess, " he said, "will you now, in my presence, forbid this man tocome to this or any other house of yours? Will you forbid him to addresshimself either by speech or letter to you again?"

"You know I cannot do that, " replied Etta. 

"Why not?"

Etta made no answer. 

"Because, " replied De Chauxville for her, "the princess is too wise tomake an enemy of me. In that respect she is wiser than you. She knowsthat I could send you and your prince to Siberia. "

Steinmetz laughed. 

"Nonsense!" he said. "Princess, " he went on, "if you think that the factof De Chauxville numbering among his friends a few obscure police spiesgives him the right to persecute you, you are mistaken. Our friend isvery clever, but he can do no harm with the little that he knows of theCharity League. "

Etta remained silent. The silence made Steinmetz frown. 

"Princess, " he said gravely, "you were indignant just now because I madeso bold as to put the most natural construction upon the circumstancesin which I found you. It was a prearranged meeting between De Chauxvilleand yourself. If the meeting was not the outcome of an intrigue such asI mentioned, nor the result of this man's hold over you on account ofthe Charity League, what was it? I beg of you to answer. "

Etta made no reply. Instead, she raised her eyes and looked at DeChauxville. 

"Without going into affairs which do not concern you, " said theFrenchman, answering for her, "I think you will recognize that thesecret of the Charity League was quite sufficient excuse for me torequest a few minutes alone with the princess. "

Of this Steinmetz took no notice. He was standing in front of Etta, between De Chauxville and the door. His broad, deeply lined face wasflushed with the excitement of the moment. His great mournful eyes, yellow and drawn with much reading and the hardships of a rigorousclimate, were fixed anxiously on her face. 

Etta was not looking at him. Her eyes were turned toward the window, butthey did not see with comprehension. She was stony and stubborn. 

"Princess, " said Steinmetz, "answer me before it is too late. Has DeChauxville any other hold over you?"

Etta nodded, and the little action brought a sudden gleam to theFrenchman's eyes. 

"If, " said Steinmetz, looking from one to the other, "if you two havebeen deceiving Paul I will have no mercy, I warn you of that. "

Etta turned on him. 

"Can you not believe me?" she cried. "I have practised no deception incommon with M. De Chauxville. "

"The Charity League is quite enough for you, my friend, " put in theFrenchman hurriedly. 

"You know no more of the Charity League than you did before--than thewhole world knew before--except this lady's share in the disposal of thepapers, " said Steinmetz. 

"And this lady's share in the disposal of the papers will not be welcomenews to the prince, " answered De Chauxville. 

"Welcome or unwelcome, he shall be told of it to-night. "

Etta looked round sharply, her lips apart and trembling. 

"By whom?" asked De Chauxville. 

"By me, " replied Steinmetz. 

There was a momentary pause. De Chauxville and Etta exchanged a glance. Etta felt that she was lost. This Frenchman was not one to spare eitherman or woman from any motive of charity or chivalry. 

"Even if that is so, " he said, "the princess is not relieved from theembarrassment of her situation. "

"No?"

"No, my astute friend. There is a little matter connected with SydneyBamborough which has come to my knowledge. "

Etta moved, but she said nothing. The sound of her breathing wasstartlingly loud. 

"Ah! Sydney Bamborough, " said Steinmetz slowly. "What about him?"

"He is not dead; that is all. "

Karl Steinmetz passed his broad hand down over his face, covering hismouth for a second. 

"But he died. He was found on the steppe, and buried at Tver. "

"So the story runs, " said De Chauxville, with easy sarcasm. "But whofound him on the steppe? Who buried him at Tver?"

"I did, my friend. "

The next second Steinmetz staggered back a step or two as Etta fellheavily into his arms. But he never took his eyes off De Chauxville. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

À DEUX

Steinmetz laid Etta on a sofa. She was already recovering consciousness. He rang the bell twice, and all the while he kept his eye on DeChauxville. A quick touch on Etta's wrist and breast showed that thisman knew something of women and of those short-lived fainting fits thatbelong to strong emotions. 

The maid soon came. 

"The princess requires your attention, " said Steinmetz, still watchingDe Chauxville, who was looking at Etta and neglecting his opportunities. 

Steinmetz went up to him and took him by the arm. 

"Come with me, " he said. 

The Frenchman could have taken advantage of the presence of the servantto effect a retreat, but he did not dare to do so. It was essential thathe should obtain a few words with Etta. To effect this, he was readyeven to face an interview with Steinmetz. In his heart he was cursingthat liability to inconvenient fainting fits that make all womenunreliable in a moment of need. 

He preceded Steinmetz out of the room, forgetting even to resent thelarge, warm grasp on his arm. They went through the long, dimly litpassage to the old part of the castle, where Steinmetz had his rooms. 

"And now, " said Steinmetz, when they were alone with closed doors, "andnow, De Chauxville, let us understand each other. "

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He was not thinking of Steinmetzyet. He was still thinking of Etta and how he could get speech with her. With the assurance which had carried him through many a difficultybefore this, the Frenchman looked round him, taking in the details ofthe room. They were in the apartment beyond the large smoking room--theante-room, as it were, to the little chamber where Paul kept hismedicine-chest, his disguise, all the compromising details of his workamong the peasants. The broad writing-table in the middle of the roomstood between the two men. 

"Do you imagine yourself in love with the princess?" asked Steinmetzsuddenly, with characteristic bluntness. 

"If you like, " returned the other. 

"If I thought that it was that, " said the German, looking at himthoughtfully, "I would throw you out of the window. If it is any thingelse, I will only throw you down stairs. "

De Chauxville bit his thumb-nail anxiously. He frowned across the tableinto Steinmetz's face. In all their intercourse he had never heard thattone of voice; he had never seen quite that look on the heavy face. WasSteinmetz aroused at last? Steinmetz aroused was an unknown quantity toClaude de Chauxville. 

"I have known you now for twenty-five years, " went on Karl Steinmetz, "and I cannot say that I know any good of you. But let that pass; it isnot, I suppose, my business. The world is as the good God made it. I cando nothing toward bettering it. I have always known you to be ascoundrel--a fact to be deplored--and that is all. But so soon as yourvillany affects my own life, then, my friend, a more active recognitionof it is necessary. "

"Indeed!" sneered the Frenchman. 

"Your villany has touched Paul's life, and at that point it touchesmine, " continued Karl Steinmetz, with slow anger. "You followed us toPetersburg--thence you dogged us to the Government of Tver. You twistedthat foolish woman, the Countess Lanovitch, round your finger, andobtained from her an invitation to Thors. All this in order to be nearone of us. Ach! I have been watching you. Is it only after twenty-fiveyears that I at last convince you that I am not such a fool as you arepleased to consider me?"

"You have not convinced me yet, " put in De Chauxville, with his easylaugh. 

"No, but I shall do so before I have finished with you. Now, you havenot come here for nothing. It is to be near one of us. It is not MissDelafield; she knows you. Some women--good women--have an instinct givento them by God for a defence against such men--such things as you. Is itI?"

He touched his broad chest with his two hands, and stood defying hislife-long foe. 

"Is it me that you follow? If so, I am here. Let us have done with itnow. "

De Chauxville laughed. There was an uneasy look in his eyes. He did notquite understand Steinmetz. He made no answer. But he turned and lookedat the window. It is possible that he suddenly remembered the threatconcerning it. 

"Is it Paul?" continued Steinmetz. "I think not. I think you are afraidof Paul. Remains the princess. Unless you can convince me to thecontrary, I must conclude that you are trying to get a helpless womaninto your power. "

"You always were a champion of helpless ladies, " sneered De Chauxville. 

"Ah! You remember that, do you? I also--I remember it. It is long ago, and I have forgiven you; but I have not forgotten. What you were thenyou will be now. Your record is against you. "

Steinmetz was standing with his back to what appeared to be the onlyexit from the room. There were two other doors concealed in the oakenpanels, but De Chauxville did not know that. He could not take his eyesfrom the broad face of his companion, upon which there were singularblotches of color. 

"I am waiting, " said the German, "for you to explain your conduct. "

"Indeed!" replied De Chauxville. "Then, my friend, you will have tocontinue waiting. I fail to recognize your right to make enquiry into mymovements. I am not responsible to any man for my actions, least of allto you. The man who manages his neighbor's affairs mismanages his own. Iwould recommend you to mind your own business. Kindly let me pass. "

De Chauxville's words were brave enough, but his lips were unsteady. Aweak mouth is apt to betray its possessor at inconvenient moments. Hewaved Steinmetz aside, but he made no movement toward the door. He keptthe table between him and his companion. 

Steinmetz was getting calmer. There was an uncanny hush about him. 

"Then I am to conclude, " he said, "that you came to Russia in order topersecute a helpless woman. Her innocence or her guilt is, for themoment, beside the question. Neither is any business of yours. Both, onthe contrary, are my affair. Innocent or guilty, the Princess HowardAlexis must from this moment be freed from your persecution. "

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He tapped on the floor impatientlywith the toe of his neat riding-boot. 

"Allons!" he said. "Let me pass!"

"Your story of Sydney Bamborough, " went on Steinmetz coldly, "was a goodone wherewith to frighten a panic-stricken woman. But you brought it tothe wrong person when you brought it to me. Do you suppose that I wouldhave allowed the marriage to take place unless I knew that Bamboroughwas dead?"

"You may be telling the truth about that incident or you may not, " saidDe Chauxville. "But my knowledge of the betrayal of the Charity Leagueis sufficient for my purpose. "

"Yes, " admitted Steinmetz grimly, "you have information there withpossibilities of mischief in it. But I shall discount most of it bytelling Prince Pavlo to-night all that I know, and I know more than youdo. Also, I intend to seal your lips before you leave this room. "

De Chauxville stared at him with a dropping lip. He gulped downsomething in his throat. His hand was stealing round under the furjacket 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 throughthe window. De Chauxville raised his arm sharply, and at the sameinstant Steinmetz threw a book in his face. A loud report, and the roomwas full of smoke. 

Steinmetz placed one hand on the table and, despite his weight, vaultedit cleanly. This man had taken his degree at Heidelberg, and the Germansare the finest gymnasts in the world. Moreover, muscle, once made, remains till death. It was his only chance, for the Frenchman had dodgedthe 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, hisheavy eyes ablaze. If any thing will rouse a man, it is being fired atpoint-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 intothe 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 todo with you? I am going to thrash you like a dog!"

He dragged him to the fire-place. Above the mantelpiece a stick-rack wasaffixed to the wall, and here were sticks and riding-whips. Steinmetzselected a heavy whip. His eyes were shot with blood; his mouth workedbeneath 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 onlysucceeded in half choking himself. 

"You are going to swear, " said Steinmetz, "never to approach theprincess again--never to divulge what you know of her past life. "

The Frenchman was almost blue in the face. His eyes were wild withterror. 

And Karl Steinmetz thrashed him. 

It did not last long. No word was spoken. The silence was only broken bytheir shuffling feet, by the startling report of each blow, by DeChauxville's repeated gasps of pain. 

The fur jacket was torn in several places. The white shirt appeared hereand there. In one place it was stained with red. 

At last Steinmetz threw him huddled into one corner of the room. Thechattering face, the wild eyes that looked up at him, were terrible tosee. 

