“We have a few bears left,” he said.
“You are fortunate,” protested De Chauxville. “I shot one when I was younger. I was immensely afraid, and so was the bear. I have a great desire to try again.”
Etta glanced at Paul, who returned De Chauxville’s bland gaze with all the imperturbability of a prince.
The countess’s cackling voice broke in at this juncture, as perhaps De Chauxville had intended it to do.
“Then why not come and shoot ours?” she said. “We have quite a number of them in the forests at Thors.”
“Ah, Mme. la Comtesse,” he answered, with outspread, deprecatory hands, “but that would be taking too great an advantage of your hospitality and your well-known kindness.”
He turned to Catrina, who received him with a half-concealed frown. The countess bridled and looked at her daughter with obvious maternal meaning, as one who was saying, “There—you bungled your prince, but I have procured you a baron.”
“The abuse of hospitality is the last refuge of the needy,” continued De Chauxville oracularly. “But my temptation is strong; shall I yield to it, mademoiselle?”
Catrina smiled unwillingly.
“I would rather leave it to your own conscience,” she said. “But I fail to see the danger you anticipate.”