“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 assigned for the time to paul and his party in the httel bristol in paris. steinmetz, who held an open letter in his hand, looked out of the window across the quiet place vendtme. a north wind was blowing with true parisian keenness, driving before it a fine snow, which adhered bleakly to the northern face of a column which is chiefly remarkable for the facility with which it falls and rises again.
steinmetz looked at the letter with a queer smile. he held it out from him as if he distrusted the very stationery.
“so friendly,” he exclaimed; “so very friendly! ‘ce bon steinmetz’ he calls me. ‘ce bon steinmetz’—confound his cheek! he hopes that his dear prince will waive ceremony and bring his charming princess to dine quite en famille at his little pied ` terre in the champs ilysies. he guarantees that only his sister, the marquise, will be present, and he hopes that ‘ce bon steinmetz,’ will accompany you, and also the young lady, the cousin of the princess.”
steinmetz threw the letter down on the table, left it there for a moment, and then, picking it up, he crossed the room and threw it into the fire.
“which means,” he explained, “that m. vassili knows we are here, and unless we dine with him we shall be subjected to annoyance and delay on the frontier by a stupid—a singularly and suspiciously stupid—minor official. if we refuse, vassili will conclude that we are afraid of him. therefore we must accept. especially as vassili has his weak points. he loves a lord, ‘ce vassili.’ if you accept on some of that stationery i ordered for you with a colossal gold coronet, that will already be of some effect. a chain is as strong as its weakest link. m. vassili’s weakest link will be touched by your gorgeous note-paper. if ce cher prince and la charmante princesse are gracious to him, vassili is already robbed of half his danger.”
paul laughed. it was his habit either to laugh or to grumble at karl steinmetz’s somewhat subtle precautions. the word “danger” invariably made him laugh, with a ring in his voice which seemed to betoken enjoyment.
“of course,” he said, “i leave these matters to you. let us show vassili, 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 the champs ilysies was, in fact, a gorgeous house in the tawdry style of modern paris—resplendent in gray iron railings, and high gate-posts surmounted by green cactus plants cunningly devised in cast iron.
the heavy front door was thrown open by a lackey, and others bowed in the halls as if by machinery. two maids pounced upon the ladies with the self-assurance of their kind and country, and led the way upstairs, while the men removed fur coats in the hall. it was all very princely and gorgeous and parisian.
vassili and his sister the marquise—a stout lady in ruby velvet and amethysts, who invariably caused maggie delafield’s mouth to twitch whenever she opened her own during the evening—received the guests in the drawing-room. they were standing on the white fur hearth-rug side by side, when the doors were dramatically thrown open, and the servant rolled the names unctuously over his tongue.
steinmetz, who was behind, saw everything. he saw vassili’s masklike face contract with stupefaction when he set eyes on etta. he saw the self-contained russian give a little gasp, and mutter an exclamation before 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 formal greetings were over. when he did see it, he noted that it was as white as marble.
“aha! ce bon steinmetz!” cried vassili, with less formality, holding out his 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 our small house,” said the marquise in a guttural voice such as one might expect from within ruby velvet and amethysts. thereafter she subsided into silence and obscurity so far as the evening was concerned and the present historian is interested.
“so,” said vassili, with a comprehensive bow to all his guests—“so you are 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 her face.
“a beautiful country, but the rest of europe does not believe it. and the estate of the prince is one of the vastest, if not the most beautiful. it is a sporting estate, is it not, prince?”
“essentially so,” replied paul. “bears, wolves, deer, besides, of course, black game, capercailzie, ptarmigan—every thing one could desire.”
“speaking as a sportsman,” suggested vassili gravely.
“speaking as a sportsman.”
“of course—” vassili paused, and with a little gesture of the hand included steinmetz in the conversation. it may have been that he preferred to have him talking than watching. “of course, like all great russian landholders, you have your troubles with the people, though you are not, strictly speaking, within the famine district.”
“not quite; we are not starving, but we are hungry,” said steinmetz bluntly.
vassili laughed, and shook a gold eye-glass chidingly.
“ah, my friend, your old pernicious habit of calling a spade a spade! it is unfortunate that they should hunger a little, but what will you? they must learn to be provident, to work harder and drink less. with such people experience is the only taskmaster possible. it is useless talking to them. it is dangerous to pauperize them. besides, the accounts that one reads in the newspapers are manifestly absurd and exaggerated. you must not, mademoiselle,” he said, turning courteously to maggie, “you must not believe all you are told about russia.”
“i do not,” replied maggie, with an honest smile which completely baffled m. vassili. he had not had much to do with people who smiled honestly.