"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. Steinmetzpoured some water into a tumbler and gave it to him. 

"It had to come to this, " he said, "sooner or later. Paul would havekilled you; that is the only difference. Do you swear by God in heavenabove 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 whitein his eyes was quite red. 

De Chauxville was crawling toward the revolver in the corner of theroom, but he was almost fainting. It was a question whether he wouldlast long enough to reach the fire-arm. There was a bright patch of redin either liver-colored cheek; his lips were working convulsively. AndSteinmetz saw him in time. He seized him by the collar of his coat anddragged him back. He placed his foot on the little pistol and faced DeChauxville with glaring eyes. De Chauxville rose to his feet, and for amoment the two men looked into each other's souls. The Frenchman's facewas twisted with pain. No word was said. 

Such was the last reckoning between Karl Steinmetz and the Baron Claudede Chauxville. 

The Frenchman went slowly toward the door. He faltered and looked roundfor a chair. He sat heavily down with a little exclamation of pain andexhaustion, and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. The scented cambricdiffused a faint, dainty odor of violets. He sat forward with his twohands on his knees, swaying a little from side to side. Presently heraised his handkerchief to his face. There were tears in his eyes. 

Thus the two men waited until De Chauxville had recovered himselfsufficiently to take his departure. The air was full of naked humanpassions. It was rather a grewsome scene. 

At last the Frenchman stood slowly up, and with characteristic thoughtof appearances fingered his torn coat. 

"Have you a cloak?" asked Steinmetz. 

"No. "

The German went to a cupboard in the wall and selected a longriding-cloak, which he handed to the Frenchman without a word. 

Thus Claude de Chauxville walked to the door in a cloak which hadfigured at many a Charity League meeting. Assuredly the irony of Fate isa keener thing than any poor humor we have at our command. When evil ispunished in this present life there is no staying of the hand. 

Steinmetz followed De Chauxville through the long passage they hadtraversed a few minutes earlier and down the broad staircase. Theservants were waiting at the door with the horse put at the Frenchman'sdisposal by Paul. 

De Chauxville mounted slowly, heavily, with twitching lips. His face wasset and cold now. The pain was getting bearable, the wounded vanity wasbleeding inwardly. In his dull eyes there was a gleam of hatred andmalice. It was the face of a man rejoicing inwardly over a deep andcertain vengeance. 

"It is well!" he was muttering between his clenched teeth as he rodeaway, while Steinmetz watched him from the doorstep. "It is well! Now Iwill not spare you. "

He rode down the hill and through the village, with the light of thesetting sun shining on a face where pain and deadly rage were fightingfor the mastery. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A TALE THAT IS TOLD

Karl Steinmetz walked slowly upstairs to his own room. The evening sun, shining through the small, deeply embrasured windows, fell on a face atno time joyous, now tired and worn. He sat down at his broadwriting-table, and looked round the room with a little blink of theeyelids. 

"I am getting too old for this sort of thing, " he said. 

His gaze lighted on the heavy riding-whip thrown on the ground near thedoor where he had released Claude de Chauxville, after the terriblepunishment meted out to that foe with heavy Teutonic hand. Steinmetzrose, and picking up the whip with the grunt of a stout man stooping, replaced it carefully in the rack over the mantelpiece. 

He stood looking out of the window for a few moments. 

"It will have to be done, " he said resolutely, and rang the bell. 

"My compliments to the prince, " he said to his servant, who appearedinstantly, "and will he come to me here. "

When Paul came into the room a few minutes later Steinmetz was standingby the fire. He turned and looked gravely at the prince. 

"I have just kicked De Chauxville out of the house, " he said. 

The color left Paul's face quite suddenly. 

"Why?" he asked, with hard eyes. He had begun to distrust Etta, andthere is nothing so hard to stop as the growth of distrust. 

Steinmetz did not answer at once. 

"Was it not _my_ privilege?" asked Paul, with a grim smile. There aresome smiles more terrible than any frown. 

"No, " answered Steinmetz, "I think not. It is not as bad as that. But itis bad enough, mein lieber!--it is bad enough! I horsewhipped him firstfor myself. Gott! how pleasant that was! And then I kicked him out foryou. "

"Why?" repeated Paul, with a white face. 

"It is a long story, " answered Steinmetz, without looking at him. "Heknows too much. "

"About whom?"

"About all of us. "

Paul walked away to the window. He stood looking out, his hands thrustinto the side-pockets of his jacket, his broad back turneduncompromisingly upon his companion. 

"Tell me the story, " he said. "You need not hurry over it. You need nottrouble to--spare me. Only let it be quite complete--once for all. "

Steinmetz winced. He knew the expression of the face that was lookingout of the window. 

"This man has hated me all his life, " he said. "It began as such thingsusually do between men--about a woman. It was years ago. I got thebetter of him, and the good God got the better of me. She died, and DeChauxville forgot her. I--have not forgotten her. But I have tried to doso. It is a slow process, and I have made very little progress; but allthat is my affair and beside the question. I merely mention it to showyou that De Chauxville had a grudge against me--"

"This is no time for mistaken charity, " interrupted Paul. "Do not try toscreen any body. I shall see through it. "

There was a little pause. Never had that silent room been so noiseless. 

"In after-life, " Steinmetz went on, "it was our fate to be at varianceseveral times. Our mutual dislike has had no opportunity of diminishing. It seems that, before you married, De Chauxville was pleased to considerhimself in love with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. Whether he had any right tothink himself ill-used, I do not know. Such matters are usually known totwo persons only, and imperfectly by them. It would appear that thewound to his vanity was serious. It developed into a thirst for revenge. He looked about for some means to do you harm. He communicated with yourenemies, and allied himself to such men as Vassili of Paris. He followedus to Petersburg, and then he had a stroke of good fortune. He foundout--who betrayed the Charity League!"

Paul turned slowly round. In his eyes there burned a dull, hungeringfire. Men have seen such a look in the eyes of a beast of prey, driven, famished, cornered at last, and at last face to face with its foe. 

"Ah! He knows that!" he said slowly. 

"Yes, God help us! he knows that. "

"And who was it?"

Steinmetz moved uneasily from one foot to the other. 

"It was a woman, " he said. 

"A woman?"

"A woman--you know, " said Steinmetz slowly. 

"Good God! Catrina?"

"No, not Catrina. "

"Then who?" cried Paul hoarsely. His hands fell heavily on the table. 

"Your wife!"

Paul knew before the words were spoken. 

He turned again, and stood looking out of the window with his handsthrust into his pockets. He stood there for whole minutes in an awfulstillness. The clock on the mantel-piece, a little travelling timepiece, ticked in a hurried way as if anxious to get on. Down beneath them, somewhere in the courtyards of the great castle, a dog--a deep-voicedwolf-hound--was baying persistently and nervously, listening for theecho of its own voice amid the pines of the desert forest. 

Steinmetz watched Paul's motionless back with a sort of fascination. Hemoved uneasily, as if to break a spell of silence almost unbearable inits intensity. He went to the table and sat down. From mere habit hetook up a quill pen. He looked at the point of it and at the inkstand. But he had nothing to write. There was nothing to say. 

He laid the pen aside, and sat leaning his broad head upon the palm ofhis hand, his two elbows on the table. Paul never moved. Steinmetzwaited. His own life had been no great success. He had had much to bear, and he had borne it. He was wondering heavily whether any of it had beenas bad as what Paul was bearing now while he looked out of the windowwith his hands in his pockets, saying nothing. 

At length Paul moved. He turned, and, coming toward the table, laid hishand on Steinmetz's broad shoulder. 

"Are you sure of it?" he asked, in a voice that did not sound like hisown at all--a hollow voice like that of an old man. 

"Quite; I have it from Stépan Lanovitch--from the princess herself. "

They remained thus for a moment. Then Paul withdrew his hand and walkedslowly to the window. 

"Tell me, " he said, "how she did it. "

Steinmetz was playing with the quill pen again. It is singular how atgreat moments we perform trivial acts, think trivial thoughts. He dippedthe pen in the ink, and made a pattern on the blotting-pad with dots. 

"It was an organized plan between husband and wife, " he said. "Bamborough turned up at Thors and asked for a night's lodging, on thestrength of a very small acquaintance. He stole the papers from Stépan'sstudy and took them to Tver, where his wife was waiting for them. Shetook them on to Paris and sold them to Vassili. Bamborough began hisjourney eastward, knowing presumably that he could not escape by thewestern frontier, but lost his way on the steppe. You remember the manwhom we picked up between here and Tver, with his face all cut topieces?--he had been dragged by the stirrup. That was Sydney Bamborough. The good God had hit back quickly. "

"How long have you known this?" asked Paul, in a queer voice. 

"I saw it suddenly in the princess's face, one day in Petersburg--a sortof revelation. I read it there, and she saw me reading. I should haveliked to keep it from you, for your sake as well as for hers. Our dailylife is made possible only by the fact that we know so little of ourneighbors. There are many things of which we are better ignorant rightup to the end. This might have been one of them. But De Chauxville foundit out, and it is better that I should tell you than he. "

Paul did not look around. The wolf-hound was still barking at its ownecho--a favorite pastime of those who make a great local stir in theworld. 

"Of course, " said Paul, after a long pause, "I have been a great fool. Iknow that. But--"

He turned and looked at Steinmetz with haggard eyes. 

"But I would rather go on being a fool than suspect any one of adeception like this. "

Steinmetz was still making patterns on the blotting-pad. 

"It is difficult for us men, " he said slowly, "to look at these thingsfrom a woman's point of view. They hold a different sense of honor fromours--especially if they are beautiful. And the fault isours--especially toward the beautiful ones. There may have beentemptations of which we are ignorant. "

Paul was still looking at him. Steinmetz looked up slowly, and saw thathe had grown ten years older in the last few minutes. He did not look athim for more than a second, because the sight of Paul's face hurt him. But he saw in that moment that Paul did not understand. This strong man, hard in his youthful strength of limb and purpose, would be just, butnothing more. And between man and man it is not always justice that isrequired. Between man and woman justice rarely meets the difficulty. 

"Comprendre c'est pardonner, " quoted Steinmetz vaguely. 

He hesitated to interfere between Paul and his wife. Axioms are made forcrucial moments. A man's life has been steered by a proverb before this. Some, who have no religion, steer by them all the voyage. 

Paul walked slowly to the chair he usually occupied, opposite toSteinmetz, at the writing-table. He walked and sat down as if he hadtravelled a long distance. 

"What is to be done?" asked Steinmetz. 

"I do not know. I do not think that it matters much. What do yourecommend?"

"There is so much to be done, " answered Steinmetz, "that it is difficultto know what to do first. We must not forget that De Chauxville isfurious. He will do all the harm of which he is capable at once. We mustnot forget that the country is in a state of smoldering revolt, and thatwe have two women, two English ladies, entrusted to our care. "

Paul moved uneasily in his chair. His companion had struck the rightnote. This large man was happiest when he was tiring himself out. 

"Yes; but about Etta?" he said. 

And the sound of his voice made Steinmetz wince. There is nothing soheartrending as the sight of dumb suffering. 

