THE NET IS DRAWN
During the days following Paul's visit to the village the ladies did not
see much male society. Paul and Steinmetz usually left the castle
immediately after breakfast and did not return till nightfall.
"Is there any thing wrong?" Maggie asked Steinmetz on the evening of the
second day.
Steinmetz had just come into the vast drawing-room dressed for
dinner--stout, placid, and very clean-looking. They were alone in the
room.
"Nothing, my dear young lady--yet," he answered, coming forward and
rubbing his broad palms slowly together.
Maggie was reading an English newspaper. She turned its pages without
pausing to notice the black and sticky obliterations effected by the
postal authorities before delivery. It was no new thing to her now to
come upon the press censor's handiwork in the columns of such
periodicals 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, my
dear 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 the
feeling of a restive horse. One knows that he is only waiting for an
excuse to shy or to kick or to rear. One feels it thrilling in him. Paul
and I have that feeling in regard to the peasants. We are going the
round of the outlying villages, steadily and carefully. We are seeking
for 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 anxious
look in her eyes.
"Some people would have sent to Tver for the soldiers," Steinmetz went
on. "But Paul is not that sort of man. He will not do it yet. You
remember 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 a
perfect discretion. Speak of this to no one, especially to no servants.
You remember your own mutiny in India. Gott! what wonderful people you
English are--men and women alike! You remember how the ladies kept up
and brazened it out before the servants. You must do the same. I think I
hear the rustle of the princess's dress. Yes! And there is no news in
the papers, you say?"
"None," replied Maggie.
It may not have been entirely by chance that Claude de Chauxville drove
over to Osterno to pay his respects the next day, and expressed himself
desolated at hearing that the prince had gone out with Herr Steinmetz in
a sleigh to a distant corner of the estate.
"My horses must rest," said the Frenchman, calmly taking off his fur
gloves. "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 left
the room.
"Doubtless, Excellency. She went out on her snow-shoes half an hour
ago."
"That is all right," said the Frenchman to himself when the door was
closed.
He went to the fire and warmed his slim white fingers. There was an evil
smile 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 to
whom no feminine humor is new. He brought forward a chair.
"Will you sit?" he said, with exaggerated courtesy. "I have much to say
to you. Besides, we have all the time. Your husband and his German
friend are miles away. I passed Miss Delafield in the forest. She is not
quite at home on her snow-shoes yet. She cannot be back for at least
half an hour."
Etta bit her lip as she looked at the chair. She sat slowly down and
drew 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 her
thoughtfully.
"At the bear-hunt the other day," he said, "I had the misfortune
to--well, to fall out with the prince. We were not quite at one on a
question of etiquette. He thought that I ought to have fired. I did not
fire; I was not ready. It appears that the prince considered himself to
be in danger. He was nervous--flurried."
"You are not always artistic in your untruths," interrupted Etta. "I
know nothing of the incident to which you refer, but in lying you should
always endeavor to be consistent. I am sure Paul was not nervous--or
flurried."
De Chauxville smiled imperturbably. His end was gained. Etta obviously
knew 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 have
never 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 for
all. Ah! you may shake your head. Some day, perhaps, I shall succeed in
convincing you that I have only your interests at heart. I am here,
princess, to make a little arrangement with you--a final arrangement, I
hope."
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 you
my wife."
Etta allowed this statement to pass unchallenged. Her courage and energy
were not exhausted. She was learning to nurse her forces.
"Your husband," went on De Chauxville, after he had sufficiently enjoyed
the savor of his own words, "is a brave man. To frighten him it is
necessary to resort to strong measures. The last and the strongest
measure in the diplomat's scale is the People. The People, madame, will
take no denial. It is a game I have played before--a dangerous game, but
I 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 man
had the power of moving her, and she was afraid of allowing him to
exercise it. She knew her own weakness--her inordinate vanity; for
vanity is the weakness of strong women. She was ever open to flattery,
and Claude de Chauxville flattered her in every word he spoke; for by
act and speech he made it manifest that she was the motive power of his
existence.
"A man who plays for a high stake," went on the Frenchman, in a quieter
voice, "must be content to throw his all on the table time after time. A
week to-night--Thursday, the 5th of April--I will throw down my all on
the turn of a card. For the People are like that. It is rouge or
noir--one never knows. We only know that there is no third color, no
compromise."
