“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 a subtle man, analyzing his own thoughts. Had he been, he might have wondered why he was not more jealous in respect to Etta.
“Or,” went on Steinmetz, “it may have been—the other thing. It is a singular thing that many men incapable of a lifelong love, can conceive a lifelong hatred based on that love. Claude de Chauxville has hated me all his life; for very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included in his antipathy because you married madame.”
“I dare say,” replied Paul carelessly. “But I am not afraid of Claude de Chauxville, or any other man.”
“I am,” said Steinmetz. “He is up to some mischief. I was calling on the Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He was constrained at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which was a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not been there for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived a minute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the very first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had wheedled 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.