"You must see her, " answered he reflectively. "You must see her, ofcourse. She may be able to explain. "

He looked across the table beneath his shaggy gray eyebrows. Paul didnot at that moment look a likely subject for explanations--even theexplanations of a beautiful woman. But there was one human quantitywhich in all his experience Karl Steinmetz had never successfullygauged--namely, the extent of a woman's power over the man who loves, orat one time has loved her. 

"She cannot explain away Stépan Lanovitch's ruined life. She can hardlyexplain away a thousand deaths from unnatural causes every winter, inthis province alone. "

This was what Steinmetz dreaded--justice. 

"Give her the opportunity, " he said. 

Paul was looking out of the window. His singularly firm mouth was stilland quiet--not a mouth for explanations. 

"I will, if you like, " he said. 

"I do like, Paul. I beg of you to do it. And remember that--she is not aman. "

This, like other appeals of the same nature, fell on stony ground. Paulsimply did not understand it. In all the years of his work among thepeasants it is possible that some well-spring of conventional charityhad been dried up--scorched in the glare of burning injustice. He wasnot at this moment in a mood to consider the only excuse that Steinmetzseemed to be able to urge. 

The sun had set long ago. The short twilight lay over the snow-coveredland with a chill hopelessness. Steinmetz looked at his watch. They hadbeen together an hour--one of those hours that count as years in a lifetime. He had to peer into the face of the watch in order to see thehands. The room was almost dark, and no servant ever came to it, unlesssummoned. 

Paul was looking down at his companion, as if waiting to hear the time. At great moments we are suddenly brought face to face with the limits ofhuman nature. It is at such moments that we find that we are not gods, but only men. We can only feel to a certain extent, only suffer up to acertain point. 

"We must dress for dinner, " said Steinmetz. "Afterward--well, afterwardwe shall see. "

"Yes, " answered Paul. And he did not go. 

The two men stood looking at each other for a moment. They had passedthrough much together--danger, excitement, and now they were dabbling insorrow. It would appear that this same sorrow runs like a river acrossthe road of our life. Some of us find the ford and plash through theshallows--shallow ourselves--while others flounder into deep water. These are they who look right on to the greater events, and fail to notethe trivial details of each little step. Paul was wading through thedeep water, and this good friend of his was not inclined to stand uponthe bank. It is while passing through this river that Fortune sends someof us a friend, who is ever afterward different from all others. 

Paul stood looking down at the broad, heavy face of the man who lovedhim like a father. It was not easy for him to speak. He seemed to bemaking an effort. 

"I do not want you to think, " he said at last, "that it is as bad as itmight have been. It might have been worse--much worse--had I not made amistake in regard to my own feelings when I married her. I will try anddo the right thing by her. Only at present there does not seem to bemuch left, except you. "

Steinmetz looked up with his quaintly resigned smile. 

"Ah, yes, " he said, "I am there always. "

CHAPTER XXXIX

HUSBAND AND WIFE

Karl Steinmetz had shown the depth of his knowledge of men and womenwhen he commented on that power of facing danger with an unruffledcountenance which he was pleased to attribute to English ladies aboveall women. During the evening he had full opportunity of verifying hisown observations. 

Etta came down to dinner smiling and imperturbable. On the threshold ofthe drawing-room she exchanged a glance with Karl Steinmetz; and thatwas all. At dinner it was Maggie and Paul who were silent. Etta talkedto Steinmetz--brightly, gayly, with a certain courage of a very highorder; for she was desperate, and she did not show it. 

At last the evening came to an end. Maggie had sung two songs. Steinmetzhad performed on the piano with a marvellous touch. All had played theirparts with the brazen faces which Steinmetz, in his knowledge of manynations, assigned to the Anglo-Saxon race before others. 

At last Etta rose to go to bed, with a little sharp sigh of greatsuspense. It was coming. 

She went up to her room, bidding Maggie good-night in the passage. In amechanical way she allowed the deft-handed maid to array her in adressing gown--soft, silken, a dainty triumph in its way. Then, almostimpatiently, she sent the maid away when her hair was only halfreleased. She would brush it herself. She was tired. No, she wantednothing more. 

She sat down by the fire, brush in hand. She could hardly breathe. Itwas coming. 

She heard Paul come to his dressing-room. She heard his deep, quietvoice reply to some question of his valet's. Then the word "Good-night"in the same quiet voice. The valet had gone. There was only the door nowbetween her and--what? Her fingers were at the throat of herdressing-gown. The soft lace seemed to choke her. 

Then Paul knocked at the door. It was coming. She opened her lips, butat first could make no sound. 

"Come in!" she said at length hoarsely. 

She wondered whether he would kill her. She wondered whether she was inlove with her husband. She had begun wondering that lately; she waswondering it when he came in. He had changed his dress-coat for asilk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working withSteinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed. 

She looked up. She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a greatrustle of her flowing silks. 

"Oh, Paul, what is it?" she cried. 

She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face. 

"Have you seen any one?" she whispered. 

"Only De Chauxville, " he answered, "this afternoon. "

"Indeed, Paul, " she protested hastily, "it was nothing. A message fromCatrina Lanovitch. It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance. Itwould have been very strange if he had not called. Do you think I couldcare for a man like that?"

"I never did think so until now, " returned Paul steadily. "Your excusesaccuse you. You may care for him. I do not know; I--do--not--care. "

She turned slowly and went back to her chair. 

Mechanically she took up the brush, and shook back her beautiful hair. 

"You mean you do not care for me, " she said. "Oh, Paul! be careful. "

Paul stood looking at her. He was not a subtle-minded man at all. He wasnot one of those who take it upon themselves to say that they understandwomen--using the word in an offensively general sense, as if women weresituated midway between the human and the animal races. He wasold-fashioned enough to look upon women as higher and purer than men, while equally capable of thought and self-control. He had, it must beremembered, no great taste for fictional literature. He had not read thevoluminous lucubrations of the modern woman writer. He had not assistedat the nauseating spectacle of a woman morally turning herself insideout in three volumes and an interview. 

No, this man respected women still; and he paid them an honor which, thank Heaven, most of them still deserve. He treated them as men in thesense that he considered them to be under the same code of right andwrong, of good and evil. 

He did not understand what Etta meant when she told him to be careful. He did not know that the modern social code is like the Spanishgrammar--there are so many exceptions that the rules are hardly worthnoting. And one of our most notorious modern exceptions is the marriedwoman who is pleased to hold herself excused because outsiders tell herthat her husband does not understand her. 

"I do not think, " said Paul judicially, "that you can have cared verymuch whether I loved you or not. When you married me you knew that I wasthe promoter of the Charity League; I almost told you. I told you somuch that, with your knowledge, you must have been aware of the factthat I was heavily interested in the undertaking which you betrayed. Youmarried me without certain proof of your husband's death, such was yourindecent haste to call yourself a princess. And now I find, on your ownconfession, that you have a clandestine understanding with a man whotried to murder me only a week ago. Is it not rather absurd to talk ofcaring?"

He stood looking down at her, cold and terrible in the white heat of hissuppressed Northern anger. 

The little clock on the mantel-piece, in a terrible hurry, ticked withall its might. Time was speeding. Every moment was against her. And shecould think of nothing to say simply because those things that she wouldhave said to others would carry no weight with this man. 

Etta was leaning forward in the luxurious chair, staring with haggardeyes into the fire. The flames leaped up and gleamed on her pale face, in her deep eyes. 

"I suppose, " she said, without looking at him, "that you will notbelieve me when I tell you that I hate the man. I knew nothing of whatyou refer to as happening last week; his attempt to murder you, I mean. You are a prince, and all-powerful in your own province. Can you notthrow him into prison and keep him there? Such things are done inRussia. He is more dangerous than you think. Please do it--please--"

Paul looked at her with hard, unresponsive eyes. Lives depended on hisanswer. 

"I did not come here to discuss Claude de Chauxville, " he said, "butyou, and our future. "

Etta drew herself up as one under the lash, and waited with set teeth. 

"I propose, " he said, in a final voice which made it no proposition atall, "that you go home to England at once with--your cousin. Thiscountry is not safe for you. The house in London will be at yourdisposal. I will make a suitable settlement on you, sufficient to livein accordance with your title and position. I must ask you to rememberthat the name you bear has hitherto been an unsullied one. We have beenproud of our princesses--up to now. In case of any trouble reaching youfrom outside sources connected with this country, I should like you toremember that you are under my protection and that of Steinmetz. Eitherof us will be glad at any time to consider any appeal for assistancethat you may think fit to make. You will always be the Princess HowardAlexis. "

Etta gave a sudden laugh. 

"Oh, yes, " she said, and her face was strangely red, "I shall still bethe Princess Alexis. "

"With sufficient money to keep up the position, " he went on, with thecruel irony of a slow-spoken man. 

A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta's face--the smile of one whois in agony and will not shriek. 

"There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence, " wenton Paul. "I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever naturewith the Baron de Chauxville. I am not jealous of him--now. I do notknow why. "

He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be. Etta knewit. The knowledge was part of her punishment. 

"But, " continued her husband. "I am not going to sacrifice the name mymother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb. You will be kind enoughto avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him. If youdisregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take meansto enforce them. "

"What means?"

"I shall reduce your allowance. "

Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta'slife. Dead things are better put out of sight at once. Etta felt thatPaul's dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowancewhich was to be hers. She would never get away from it; she could nevershake off its memory. 

"Am I to live alone?" asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice. 

"That is as you like, " answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstandingher. "You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish. Perhaps--your cousin. "

"Maggie?"

"Yes, " answered Paul. For the first time since he had entered the roomhis eyes were averted from Etta's face. 

"She would not live with me, " said the princess curtly. 

Paul seemed to be reflecting. When he next spoke it was in a kindervoice. 

"You need not tell the circumstances which have given rise to thisarrangement. "

Etta shrugged her shoulders. 

"That, " went on Paul, "rests entirely with yourself. You may be surethat I will tell no one. I am not likely to discuss it with any onewhomsoever. "

Etta's stony eyes softened for a moment. She seemed to be alternatingbetween hatred of this man and love of him--a dangerous state for anywoman. It is possible that, if he had held his hand out to her, shewould have been at his feet in a wild, incoherent passion of self-hatredand abasement. Such moments as these turn our lives and determine them. Paul knew nothing of the issue hanging on this moment, on the passingsoftness of her eyes. He knew nothing of the danger in which this womanstood, of the temptation with which she was wrestling. He went on in hisblindness, went on being only just. 

"If, " he said, "you have any further questions to ask, I shall always beat your service. For the next few days I shall be busy. The peasants arein a state of discontent verging on rebellion. We cannot at presentarrange for your journey to Tver, but as soon as it is possible I willtell you. "

He looked at the clock, and made an imperceptible movement toward thedoor. 

Etta glanced up sharply. She did not seem to be breathing. 

"Is that all?" she asked, in a dull voice. 

There was a long silence, tense and throbbing, the great silence of thesteppe. 

"I think so, " answered Paul at length. "I have tried to be just. "

"Then justice is very cruel. "

"Not so cruel as the woman who for a few pounds sells the happiness ofthousands of human beings. Steinmetz advised me to speak to you. Hesuggested the possibility of circumstances of which we are ignorant. Hesaid that you might be able to explain. "

Silence. 

"Can you explain?"

