“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, placid1, 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 postal2 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 restive3 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, steadily4 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 discretion5. 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 rustle6 of the princess’s dress. Yes! And there is no news in the papers, you say?”
“None,” replied Maggie.
It may not have been entirely7 by chance that Claude de Chauxville drove over to Osterno to pay his respects the next day, and expressed himself desolated8 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 lurking9 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 eyebrows10 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 etiquette11. 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 artistic12 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 imperturbably13. 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 intensified14, 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.”
“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 exhausted16. She was learning to nurse her forces.
“Your husband,” went on De Chauxville, after he had sufficiently17 enjoyed the savor18 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 theatrical19 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 inordinate20 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 spoke21; for by act and speech he made it manifest that she was the motive22 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 rouge23 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 demonstration24. You know as well as I do—as well as Prince Pavlo does, despite his imperturbable25 face—that the whole country is a volcano which may break forth26 at any moment. But the control is strong, and therefore there is never a large eruption27—a grumble28 here, a gleam of fire there, a sullen29 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 standing30 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 misery31, properly handled, are strong incentives32.”
“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 astute33 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 regiment34 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.
“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 indirectly36. 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 killing37 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 clenched38 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 nervously39 at the silk of her dress, like the fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of her majestic40 stature41.
“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.
“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 pauper43 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 eastward44 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 implicit45 obedience46.”
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 merges47 into hatred48.
“Thursday evening, before dinner,” said De Chauxville.
And he left her standing on the hearth-rug, her lips moving and framing no words.
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1
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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5
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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6
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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7
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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8
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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9
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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10
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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11
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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12
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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13
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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14
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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17
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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savor
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| vt.品尝，欣赏；n.味道，风味；情趣，趣味 | |
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19
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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20
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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23
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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24
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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25
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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28
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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29
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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30
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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31
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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32
incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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33
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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35
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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38
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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40
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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41
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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42
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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43
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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44
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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45
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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46
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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47
merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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48
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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