“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.”