Etta was listening now with ill-disguised interest. At last he had given
her something definite--a date.
"On Thursday," he went on, "the peasants will make a demonstration. You
know as well as I do--as well as Prince Pavlo does, despite his
imperturbable face--that the whole country is a volcano which may break
forth at any moment. But the control is strong, and therefore there is
never a large eruption--a grumble here, a gleam of fire there, a sullen
heat everywhere! But it is held in check by the impossibility of
communication. It seems strange, but Russia stands because she has no
penny postage. The great crash will come, not by force of arms, but by
ways of peace. The signal will be a postal system, the standard of the
revolution will be a postage-stamp. All over this country there are
millions waiting and burning to rise up and crush despotism, but they
are held in check by the simple fact that they are far apart and they
cannot write to each other. When, at last, they are brought together,
there will be no fight at all, because they will overwhelm their
enemies. That time, madame, has not come yet. We are only at the stage
of tentative underground rumblings. But a little eruption is enough to
wipe out one man if he be standing on the spot."
"Go on," said Etta quietly--too quietly, De Chauxville might have
thought, 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 my
back. Starvation and misery, properly handled, are strong incentives."
"And how do you propose to handle them?" asked Etta in the same quiet
voice.
"The peasants will make a demonstration. The rest we must leave
to--well, to the course of fortune. I have no doubt that our astute
friend Karl Steinmetz will manage to hold them in check. But whatever
the end of the demonstration, the outcome will be the impossibility of a
longer residence in this country for the Prince Pavlo Alexis. A regiment
of soldiers could hardly make it possible."
"I do not understand," said Etta, "what you describe as a
demonstration--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 concentrated
quiet.
"In the first place, to believe that no harm will come to you, either
directly or indirectly. They would not dare to touch the prince; they
will 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. I
understand that there is a door in the old portion of the castle leading
up by a flight of stairs to the smoking-room, and thence to the new part
of the building."
Etta did not answer. De Chauxville glanced at his watch and walked to
the window, where he stood looking out. He was too refined a person to
whistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time.
"This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursday
evening," he said, turning round and slowly coming toward her.
"And I refuse to do it," said Etta.
"Ah!"
Etta sprung to her feet and faced him--a beautiful woman, a very queen
of anger. Her blazing eyes were on a level with his.
"Yes," she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till she
seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. "Yes; I refuse to
betray my husband--"
"Stop! He is not your husband!"
Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Her
fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the
fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of
her majestic stature.
"What do you mean?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"
"Sydney Bamborough is your husband," said the Frenchman, without taking
his dull eyes from her face.
"He is dead!" she hissed.
"Prove it!"
He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose of
easy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion of
their interview.
"Prove it, madame!" he said again.
"He died at Tver," she said; but there was no conviction in her voice.
With her title and position to hold to, she could face the world.
Without these, what was she?
"A local newspaper reports that the body of a man was discovered on the
plains of Tver and duly buried in the pauper cemetery," said De
Chauxville indifferently. "Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, I mean--was,
for reasons which need not be gone into here, in the neighborhood of
Tver at the time. A police officer, who has since been transferred to
Odessa, was of the opinion that the dead man was a foreigner. There are
about twelve thousand foreigners in Tver--operatives in the
manufactories. Your husband--Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu--left Tver
to proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to avoid the
emissaries of the Charity League, who were looking out for him at the
western frontier. He will be due at one of the treaty ports in China in
about a month. Upon the supposition that the body discovered on the
plains of Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity of
becoming a princess. It was enterprising. I admire your spirit. But it
was dangerous. I, madame, can suppress Sydney Bamborough when he turns
up. I have two arrows in my quiver for him; one is the Charity League,
the other the Russian Government, who want him. Your husband--I beg your
pardon, the prince--would perhaps take a different view of the case. It
is a pretty story. I will tell it to him unless I have your implicit
obedience."
Etta stood dry-lipped before him. She tried to speak, but no words came
from her lips.
De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of triumph, and she knew
that he loved her. There is no defining love, nor telling when it merges
into hatred.
"Thursday evening, before dinner," said De Chauxville.
And he left her standing on the hearth-rug, her lips moving and framing
no words.