Silence. Etta sat looking into the fire. The little clock hurried on. Atlength Etta drew a deep breath. 

"You are the sort of man, " she said, "who does not understandtemptation. You are strong. The devil leaves the strong in peace. Youhave found virtue easy because you have never wanted money. Yourposition has always been assured. Your name alone is a password throughthe world. Your sort are always hard on women who--who--What have Idone, after all?"

Some instinct bade her rise to her feet and stand before him--tall, beautiful, passionate, a woman in a thousand, a fit mate for such as he. Her beautiful hair in burnished glory round her face gleamed in thefirelight. Her white fingers clenched, her arms thrown back, her breastpanting beneath the lace, her proud face looking defiance into his--noone but a prince could have braved this princess. 

"What have I done?" she cried a second time. "I have only fought formyself, and if I have won, so much the greater credit. I am your wife. Ihave done nothing the law can touch. Thousands of women moving in ourcircle are not half so good as I am. I swear before God I am----"

"Hush!" he said, with upraised hand. "I never doubted that. "

"I will do any thing you wish, " she went on, and in her humility she wasvery dangerous. "I deceived you, I know. But I sold the Charity Leaguebefore I knew that you--that you thought of me. When I married you Ididn't love you. I admit that. But Paul--oh, Paul, if you were not sogood you would understand. "

Perhaps he did understand; for there was that in her eyes that made hermeaning clear. 

He was silent; standing before her in his great strength, his marvellousand cruel self-restraint. 

"You will not forgive me?"

For a moment she leaned forward, peering into his face. He seemed to bereflecting. 

"Yes, " he said at length, "I forgive you. But if I cared for you, forgiveness would be impossible. "

He went slowly toward the door. Etta looked round the room with drawneyes; their room--the room he had fitted up for his bride with thelavishness of a great wealth and a great love. 

He paused, with his hand on the door. 

"And, " she said, with fiery cheeks, "does your forgiveness date fromto-night?"

"Yes!"

He opened the door. 

"Good-night!" he said, and went out. 

CHAPTER XL

STÉPAN RETURNS

At daybreak the next morning Karl Steinmetz was awakened by the familiarcry of the wolf beneath his window. He rose and dressed hastily. Theeastern sky was faintly pink; a rosy twilight moved among the pines. Hewent down stairs and opened the little door at the back of the castle. 

It was, of course, the starosta, shivering and bleached in the chillydawn. 

"They have watched my cottage, Excellency, all night. It was only nowthat I could get away. There are two strange sleighs outside Domensky'shut. There are marks of many sleighs that have been and gone. Excellency, it is unsafe for any one to venture outside the castleto-day. You must send to Tver for the soldiers. "

"The prince refuses to do that. "

"But why, Excellency? We shall be killed!"

"You do not know the effect of platoon firing on a closely packed mob, starost. The prince does, " replied Steinmetz, with his grim smile. 

They spoke together in hushed voices for half an hour, while thedaylight crept up the eastern sky. Then the starosta stole away amongthe still larches, like the wolf whose cry he imitated so perfectly. 

Steinmetz closed the door and went upstairs to his own room, his facegrave and thoughtful, his tread heavy with the weight of anxiety. 

The day passed as such days do. Etta was not the woman to plead aconventional headache and remain hidden. She came down to breakfast, andduring that meal was boldly conversational. 

"She has spirit, " reflected Karl Steinmetz behind his quiet gray eyes. He admired her for it, and helped her. He threw back the ball ofconversation with imperturbable good humor. 

They were completely shut in. No news from the outer world penetrated tothe little party besieged within their own stone walls. Maggie, fearlessand innocent, announced her intention of snow-shoeing, but was dissuadedtherefrom by Steinmetz with covert warnings. 

During the morning each was occupied in individual affairs. At luncheontime they met again. Etta was now almost defiant. She was on her mettle. She was so near to loving Paul that a hatred of him welled up within herbreast whenever he repelled her advances with uncompromising reticence. 

They did not know--perhaps she hardly knew herself--that the opening ofthe side-door depended upon her humor. 

In the afternoon Etta and Maggie sat, as was their wont, in themorning-room looking out over the cliff. Of late their intercourse hadbeen slightly strained. They had never had much in common, althoughcircumstances had thrown their lives together. It is one of the ills towhich women are heir that they have frequently to pass their whole livesin the society of persons with whom they have no real sympathy. Boththese women were conscious of the little rift within the lute, but suchrifts are better treated with silence. That which comes to interferewith a woman's friendship will not often bear discussion. 

At dusk Steinmetz went out. He had an appointment with the starosta. 

Paul was sitting in his own room, making a pretence of work, about fiveo'clock, when Steinmetz came hurriedly to him. 

"A new development, " he said shortly. "Come to my room. "

Paul rose and followed him through the double doorway built in thethickness of the wall. 

Steinmetz's large room was lighted only by a lamp standing on the table. All the light was thrown on the desk by a large green shade, leaving therest of the room in a semi-darkness. 

At the far end of the room a man was standing in an expectant attitude. There was something furtive about this intruder, and at the same timefamiliar to Paul, who peered at him through the gloom. 

Then the man came hurriedly forward. 

"Ah, Pavlo, Pavlo!" he said in a deep, hollow voice. "I could not expectyou to know me. "

He threw his arms around him, and embraced him after the simple mannerof Russia. Then he held him at arm's length. 

"Stépan!" said Paul. "No, I did not know you. "

Stépan Lanovitch was still holding him at arm's length, examining himwith the large faint blue eyes which so often go with an exaggeratedphilanthropy. 

"Old, " he muttered, "old! Ah, my poor Pavlo! I heard in Kiew--you knowhow we outlaws hear such things--that you were in trouble, so I came toyou. "

Steinmetz in the background raised his patient eyebrows. 

"There are two men in the world, " went on the voluble Lanovitch, "whocan manage the moujiks of Tver--you and I; so I came. I will help you, Pavlo; I will stand by you. Together we can assuredly quell thisrevolt. "

Paul nodded, and allowed himself to be embraced a second time. He hadlong known Stépan Lanovitch of Thors as one of the many who go about theworld doing good with their eyes shut. For the moment he had absolutelyno use for this well-meaning blunderer. 

"I am afraid, " he said, "that it has got beyond control. We cannot stampit out now except by force, and I would rather not do that. Our onlyhope is that it may burn itself out. The talkers must get hoarse intime. "

Lanovitch shook his head. 

"They have been talking since the days of Ananias, " he said, "and theyare not hoarse yet. I fear, Pavlo, there will never be peace in theworld until the talkers are hoarse. "

"How did you get here?" asked Paul, who was always businesslike. 

"I brought a pack on my back and sold cotton. I made myself known to thestarosta, and he communicated with good Karl here. "

"Did you learn any thing in the village?" asked Paul. 

"No; they suspected me. They would not talk. But I understand them, Pavlo, these poor simple fools. A pebble in the stream would turn thecurrent of their convictions. Tell them who is the Moscow doctor. It isyour only chance. "

Steinmetz grunted acquiescence and walked wearily to the window. Thiswas only an old and futile argument of his own. 

"And make it impossible for me to live another day among them, " saidPaul. "Do you think St. Petersburg would countenance a prince who worksamong his moujiks?"

Stépan Lanovitch's pale blue eyes looked troubled. Steinmetz shruggedhis shoulders. 

"They have brought it on themselves, " he said. 

"As much as a lamb brings the knife upon itself by growing up, " repliedPaul. 

Lanovitch shook his white head with a tolerant little smile. He lovedthese poor helpless peasants with a love as large as and a thousandtimes less practical than Paul's. 

In the meantime Paul was thinking in his clear, direct way. It was thisman's habit in life and in thought to walk straight past the sideissues. 

"It is like you, Stépan, " he said at length, "to come to us at thistime. We feel it, and we recognize the generosity of it, for Steinmetzand I know the danger you are running in coming back to this country. But we cannot let you do it--No, do not protest. It is quite out of thequestion. We might quell the revolt; no doubt we should--the two of ustogether. But what would happen afterward? You would be sent back toSiberia, and I should probably follow you for harboring an escapedconvict. "

The face of the impulsive philanthropist dropped pathetically. He hadcome to his friend's assistance on the spur of the moment. He wasdestined, as some men are, to plunge about the world seeking to do good. And it has been decreed that good must be done by stealth and afterdeliberation only. He who does good on the spur of the moment usuallysows a seed of dissension in the trench of time. 

"Also, " went on Paul, with that deliberate grasp of the situation whichnever failed to astonish the ready-witted Steinmetz; "also, you haveother calls upon your energy. You have other work to do. "

Lanovitch's broad face lightened up; his benevolent brow beamed. Hiscapacity for work had brought him to the shoemaker's last in Tomsk. Itis a vice that grows with indulgence. 

"It has pleased the Authorities, " went on Paul, who was shy of religiousturns of phrase, "to give us all our own troubles. Mine--such as theyare, Stépan--must be managed by myself. Yours can be faced by no one butyou. You have come at the right moment. You do not quite realize whatyour coming means to Catrina. "

"Catrina! Ah!"

The weak blue eyes looked into the strong face and read nothing there. 

"I doubt, " said Paul, "whether it is right for you to continuesacrificing Catrina for the sake of the little good that you are able todo. You are hampered in your good work to such an extent that the resultis very small, while the pain you give is very great. "

"But is that so, Pavlo? Is my child unhappy?"

"I fear so, " replied Paul gravely, with his baffling self-restraint. "She has not much in common with her mother, you understand. "

"Ah, yes!"

"It is you to whom she is attached. Sometimes it is so with children andparents. One cannot tell why. "

Steinmetz looked as if he could supply information upon the subject: buthe remained silent, standing, as it were, in an acquiescent attitude. 

"You have fought your fight, " said Paul. "A good fight, too. You havestruck your blow for the country. You have sown your seed, but theharvest is not yet. Now it is time to think of your own safety, of thehappiness of your own child. "

Stépan Lanovitch turned away and sat heavily down. He leaned his twoarms on the table, and his chin upon his clenched hands. 

"Why not leave the country now; at all events for a few years?" went onPaul, and when a man who is accustomed to command stoops to persuade, itis strong persuasion that he wields. "You can take Catrina with you. Youwill be assuring her happiness, which, at all events, is somethingtangible--a present harvest! I will drive over to Thors now and bringher back. You can leave to-night and go to America. "

Stépan Lanovitch raised his head and looked hard into Paul's face. 

"You wish it?"

"I think, " answered Paul steadily, "that it is for Catrina's happiness. "

Then Lanovitch rose up and took Paul's hand in his work-stained grip. 

"Go, my son! It will be a great happiness to me. I will wait here, " hesaid. 

Paul went straight to the door. He was a man with a capacity for promptaction, which seemed to rise to demand. Steinmetz followed him out intothe passage and took him by the arm. 

"You cannot do it, " he said. 

"Yes, I can, " replied Paul. "I can find my way through the forest. Noone will venture to follow me there in the dark. "

Steinmetz hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went back into theroom. 

The ladies at Thors were dressed for dinner--were, indeed, awaiting theannouncement of that meal--when Paul broke in upon their solitude. Hedid not pause to lay aside his furs, but went into the long, low room, withdrawing his seal gloves painfully, for it was freezing as it onlycan freeze in March. 

