“Merely,” he answered lightly, “to leave open a door—a side door. I understand that there is a door in the old portion of the castle leading up by a flight of stairs to the smoking-room, and thence to the new part of the building.”
Etta did not answer. De Chauxville glanced at his watch and walked to the window, where he stood looking out. He was too refined a person to whistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time.
“This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursday evening,” he said, turning round and slowly coming toward her.
“And I refuse to do it,” said Etta.
“Ah!”
Etta sprung to her feet and faced him—a beautiful woman, a very queen of anger. Her blazing eyes were on a level with his.
“Yes,” she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till she seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. “Yes; I refuse to betray my husband—”
“Stop! He is not your husband!”
Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Her fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of her majestic stature.
“What do you mean?” she whispered. “What do you mean?”