“Hold your hand, Prince Galitsyn!” he cried hoarsely, “and remember the sacred bond of hospitality—the marquis has eaten of your bread and salt.”
The prince paused; his breast heaving with passion, his eyes kindling with a savage triumph, his face deeply flushed, Maître le Bastien holding his right arm by main force. Below, at the end of the hall, I heard the serfs stirring restlessly and the clash of swords. I folded my arms on my breast and waited. I had never been more indifferent; let the barbarian do his worst!
“The bond of bread and salt, M. le Prince, remember it,” said the goldsmith gravely. “The last of our Valois kings permitted his guest to be murdered, and he also fell by the murderer’s hand. As you sow, so will you reap!”
Galitsyn looked at me with eyes that devoured every detail of my face and figure; scorn and rage were mingled on his countenance.
“‘Her husband,’ he calls himself,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “This foreigner, this soldier of fortune—the mate for one of Russia’s noblest born—for the Princess Daria. Why, master goldsmith, the man is mad!”
“You forget to whom you speak, M. le Prince,” I retorted hotly. “A gentleman of France, and the head of one of its noble houses, is your equal—ay, and something more,” I added, as truculent as he, though I saw Le Bastien’s warning gesture.
“‘And something more’—I thank you, sir,” he said, with bitter disdain, “and the czarevna—did she plan this marriage also?”
“No,” I answered promptly, “a thousand times no—she did not know of the exchange of bridegrooms——”
He interrupted me at this; he shook off the goldsmith and came nearer to me.
“Did the Princess Daria choose you—instead of Kurakin?” he asked in a deep voice, and I saw that the man was shaken to the soul.