The countess assailed him with many questions, more or less sensible, which he endured patiently until the servant had left the room. Catrina, with flushed cheeks, stood looking at him, but said nothing. 

Paul withdrew his gloves and submitted to the countess' futile tugs athis fur coat. Then Catrina spoke. 

"The Baron de Chauxville has left us, " she said, without knowing exactlywhy. 

For the moment Paul had forgotten Claude de Chauxville's existence. 

"I have news for you, " he said; and he gently pushed the chatteringcountess aside. "Stépan Lanovitch is at Osterno. He arrived to-night. "

"Ah, they have set him free, poor man! Does he wear chains on hisankles--is his hair long? My poor Stépan! Ah, but what a stupid man!"

The countess collapsed into a soft chair. She chose a soft one, obviously. It has to be recorded here that she did not receive the newswith unmitigated joy. 

"When he was in Siberia, " she gasped, "one knew at all events where hewas; and now, mon Dieu! what an anxiety!"

"I have come over to see whether you will join him to-night and go withhim to America, " said Paul, looking at her. 

"To--America--to-night! My dear Paul, are you mad? One cannot do suchthings as that. America! that is across the sea. "

"Yes, " answered Paul. 

"And I am such a bad sailor. Now, if it had been Paris----"

"But it cannot be, " interrupted Paul. "Will you join your fatherto-night?" he added, turning to Catrina. 

The girl was looking at him with something in her eyes that he did notcare to meet. 

"And go to America?" she asked, in a lifeless voice. 

Paul nodded. 

Catrina turned suddenly away from him and walked to the fire, where shestood with her back toward him--a small, uncouth figure in black andgreen, the lamplight gleaming on her wonderful hair. She turned suddenlyagain, and, coming back, stood looking into his face. 

"I will go, " she said. "You think it best?"

"Yes, " he answered; "I think it best. "

She drew a sharp breath and was about to speak when the countessinterrupted her. 

"What!" she cried. "You are going away to-night like this, without anyluggage! And pray what is to become of me?"

"You can join them in America, " said Paul, in his quietest tone. "Or youcan live in Paris, at last. "

CHAPTER XLI

DUTY

It was not now a very cold night. There were fleecy clouds thrown likepuffs of smoke against the western sky. The moon, on the wane, --a smallcrescent lying on its back, --was lowering toward the horizon. Thethermometer had risen since sunset, as it often does in March. There wasa suggestion of spring in the air. It seemed that at last the longwinter was drawing to a close; that the iron grip of frost was relaxing. 

Paul went out and inspected the harness by the light of a stable lanternheld in the mittened hand of a yemschick. He had reasons of his own forabsenting himself while Catrina bade her mother farewell. He was ratherafraid of these women. 

The harness inspected, he began reckoning how many hours of moonlightmight still be vouchsafed to him. The stableman, seeing the direction ofhis gaze, began to talk of the weather and the possibilities of snow inthe near future. They conversed in low voices together. 

Presently the door opened and Catrina came quickly out, followed by aservant carrying a small hand-bag. 

Paul could not see Catrina's face. She was veiled and furred to theeyelids. Without a word the girl took her seat in the sleigh, and theservant prepared the bear-skin rugs. Paul gathered up the reins and tookhis place beside her. A few moments were required to draw up the rugsand fasten them with straps; then Paul gave the word and the horsesleaped forward. 

As they sped down the avenue Catrina turned and looked her last onThors. 

Before long Paul wheeled into the trackless forest. He had come verycarefully, steering chiefly by the moon and stars, with occasionalassistance from a bend of the winding river. At times he had taken tothe ice, following the course of the stream for a few miles. No snow hadfallen; it would be easy to return on his own track. Through this partof the forest no road was cut. 

For nearly half an hour they drove in silence. Only the whistle of theiron-bound runners on the powdery snow, the creak of the warming leatheron the horses, the regular breathing of the team, broke the stillness ofthe forest. Paul hoped against hope that Catrina was asleep. She sat byhis side, her arm touching his sleeve, her weight thrown against him atsuch times as the sleigh bumped over a fallen tree or some inequality ofthe ground. 

He could not help wondering what thoughts there were behind her silence. Steinmetz's good-natured banter had come back to his memory, during thelast few days, in a new light. 

"Paul, " said the woman at his side quite suddenly, breaking the silenceof the great forest where they had grown to life and sorrow almost sideby side. 

"Yes. "

"I want to know how this all came about. It is not my father's doing. There is something quick, and practical, and wise which suggests you andHerr Steinmetz. I suspect that you have done this--you and he--for ourhappiness. "

"No, " answered Paul; "it was mere accident. Your father heard of ourtrouble in Kiew. You know him--always impulsive and reckless. He neverthinks of the danger. He came to help us. "

Catrina smiled wanly. 

"But it _is_ for our happiness, is it not, Paul? You know that itis--that is why you have done it. I have not had time yet to realizewhat I am doing, all that is going to happen. But if it is your doing, Ithink I shall be content to abide by the result. "

"It is not my doing, " replied Paul, who did not like her wistful tone. "It is the outcome of circumstances. Circumstances have been ruling usall lately. We seem to have no time to consider, but only to do thatwhich seems best for the moment. "

"And it is best that I should go to America with my father?" Her voicewas composed and quiet. In the dim light he could not see her whitelips; indeed, he never looked. 

"It seems so to me, undoubtedly, " he said. "In doing this, so far as wecan see at present, it seems certain that you are saving your fatherfrom Siberia. You know what he is; he never thinks of his own safety. Heought never to have come here to-night. If he remains in Russia, it isan absolute certainty that he will sooner or later be rearrested. He isone of those good people who require saving from themselves. "

Catrina nodded. At times duty is the kedge-anchor of happiness. The girlwas dimly aware that she was holding to this. She was simple andunsophisticated enough to consider Paul's opinion infallible. At thegreat cross-roads of life we are apt to ask the way of any body whohappens to be near. Catrina might perhaps have made a worse choice ofcounsel, for Paul was honest. 

"As you put it, " she said, "it is clearly my duty. There is a sort ofconsolation in that, however painful it may be at the time. I suppose itis consolatory to look back and think that at all events one did one'sduty. "

"I don't know, " answered Paul simply; "I suppose so. "

Looking back was not included in his method of life, which was rathercharacterized by a large faith and a forward pressure. Whenever therewas question of considering life as an abstract, he drew within hisshell with a manlike shyness. He had no generalities ready for eachemergency. 

"Would father have gone alone?" she asked, with a very human thrill ofhope in her voice. 

"No, " answered Paul steadily, "I think not. But you can ask him. "

They had never been so distant as they were at this moment--so cold, such mere acquaintances. And they had played together in one nursery. 

"Of course, if that is the case, " said the girl, "my duty is quiteclear. "

"It required some persuasion to make him consent to go, even with you, "said Paul. 

A rough piece of going--for there was no road--debarred furtherconversation at this time. The sleigh rolled and bumped over one fallentree after another. Paul, with his feet stretched out, wedged firmlyinto the sleigh, encouraged the tired horses with rein and voice. Catrina was compelled to steady herself with both hands on the bar ofthe apron; for the apron of a Russian sleigh is a heavy piece of leatherstretched on a wooden bar. 

"Then you think my duty is quite clear?" repeated the girl at length. 

Paul did not answer at once. 

"I am sure of it, " he said. 

And there the question ended. Catrina Lanovitch, who had never beenruled by those about her, shaped her whole life unquestioningly upon anopinion. 

They did not speak for some time, and then it was the girl who broke thesilence. 

"I have a confession to make and a favor to ask, " she said bluntly. 

Paul's attitude denoted attention, but he said nothing. 

"It is about the Baron de Chauxville, " she said. 

"Ah!"

"I am a coward, " she went on. "I did not know it before. It is ratherhumiliating. I have been trying for some weeks to tell you something, but I am horribly afraid of it. I am afraid you will despise me. I havebeen a fool--worse, perhaps. I never knew that Claude de Chauxville wasthe sort of person he is. I allowed him to find out things about mewhich he never should have known--my own private affairs, I mean. Then Ibecame frightened, and he tried to make use of me. I think he makes useof every-body. _You_ know what he is. "

"Yes, " answered Paul, "I know. "

"He hates you, " she went on. "I do not want to make mischief, but Isuppose he wanted to marry the princess. His vanity was wounded becauseshe preferred you, and he wanted to be avenged upon you. Wounds to thevanity never heal. I do not know how he did it, Paul, but he made mehelp him in his schemes. I could have prevented you from going to thebear hunt, for I suspected him then. I could have prevented my motherfrom inviting him to Thors. I could have put a thousand difficulties inhis way, but I did not. I helped him. I told him about the people andwho were the worst--who had been influenced by the Nihilists and whowould not work. I allowed him to stay on here and carry out his plan. All this trouble among the peasants is his handiwork. He has organized aregular rising against you. He is horribly clever. He left us yesterday, but I am convinced that he is in the neighborhood still. "

She stopped and reflected. There was something wanting in the story, which she could not supply. It was a motive. A half-confession is almostan impossibility. When we speak of ourselves it must be all ornothing--preferably, nothing. 

"I do not know why I did it, " she said. "It was a sort of period I wentthrough. I cannot explain. "

He did not ask her to do so. They were singularly like brother andsister in their mental attitude. They had driven through twenty miles offorest which belonged to one or other of them. Each was touched by theintangible, inexplicable dignity that belongs to the possession of greatlands--to the inheritance of a great name. 

"That is the confession, " she said. 

He gave a little laugh. 

"If none of us had worse than that upon our consciences, " he answered, "there would be little harm in the world, De Chauxville's schemes haveonly hurried on a crisis which was foreordained. The progress ofhumanity cannot be stayed. They have tried to stay it in this country. They will go on trying until the crash comes. What is the favor you haveto ask?"

"You must leave Osterno, " she urged earnestly; "it is unsafe to delayeven a few hours. M. De Chauxville said there would be no danger. Ibelieved him then, but I do not now. Besides, I know the peasants. Theyare hard to rouse, but once excited they are uncontrollable. They areafraid of nothing. You must get away to-night. "

Paul made no answer. 

She turned slowly in her seat and looked into his face by the light ofthe waning moon. 

"Do you mean that you will not go?"

He met her glance with his grave, slow smile. 

"There is no question of going, " he answered. "You must know that. "

She did not attempt to persuade. Perhaps there was something in hisvoice which she as a Russian understood--a ring of that which we callpig-headedness in others. 

"It must be splendid to be a man, " she said suddenly, in a ringingvoice. "One feeling in me made me ask you the favor, while another was asense of gladness at your certain refusal. I wish I was a man. I envyyou. You do not know how I envy you, Paul. "

Paul gave a quiet laugh--such a laugh as one hears in the trenches afterthe low hum of a passing ball. 

"If it is danger you want, you will have more than I in the next week, "he answered. "Steinmetz and I knew that you were the only woman inRussia who could get your father safely out of the country. That is whyI came for you. "

The girl did not answer at once. They were driving on the road againnow, and the sleigh was running smoothly. 