“vrai!” he said, with grave emphasis; “i am not joking. it is a matter of the strictest fact that fiction has for the moment fixed its fancy upon my country—just as it has upon the east end of your london. mon dieu! 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 fiction to 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 dishes parisian. every thing was brilliant, and etta’s spirits rose. such little things affect the spirits of such little-minded women. it requires a certain mental reserve from which to extract cheerfulness over a chop and a pint of beer withal, served on a doubtful cloth. but some of us find it easy enough to be witty and brilliant over good wine and a perfectly appointed table.
“it is exile; it is nothing short of exile,” protested vassili, who led the conversation. “much as i admire my own country, as a country, i do not pretend to regret a fate that keeps me resident in paris. for men it is different, but for madame, and for you, mademoiselle—ach!” he shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling in mute appeal to the gods above it. “beauty, brilliancy, wit—they are all lost in russia.”
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 a lower tone to etta, who smiled, well pleased. she was not always able to distinguish between impertinence and flattery. and indeed they are so closely allied that the distinction is subtle.
steinmetz, on the left hand of the marquise, addressed one or two remarks to that lady, who replied with her mouth full. he soon discovered that that which was before her interested her more than any thing around, and during the banquet he contented himself by uttering an exclamation of delight at a particular flavor which the lady was kind enough to point out to him with an eloquent and emphatic fork from time to time.
vassili noted this with some disgust. he would have preferred that karl steinmetz were greedy or more conversational.
“but,” the host added aloud, “ladies are so good. perhaps you are interested 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 grave appreciation of the fare provided.
“ah!” he said in an expectant tone; “then you will no doubt pass much of your time in endeavoring to alleviate their troubles—their self-inflicted troubles, with all deference to ce cher prince.”
“why with deference to me?” asked paul, looking up quietly, with something in his steady gaze that made maggie glance anxiously at steinmetz.
“well, i understand that you hold different opinions,” said the russian.
“not at all,” answered paul. “i admit that the peasants have themselves to blame—just as a dog has himself to blame when he is caught in a trap.”
“is the case analogous? let me recommend those olives—i have them from barcelona by a courier.”
“quite,” answered paul; “and it is the obvious duty of those who know better 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 my star that i am not a landholder—only a poor bureaucrat. it is so difficult to comprehend these questions, mademoiselle. but of all men in or out of russia it is possible our dear prince knows best of what he is talking.”
“oh, no!” disclaimed paul, with that gravity at which some were ready to laugh. “i only judge in a small way from, a small experience.”
“ah! you are too modest. you know the peasants thoroughly, you understand them, you love them—so, at least, i have been told. is it not 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 within bowing distance of apoplexy.
in such wise the conversation went on during the dinner, which was a long one. continually, repeatedly, vassili approached the subject of osterno and the daily life in that sequestered country. but those who knew were silent, and it was obvious that etta and maggie were ignorant of 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 the master’s glance fell to the glasses again. these the servants never left in peace—constantly replenishing, constantly watching with that assiduity which makes men thirsty against their will by reason of the repeated reminder.
but tongues wagged no more freely for the choice vintages poured upon them. paul had a grave, strong head and that self-control against which alcohol may ply itself in vain. karl steinmetz had taken his degree at heidelberg. he was a seasoned vessel, having passed that way before.
etta was bright enough—amusing, light, and gay—so long as it was a question of mere social gossip; but whenever vassili spoke of the country to which he expressed so deep a devotion, she, seeming to take her cue from her husband and his agent, fell to pleasant, non-committing silence.
it was only after dinner, in the drawing-room, while musicians discoursed offenbach and rossini from behind a screen of fern and flower, that vassili found an opportunity of addressing himself directly to etta. in part she desired this opportunity, with a breathless apprehension behind her bright society smile. without her assistance he never would have had it.
“it is most kind of you,” he said in french, which language had been spoken all the evening in courtesy to the marquise, who was now asleep—“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 into the room—you may have observed it—i was quite taken aback. i—i have read in books of beauty capable of taking away a man’s breath. you must excuse me—i am a plain-spoken man. i never met it until this evening.”
etta excused him readily enough. she could forgive plenty of plain-speaking of this description. had she not been inordinately vain, this woman, like many, would have been extraordinarily clever. she laughed, 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 see you again? how long will you be in russia, and—”
“ce vassili is the best english scholar i know!” broke in steinmetz, who had approached somewhat quietly. “but he will not talk, princess—he is so shy.”
paul was approaching also. it was eleven o’clock, he said, and travellers who had to make an early start would do well to get home to bed.
when the tall doors had been closed behind the departing guests, vassili walked slowly to the fire-place. he posted himself on the bear-skin hearthrug, his perfectly shod feet well apart—a fine dignified figure of a man, of erect and military carriage; a very mask of a face—soulless, colorless, emotionless ever.
he stood biting at his thumb-nail, looking at the door through which etta alexis had just passed in all the glory of her beauty, wealth, and position.
“the woman,” he said slowly, “who sold me the charity league papers—and she thinks i do not recognize her!”
