“Then you will watch him, and procure those details.”
Etta’s face was defiant and pale. De Chauxville never took his eyes from it.
“I have undertaken a few small commissions for an old friend of yours, M. Vassili, whom you obliged once before!” he said; and the defiance faded from her eyes.
“The authorities cannot, in these disturbed times, afford to tolerate princes of an independent turn of mind. Such men are apt to make the peasant think himself more important than he is. I dare say, madame, that you are already tired of Russia. It might perhaps serve your ends if this country was made a little too hot for your husband, eh? I see your proud lips quivering, princess! It is well to keep the lips under control. We, who deal in diplomacy, know where to look for such signs. Yes; I dare say I can get you out of Russia—for ever. But you must be obedient. You must reconcile yourself to the knowledge that you have met—your master.”
He bowed in his graceful way, spreading out his hands in mock humility. Etta did not answer him. For the moment she could see no outlet to this maze of trouble, and yet she was conscious of not fearing De Chauxville so much as she feared Karl Steinmetz.
“A lenient master,” pursued the Frenchman, whose vanity was tickled by the word. “I do not ask much. One thing is to be invited to Osterno, that I may be near you. The other is a humble request for details of your daily life, that I may think of you when absent.”
Etta drew in her lips, moistening them as if they had suddenly become parched.
De Chauxville glanced at her and moved toward the door. He paused with his fingers on the handle, and looking back over his shoulder he said:
“Have I made myself quite clear?”
Etta was still looking out of the window with hard, angry eyes. She took no notice of the question.