"I suppose, " she said reflectively at length, "that the secret of theenormous influence you exercise over all who come in contact with you isthat you drag the best out of every one--the best that is in them. "

Paul did not answer. 

"What is that light?" she asked suddenly, laying her hand on the thickfur of his sleeve. She was not nervous, but very watchful. "There--straight in front. "

"It is the sleigh, " replied Paul, "with your father and Steinmetz. Iarranged that they should meet us at the cross-roads. You must be at theVolga before daylight. Send the horses on to Tver. I have given youMinna and The Warrior; they can do the journey with one hour's rest, butyou must drive them. "

Catrina had swayed forward against the bar of the apron in a strangeway, for the road was quite smooth. She placed her gloved hands on thebar and held herself upright with a peculiar effort. 

"What?" said Paul. For she had made an inarticulate sound. 

"Nothing, " she answered. Then, after a pause, "I did not know that wewere to go so soon. That was all. "

CHAPTER XLII

THE STORM BURSTS

The large drawing-room was brilliantly lighted. Another weary day haddragged to its close. It was the Tuesday evening--the last Tuesday inMarch five years ago. The starosta had not been near the castle all day. Steinmetz and Paul had never lost sight of the ladies since breakfasttime. They had not ventured out of doors. There was in the atmosphere asense of foreboding--the stillness of a crisis. Etta had been defiantand silent--a dangerous humor--all day. Maggie had watched Paul's facewith steadfast, quiet eyes full of courage, but she knew now that therewas danger. 

The conversation at breakfast and luncheon had been maintained bySteinmetz--always collected and a little humorous. It was now dinnertime. The whole castle was brilliantly lighted, as if for a greatassembly of guests. During the last week a fuller state--a greaterceremony--had been observed by Paul's orders, and Steinmetz had thoughtmore than once of that historical event which appealed to his admirationmost--the Indian Mutiny. 

Maggie was in the drawing-room alone. She was leaning one hand and armon the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully into the fire. The rustle ofsilk made her turn her head. It was Etta, beautifully dressed, with awhite face and eyes dull with suspense. 

"I think it is warmer to-night, " said Maggie, urged by a suddennecessity of speech, hampered by a sudden chill at the heart. 

"Yes, " answered Etta. And she shivered. 

For a moment there was a little silence and Etta looked at the clock. Itwas ten minutes to seven. 

A high wind was blowing, the first of the equinoctial gales heraldingthe spring. The sound of the wind in the great chimney was like themoaning of high rigging at sea. 

The door opened and Steinmetz came in. Etta's face hardened, her lipsclosed with a snap. Steinmetz looked at her and at Maggie. For once heseemed to have no pleasantry ready for use. He walked toward a tablewhere some books and newspapers lay in pleasant profusion. He wasstanding there when Paul came into the room. The prince glanced atMaggie. He saw where his wife stood, but he did not look at her. 

Steinmetz was writing something on half a sheet of notepaper, in pencil. He pushed it across the table toward Paul, who drew it nearer to him. 

"Are you armed?" were the written words. 

Paul crushed the paper in the hollow of his hand and threw it into thefire, where it burned away. He also glanced at the clock. It was fiveminutes to seven. 

Suddenly the door was thrown open and a manservant rushed in--pale, confused, terror-stricken. He was a giant footman in the gorgeous liveryof the Alexis. 

"Excellency, " he stammered in Russian, "the castle is surrounded--theywill kill us--they will burn us out----"

He stopped abashed before Paul's pointing finger and stony face. 

"Leave the room!" said Paul. "You forget yourself. "

Through the open door-way to which Paul pointed peered the ashen facesof other servants huddled together like sheep. 

"Leave the room!" repeated Paul, and the man obeyed him, walking to thedoor unsteadily with quivering chin. On the threshold he paused. Paulstood pointing to the door. He had a poise of the head--some suddenawakening of the blood that had coursed in the veins of hereditarypotentates. Maggie looked at him; she had never known him like this. Shehad known the man, she had never encountered the prince. 

The big clock over the castle boomed out the hour, and at the sameinstant there arose a roar like the voice of the surf on a Malabarshore. There was a crashing of glass almost in the room itself. AlreadySteinmetz was drawing the curtains closer over the windows in order toprevent the light from filtering through the interstices of the closedshutters. 

"Only stones, " he said to Paul, with his grim smile; "it might have beenbullets. "

As if in corroboration of his suggestion the sharp ring of more than onefire-arm rang out above the dull roar of many voices. 

Steinmetz crossed the room to where Etta was standing, white-lipped, bythe fire. Her clenched hand was gripping Maggie's wrist. She was halfhidden behind her cousin. Maggie was looking at Paul. Etta was obviouslyconscious of Steinmetz's gaze and approach. 

"I asked you before to tell me all you knew, " he said. "You refused. Will you do it now?"

Etta met his glance for a moment, shrugged her shoulders, and turned herback on him. Paul was standing in the open door-way with his back turnedtoward them--alone. The palace had never looked so vast as it did atthat moment--brilliantly lighted, gorgeous, empty. 

Through the hail of blows on the stout doors, the rattle of stones atthe windows, the prince could hear yells of execration and the wildlaughter that is bred of destruction. He turned and entered the room. His face was gray and terrible. 

"They have no chance, " he said, "of effecting an entrance by force; thelower windows are barred. They have no ladders, Steinmetz and I haveseen to that. We have been expecting this for some days. "

He turned toward Steinmetz as if seeking confirmation. The din wasincreasing. When the German spoke he had to shout. 

"We can beat them back if we like. We can shoot them down from thewindows. But"--he paused, shrugged his shoulders, and laughed--"whatwill you! This prince will not shoot his father's serfs. "

"We must leave you, " went on Paul. "We must beware of treachery. Whatever happens, we shall not leave the house. If the worst comes, wemake our last stand in this room. Whatever happens, stay here till wecome. "

He left the room, followed by Steinmetz. There were only three doors inthe impregnable stone walls; the great entrance, a side door for use intimes of deep snow, and the small concealed entrance by which thestarosta was in the habit of reaching his masters. 

For a moment the two men stood at the head of the stairs listening tothe wild commotion. They were turning to descend the state stairs when apiercing shriek, immediately drowned by a yell of triumph, broke thesilence of the interior of the castle. There was a momentary stillness, followed by another shriek. 

"They are in!" said Steinmetz. "The side door. "

And the two men looked at each other with wide eyes full of knowledge. 

As they ran to the foot of the broad staircase the tramp of scufflingfeet, the roar of angry voices, came through the passages from the backof curtained doorways. The servants' quarters seemed to be pandemonium. The sounds approached. 

"Half-way up!" said Paul, and they ran half-way up the broad staircaseside by side. There they stood and waited. 

In a moment the baize doors were burst open, and a scuffling mass of menand women poured into the hall--a very sewer of humanity. 

A yell of execration signalized their recognition of the prince. 

"They are mad!" said Steinmetz, as the crowd surged forward toward thestairs with waving arms and the dull gleam of steel; with wild facesturned upward, wild mouths bellowing hatred and murder. 

"It is a chance--it may stop them!" said Steinmetz. 

His arm was outstretched steadily. A loud report, a little puff of smokeshooting upward to the gilded ceiling, and for one brief moment thecrowd stood still, watching one of their ringleaders, who was turningand twisting on his side half a dozen steps from the bottom. 

The man writhed in silence with his hand to his breast, and the crowdstood aghast. He held up his hand and gazed at it with a queerstupefaction. The blood dripped from his fingers. Then his chin went upas if some one was gripping the back of his neck. He turned over slowlyand rolled to the bottom of the stairs. 

Then Paul raised his voice. 

"Listen to me!" he said. 

But he got no farther, for some one shot at him from the background, over the frantic heads of the others, and missed him. The bullet lodgedin the wall at the head of the stairs, in the jamb of the gorgeousdoor-way. It is there to-day. 

There was a yell of hatred, and an ugly charge toward the stairs; butthe sight of the two revolvers held them there--motionless for a fewmoments. Those in front pushed back, while the shouters in the safebackground urged them forward by word and gesture. 

Two men holding a hundred in check! But one of the two was a prince, which makes all the difference, and will continue to make thatdifference, despite halfpenny journalism, until the end of the world. 

"What do you want?" cried Paul. 

"Oh, I will wait!" he shouted, in the next pause. "There is plenty oftime--when you are tired of shouting. "

Several of them proceeded to tell him what they wanted. An old story, too stale for repetition here. Paul recognized in the din of many voicesthe tinkling arguments of the professional agitator all the worldover--the cry of "Equality! Equality!" when men are obviously createdunequal. 

"Look out!" said Paul; "I believe they are going to make a rush. "

All the while the foremost men were edging toward the stairs, while thedensely packed throng at the back were struggling among themselves. Inthe passages behind, some were yelling and screaming with a wildintonation which Steinmetz recognized. He had been through the Commune. 

"Those fellows at the back have been killing some one, " he said; "I cantell by their voices. They are drunk with the sight of blood. "

Some new orator gained the ears of the rabble at this moment, and theill-kempt heads swayed from side to side. 

"It is useless, " he cried, "telling him what you want. He will not giveit you. Go and take it! Go and take it, little fathers; that is the onlyway!"

Steinmetz raised his hand and peered down into the crowd, looking forthe man of eloquence, and the voice was hushed. 

At this moment, however, the yelling increased, and through the door-wayleading to the servants' quarters came a stream of men--bloodstained, ragged, torn. They were waving arms and implements above their heads. 

"Down with the aristocrats! kill them--kill them!" they were shrieking. 

A little volley of fire-arms further excited them. But vodka is not agood thing to shoot upon, and Paul stood untouched, waiting, as he hadsaid, until they were tired of shouting. 

"Now, " yelled Steinmetz to him in English, "we must go. We can make astand at the head of the stairs, then the door-way, then----" Heshrugged his shoulders. "Then--the end, " he added, as they moved up thestairs step by step, backward. "My very good friend, " he went on, "atthe door we must begin to shoot them down. It is our only chance. It is, moreover, our duty toward the ladies. "

"There is one alternative, " answered Paul. 

"The Moscow Doctor?"

"Yes. "

"They may turn, " said Paul; "they are just in that humor. "

The new-comers were the most dangerous. They were forcing their way tothe front. There was no doubt that, as soon as they could penetrate thedensely packed mob, they would charge up the stairs, even in face of aheavy fire. The reek of vodka was borne up in the heated atmosphere, mingled with the nauseating odor of filthy clothing. 

"Go, " said Steinmetz, "and put on your doctor's clothes. I can keep themback for a few minutes. "

There was no time to be lost. Paul slipped away, leaving Steinmetz aloneat the summit of the state stairway, standing grimly, revolver in hand. 

In the drawing-room Paul found Maggie, alone. 

"Where is Etta?" he asked. 

"She left the room some time ago. "

"But I told her to stay, " said Paul. 

To this Maggie made no answer. She was looking at him with an anxiousscrutiny. 

"Did they shoot at you?" she asked. 

"Yes; but not straight, " he answered, with a little laugh, as he hurriedon. 

In a few moments he was back in the drawing-room, a different man, inthe rough, stained clothes of the Moscow Doctor. The din on the stairswas louder. Steinmetz was almost in the door-way. He was shootingeconomically, picking his men. 

