They both turned. Steinmetz was standing behind them, but he could not have heard De Chauxville’s words. He closed the door carefully, and came forward with his grim smile.
“@ nous trois!” he said, and the subsequent conversation was in the language in which these three understood each other best.
De Chauxville bit his lip and waited. It was a moment of the tensest suspense.
“@ nous trois!” repeated Steinmetz. “De Chauxville, you love an epigram. The man who overestimates the foolishness of others is himself the biggest fool concerned. A lame horse—the prince’s generosity—making your adieux. Mon Dieu! you should know me better than that after all these years. No, you need not look at the door. No one will interrupt us. I have seen to that.”
His attitude and manner indicated a complete mastery of the situation, but whether this assumption was justified by fact or was a mere trick it was impossible to say. There was in the man something strong and good and calm—a manner never acquired by one who has anything to conceal. His dignity was perfect. One forgot his stoutness, his heavy breathing, his ungainly size. He was essentially manly, and a presence to be feared. The strength of his will made itself felt.
He turned to the princess with the grave courtesy that always marked his attitude toward her.
“Madame,” he said, “I fully recognize your cleverness in raising yourself to the position you now occupy. But I would remind you that that position carries with it certain obligations. It is hardly dignified for a princess to engage herself in a vulgar love intrigue in her own house.”
“It is not a vulgar love intrigue!” cried Etta, with blazing eyes. “I will not allow you to say that! Where is your boasted friendship? Is this a sample of it?”
Karl Steinmetz bowed gravely, with outspread hands.
“Madame, that friendship is at your service, now as always.”