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.