With an effort Paul dragged one or two heavy pieces of furniture acrossthe room, in the form of a rough barricade. He pointed to the hearthrugwhere Maggie was to stand. 

"Ready!" he shouted to Steinmetz. "Come!"

The German ran in, and Paul closed the barricade. 

The rabble poured in at the open door, screaming and shouting. Bloodstained, ragged, wild with the madness of murder, they crowded tothe barricade. There they stopped, gazing stupidly at Paul. 

"The Moscow Doctor--the Moscow Doctor!" passed from lip to lip. It wasthe women who shouted it the loudest. Like the wind through a forest itswept out of the room and down the stairs. Those crowding up pushed onand uttered the words as they came. The room was packed with them. 

"Yes!" shouted Steinmetz, at the top of his great voice, "and theprince!"

He knew the note to strike, and struck with a sure hand. The barricadewas torn aside, and the people swept forward, falling on their knees, grovelling at Paul's feet, kissing the hem of his garment, seizing hisstrong hands in theirs. 

It was a mighty harvest. That which is sown in the people's hearts bearsa thousandfold at last. 

"Get them out of the place--open the big doors, " said Paul to Steinmetz. He stood cold and grave among them. 

Some of them were already sneaking toward the door--the ringleaders, thetalkers from the towns--mindful of their own necks in this change offeeling. 

Steinmetz hustled them out, bidding them take their dead with them. Someof the servants reappeared, peeping, white-faced, behind curtains. Whenthe last villager had crossed the threshold, these ran forward to closeand bar the great doors. 

"No, " said Paul, from the head of the stairs, "leave them open. "

So the great doors stood defiantly open. The lights of the statestaircase flared out over the village as the peasants crept crest-fallento their cottages. They glanced up shamefacedly, but they had no word tosay. 

Steinmetz, in the drawing-room, looked at Paul with his resignedsemi-humorous shrug of the shoulders. 

"Touch-and-go, mein lieber!" he said. 

"Yes; an end of Russia for us, " answered the prince. 

He moved toward the door leading through to the old castle. 

"I am going to look for Etta, " he said. 

"And I, " said Steinmetz, going to the other entrance, "am going to seewho opened the side door. "

CHAPTER XLIII

BEHIND THE VEIL

"Will you come with me?" said Paul to Maggie. "I will send the servantsto put this room to rights. "

Maggie followed him out of the room, and together they went through thepassages, calling Etta and looking for her. There was an air of gloomand chilliness in the rooms of the old castle. The outline of the greatstones, dimly discernible through the wall-paper, was singularlysuggestive of a fortress thinly disguised. 

"I suppose, " said Paul, "that Etta lost her nerve. "

"Yes, " answered Maggie doubtfully; "I think it was that. "

Paul went on. He carried a lamp in one steady hand. 

"We shall probably find her in one of these rooms, " he said. "It is soeasy to lose one's self among the passages and staircases. "

They passed on through the great smoking-room, with its huntingtrophies. The lynx, with its face of Claude de Chauxville, grinned atthem darkly from its pedestal. 

Half-way down the stairs leading to the side door they met Steinmetzcoming hastily up. His face was white and drawn with horror. 

"You must not go down here, " he said, in a husky voice, barring thepassage with his arm. 

"Why not?"

"Go up again!" said Steinmetz breathlessly. "You must not go down here. "

Paul laid his hand on the broad arm stretched across the stairway. For amoment it almost appeared to be a physical struggle, then Steinmetzstepped aside. 

"I beg of you, " he said, "not to go down. "

And Paul went on, followed by Steinmetz, and behind them, Maggie. At thefoot of the stairs a broader passage led to the side door, and from thisother passages opened into the servants' quarters, and communicatedthrough the kitchens with the modern building. 

It was evident that the door leading to the grassy slope at the back ofthe castle was open, for a cold wind blew up the stairs and made thelamps flicker. 

At the end of the passage Paul stopped. 

Steinmetz was a little behind him, holding Maggie back. 

The two lamps lighted up the passage and showed the white form of thePrincess Etta lying huddled up against the wall. The face was hidden, but there was no mistaking the beautiful dress and hair. It could onlybe Etta. Paul stooped down and looked at her, but he did not touch her. He went a few paces forward and closed the door. Beyond Etta a blackform lay across the passage, all trodden underfoot and dishevelled. Paulheld the lamp down, and through the mud and blood Claude de Chauxville'sclear-cut features were outlined. 

Death is always unmistakable, though it be shown by nothing more than aheap of muddy clothes. 

Claude de Chauxville was lying across the passage. He had been troddenunderfoot by the stream of maddened peasants who had entered by thisdoor which had been opened for them, whom Steinmetz had checked at thefoot of the stairs by shooting their ringleader. 

De Chauxville's scalp was torn away by a blow, probably given with aspade or some blunt instrument. His hand, all muddy and bloodstained, still held a revolver. 

The other hand was stretched out toward Etta, who lay across his feet, crouching against the wall. Death had found and left her in an attitudeof fear, shielding her bowed head from a blow with her upraised hands. Her loosened hair fell in a long wave of gold down to the bloodstainedhand outstretched toward her. She was kneeling in De Chauxville's blood, which stained the stone floor of the passage. 

Paul leaned forward and laid his fingers on the bare arm, just below abracelet which gleamed in the lamplight. She was quite dead. He held alamp close to her. There was no mark or scratch upon her arm orshoulder. The blow which had torn her hair down had killed her withoutany disfigurement. The silken skirt of her dress, which lay across thepassage, was trampled and stained by the tread of a hundred feet. 

Then Paul went to Claude de Chauxville. He stooped down and slipped hisskilled fingers inside the torn and mud-stained clothing. Here also wasdeath. 

Paul stood upright and looked at them as they lay, silent, motionless, with their tale untold. Maggie and Steinmetz stood watching him. He wentto the door, which was of solid oak four inches thick, and examined thefastenings. There had been no damage done to bolt, or lock, or hinge. The door had been opened from the inside. He looked slowly round, measuring the distances. 

"What is the meaning of it?" he said at length to Steinmetz, in a dullvoice. Maggie winced at the sound of it. 

Steinmetz did not answer at once, but hesitated--after the manner of aman weighing words which will never be forgotten by their hearers. 

"It seems to me, " he said, with a slow, wise charity, the best of itskind, "quite clear that De Chauxville died in trying to save her--therest must be only guesswork. "

Maggie had come forward and was standing beside him. 

"And in guessing let us be charitable--is it not so?" he said, turningto her, with a twist of his humorous lips. 

"I suppose, " he went on, after a little pause, "that Claude deChauxville has been at the bottom of all our trouble. All his life hehas been one of the stormy petrels of diplomacy. Wherever he has gonetrouble has followed later. By some means he obtained sufficient masteryover the princess to compel her to obey his orders. The means heemployed were threats. He had it in his power to make mischief, and insuch affairs a woman is so helpless that we may well forgive that whichshe may do in a moment of panic. I imagine that he frightened the poorlady into obedience to his command that she should open this door. Before dinner, when we were all in the drawing-room, I noted a littlemark of dust on the white silk skirt of her dress. At the time I thoughtonly that her maid had been careless. Perhaps you noticed it, mademoiselle? Ladies note such things. "

He turned to Maggie, who nodded her head. 

"That, " he went on, "was the dust of these old passages. She had beendown here. She had opened this door. "

He spread out his hands in deprecation. In his quaint Germanic way heheld one hand out over the two motionless forms in mute prayer that theymight be forgiven. 

"We all have our faults, " he said. "Who are we to judge each other? Ifwe understood all, we might pardon. The two strongest human motives areambition and fear. She was ruled by both. I myself have seen her underthe influence of sudden panic. I have noted the working of her greatambition. She was probably deceived at every turn by that man, who was ascoundrel. He is dead, and death is understood to wipe out all debts. IfI were a better man than I am, I might speak well of him. But--ach Gott!that man was a scoundrel! I think the good God will judge between themand forgive that poor woman. She must have repented of her action whenshe heard the clatter of the rioters all round the castle. I am sure shedid that. I am sure she came down here to shut the door, and foundClaude de Chauxville here. They were probably talking together when thepoor mad fools who killed them came round to this side of the castle andfound them. They recognized her as the princess. They probably mistookhim for the prince. It is what men call a series of coincidences. Iwonder what God calls it?"

He broke off, and, stooping down, he drew the lapel of the Frenchman'scloak gently over the marred face. 

"And let us remember, " he said, "that he tried to save her. Some livesare so. At the very end a little reparation is made. In life he was herevil genius. When he died they trampled him underfoot in order to reachher. Mademoiselle, will you come?"

He took Maggie by the arm and led her gently away. She was shaking allover, but his hand was steady and wholly kind. 

He led her up the narrow stairs to her own room. In the little boudoirthe fire was burning brightly; the lamps were lighted, just as the maidhad left them at the first alarm. 

Maggie sat down, and quite suddenly she burst into tears. 

Steinmetz did not leave her. He stood beside her, gently stroking hershoulder with his stout fingers. He said nothing, but the gray mustacheonly half concealed his lips, which were twisted with a little smilefull of tenderness and sympathy. 

Maggie was the first to speak. 

"I am all right now, " she said. "Please do not wait any longer, and donot think me a very weak-minded person. Poor Etta!"

Steinmetz moved away toward the door. 

"Yes, " he said; "poor Etta! It is often those who get on in the worldwho need the world's pity most. "

At the door he stopped. 

"To-morrow, " he said, "I will take you home to England. Is thatagreeable to you, mademoiselle?"

She smiled at him sadly through her tears. 

"Yes, I should like that, " she said. "This country is horrible. You arevery kind to me. "

Steinmetz went down stairs and found Paul at the door talking to a youngofficer, who slowly dismounted and lounged into the hall, conscious ofhis brilliant uniform--of his own physical capacity to show off anyuniform to full advantage. 

He was a lieutenant in a Cossack regiment, and as he bowed to Steinmetz, whom Paul introduced, he swung off his high astrakhan cap with aflourish, showing a fair boyish face. 

"Yes, " he continued to Paul in English; "the general sent me over with asotnia of men, and pretty hungry you will find them. We have covered thewhole distance since daybreak. A report reached the old gentleman thatthe whole countryside was about to rise against you. "

"Who spread the report?" asked Steinmetz. 

"I believe it originated down at the wharfs. It has been traced to anold man and his daughter, --a sort of pedler, I think, who took a passagedown the river, --but where they heard the rumor I don't know. "

Paul and Steinmetz carefully avoided looking at each other. They knewthat Catrina and Stépan Lanovitch had sent back assistance. 

"Of course, " said Paul, "I am very glad to see you, but I am equallyglad to inform you that you are not wanted. Steinmetz will tell you allabout it, and when you are ready for dinner it will be ready for you. Iwill give instructions that the men be cared for. "

"Thanks. The funny thing is that I am instructed, with your approval, toput the place under martial law and take charge. "

"That will not be necessary, thanks, " answered Paul, going out of theopen door to speak to the wild-looking Cossacks sent for his protection. 

In Russia, as in other countries where life is cheaply held, the deathformalities are small. It is only in England, where we are so carefulfor the individual and so careless of the type, that we have to pay fordying, and leave a mass of red-tape formalities for our friends. 

While the young officer was changing his uniform for the evening finerywhich his servant's forethought had provided, Paul and Steinmetzhurriedly arranged what story of the evening should be given to theworld. Knowing the country as they did, they were enabled to tell a truetale, which was yet devoid of that small personal interest that gossipslove. And all the world ever knew was that the Princess Howard Alexiswas killed by the revolted peasants while attempting to escape by a sidedoor, and that the Baron Claude de Chauxville, who was staying in theneighborhood, met his death in attempting to save her from the fury ofthe mob. 

On the recommendation of Karl Steinmetz, Paul placed the castle andvillage under martial law, and there and then gave the command to theyoung Cossack officer, pending further instructions from his general, commanding at Tver. 

The officer dined with Steinmetz, and under the careful treatment ofthat diplomatist inaugurated a reign of military autocracy, which variedpleasingly between strict discipline and boyish neglect. 

Before the master of the situation had slept off the effect of hishundred-mile ride and a heavy dinner, the next morning Steinmetz andMaggie were ready to start on their journey to England. 

The breakfast was served in the room abutting on the cliff in the dimlight of a misty morning. 

The lamps were alight on the table, and Paul was waiting when Maggiecame down cloaked for her journey. Steinmetz had breakfasted. 

They said good-morning, and managed to talk of ordinary things untilMaggie was supplied with coffee and toast and a somewhat heavy, manlyhelping of a breakfast-dish. Then came a silence. 

Paul broke it at length with an effort, standing, as it were, on theedge of the forbidden topic. 

"Steinmetz will take you all the way, " he said, "and then come back tome. You can safely trust yourself to his care. "

"Yes, " answered the girl, looking at the food set before her with ahelpless stare. "It is not that. Can I safely trust Etta's memory toyour judgment? You are very stern, Paul. I think you might easilymisjudge her. Men do not always understand a woman's temptations. "

Paul had not sat down. He walked away to the window, and stood therelooking out into the gloomy mists. 

"It is not because she was my cousin, " said Maggie from the table; "itis because she was a woman leaving her memory to be judged by two menwho are both--hard. "

Paul neither looked round nor answered. 

"When a woman has to form her own life, and renders it a prominent one, she usually makes a huge mistake of it, " said the girl. 

She waited a moment, and then she pleaded once more, hastily, for sheheard a step approaching. 

"If you only understood every thing you might think differently--it isbecause you cannot understand. "

Then Paul turned round slowly. 

"No, " he said, "I cannot understand it, and I do not think that I evershall. "

And Steinmetz came into the room. 

In a few minutes the sleigh bearing Steinmetz and Maggie disappearedinto the gloom, closely followed by a couple of Cossacks acting as guardand carrying despatches. 

So Etta Sydney Bamborough--the Princess Howard Alexis--came back afterall to her husband, lying in a nameless grave in the churchyard by theVolga at Tver. Within the white walls--beneath the shadow of the greatspangled cupola--they await the Verdict, almost side by side. 

CHAPTER XLIV

KISMET

Between Brandon in Suffolk and Thetford in Norfolk runs a quiet river, the Little Ouse, where few boats break the stillness of the water. Oneither bank stand whispering beech-trees, and so low is the music of theleaves that the message of Ely's distant bells floats through them on aquiet evening as far as Brandon and beyond it. 

Three years after Etta's death, in the glow of an April sunset, aCanadian canoe was making its stealthy way up the river. The paddlecrept in and out so gently, so lazily and peacefully, that the dabchicksand other waterfowl did not cease their chatter of nests and other Aprilmatters as the canoe glided by. 

So quiet, indeed, was its progress that Karl Steinmetz--suddenlywhite-headed, as strong old men are apt to find themselves--did not heedits approach. He was sitting on the bank with a gun, a little rifle, lying on the grass beside him. He was half-asleep in the enjoyment of alarge Havana cigar. The rays of the setting sun, peeping through thelower branches, made him blink lazily like a large, good-natured cat. 

He turned his head slowly, with a hunter's consciousness of the approachof some one, and contemplated the canoe with a sense of placidsatisfaction. 

The small craft was passing in the shadow of a great tree--stealing overthe dark, unruffled depth. A girl dressed in white, with a largediaphanous white hat and a general air of brisk English daintiness, waspaddling slowly and with no great skill. 

"A picture, " said Steinmetz to himself with Teutonic deliberation. "Gottim Himmel! what a pretty picture to make an old man young!"

Then his gray eyes opened suddenly and he rose to his feet. 

"Coloss-a-al!" he muttered. He dragged from his head a lamentable oldstraw hat and swept a courteous bow. 

"Mademoiselle, " he said, "ah, what happiness! After three years!"

Maggie stopped and looked at him with troubled eyes; all the colorslowly left her face. 

"What are you doing here?" she asked. And there was something like fearin her voice. 

"No harm, mademoiselle, but good. I have come down from big game tovermin. I have here a saloon rifle. I wait till a water-rat comes, andthen I shoot him. "

The canoe had drifted closer to the land, the paddle trailing in thewater. 

"You are looking at my white hairs, " he went on, in a sudden need ofconversation. "Please bring your boat a little nearer. "

The paddle twisted lazily in the water like a fish's tail. 

"Hold tight, " he said, reaching down. 

With a little laugh he lifted the canoe and its occupant far up on tothe bank. 

"Despite my white hairs, " he said, with a tap of both hands on his broadchest. 

"I attach no importance to them, " she answered, taking his profferedhand and stepping over the light bulwark. "I have gray ones myself. I amgetting old too. "

"How old?" he asked, looking down at her with his old bluntness. 

"Twenty-eight. "

"Ah, they are summers, " he said; "mine have turned to winters. Will yousit here where I was sitting? See, I will spread this rug for your whitedress. "

Maggie paused, looking through the trees toward the sinking sun. Thelight fell on her face and showed one or two lines which had not beenthere before. It showed a patient tenderness in the steady eyes whichhad always been there--which Catrina had noticed in the stormy days thatwere past. 

"I cannot stay long, " she replied. "I am with the Faneaux at Brandon fora few days. They dine at seven. "

"Ah! her ladyship is a good friend of mine. You remember her charityball in town, when it was settled that you should come to Osterno. Astrange world, mademoiselle--a very strange world, so small, and yet solarge and bare for some of us!"

Maggie looked at him. Then she sat down. 

"Tell me, " she said, "all that has happened since then. "

"I went back, " answered Steinmetz, "and we were duly exiled from Russia. It was sure to come. We were too dangerous. Altogether too quixotic foran autocracy. For myself I did not mind, but it hurt Paul. "

There was a little pause, while the water lapped and whispered at theirfeet. 

"I heard, " said Maggie at length, in a measured voice, "that he had goneabroad for big game. "

"Yes--to India. "

"He did not go to America?" enquired Maggie indifferently. She was idlythrowing fragments of wood into the river. 

"No, " answered Steinmetz, looking straight in front of him. "No, he didnot go to America. "

"And you?"

"I--oh, I stayed at home. I have taken a house. It is behind the trees. You cannot see it. I live at peace with all men and pay my bills everyweek. Sometimes Paul comes and stays with me. Sometimes I go and staywith him in London or in Scotland. I smoke and shoot water-rats, andwatch the younger generation making the same mistakes that we made inour time. You have heard that my country is in order again? They haveremembered me. For my sins they have made me a count. Bon Dieu! I do notmind. They may make me a prince, if it pleases them. "

He was watching her face beneath his grim old eyebrows. 

"These details bore you, " he said. 

"No. "

"When Paul and I are together we talk of a new heaven and a new Russia. But it will not come in our time. We are only the sowers, and theharvest is not yet. But I tell Paul that he has not sown wild oats, norsour grapes, nor thistles. "

He paused, and the expression of his face changed to one ofsemi-humorous gravity. 

"Mademoiselle, " he went on, "it has been my lot to love the prince likea son. It has been my lot to stand helplessly by while he passed throughmany troubles. Perhaps the good God gave him all his troubles at first. Do you think so?"

Maggie was looking straight in front of her across the quiet river. 

"Perhaps so, " she said. 

Steinmetz also stared in front of him during a little silence. Thecommon thoughts of two minds may well be drawn together by thecontemplation of a common object. Then he turned toward her. 

"It will be a happiness for him to see you, " he said quietly. 

Maggie ceased breaking small branches and throwing them into the river. She ceased all movement, and scarcely seemed to breathe. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. 

"He is staying with me here. "

Maggie glanced toward the canoe. She drew a short, sharp breath, but shedid not move. 

"Mademoiselle, " said Steinmetz earnestly, "I am an old man, and in mytime I have dabbled pretty deeply in trouble. But taking it all around, even my life has had its compensations. And I have seen lives which, taken as a mere mortal existence, without looking to the hereafter atall, have been quite worth the living. There is much happiness in lifeto make up for the rest. But that happiness must be firmly held. It isso easily slipped through the fingers. A little irresolution--a littlewant of moral courage--a little want of self-confidence--a little pride, and it is lost. You follow me?"

Maggie nodded. There was a great tenderness in her eyes--such atenderness as, resting on men, may bring them nearer to the angels. 

Steinmetz laid his large hand over hers. 

"Mademoiselle, " he went on, "I believe that the good God sent you alongthis lonely river in your boat. Paul leaves me to-morrow. Hisarrangements are to go to India and shoot tigers. He will sail in aweek. There are things of which we never speak together--there is onename that is never mentioned. Since Osterno you have avoided meetinghim. God knows I am not asking for him any thing that he would be afraidto ask for himself. But he also has his pride. He will not force himselfin where he thinks his presence unwelcome. "

Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking down at her. Hedid not, however, succeed in meeting her eyes. 

"Mademoiselle, " he said, "I beg of you most humbly--mostrespectfully--to come through the garden with me toward the house, sothat Paul may at least know that you are here. "

He moved away and stood for a moment with his back turned to her, looking toward the house. The crisp rustle of her dress came to him asshe rose to her feet. 

Without looking round, he walked slowly on. The path through the treeswas narrow, two could not walk abreast. After a few yards Steinmetzemerged on to a large, sloping lawn with flower beds, and a long, lowhouse above it. On the covered terrace a man sat writing at a table. Hewas surrounded by papers, and the pen in his large, firm hand movedrapidly over the sheet before him. 

"We still administer the estate, " said Steinmetz, in a low voice. "Fromour exile we still sow our seed. "

They approached over the mossy turf, and presently Paul looked up--astrong face, stern and self-contained; the face of a man who wouldalways have a purpose in life, who would never be petty in thought ordeed. 

For a moment he did not seem to recognize them. Then he rose, and thepen fell on the flags of the terrace. 

"It is mademoiselle!" said Steinmetz, and no other word was spoken. 

Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness. She only knew that theywere all acting an inevitable part, written for them in the greatlibretto of life. She never noticed that Steinmetz had left her side, that she was walking across the lawn alone. 

Paul came to meet her, and took her hand in silence. There was so muchto say that words seemed suddenly valueless; there was so little to saythat they were unnecessary. 

For that which these two had to tell each other cannot be told inminutes, nor yet in years; it cannot even be told in a lifetime, for itis endless, and it runs through eternity. 

THE END