"That I admit."
Now the huntswoman lifted her veil. She was heated. She toyed impatiently with the riding-whip in her hand.
"Why am I not a man?" she muttered, between her pearly teeth.
The huntsman with the clean-shaven face, reading from his companion's working features and piercing eyes that there was something more in dispute than the shot stag, now bending towards her, addressed her audibly enough in German. For though the French language—that of the best-beloved enemy—is the language of society in the Russian capital, German—that of the most hated friend—is only spoken by the exclusive. German is therefore spoken when the servants are not desired to understand.
"A rival, eh?" asked the clean-shaven one.
The huntswoman projected her lips scornfully, and, knitting her brows, answered aloud in German:
"Neither rival nor——"
The lady standing by had distinctly heard the short colloquy, and was perfectly aware that she had another charge in her pistol.
The speaker had turned pale as she spoke, like a duellist who, having fired his shot and wounded his adversary, now awaits the other's fire.
The owner of the park did not do this, however. There are words, looks, and gestures which can strike deeper than the most deadly weapon. Placing one foot on the crowned antlers of the stag lying prone before her, she smiled full in the face of her adversary; and, as though to emphasize the insulting challenge, raising her pistol, she fired the remaining shot into the air. For an insult loses its sting if directed by an armed person against one unarmed. Now once more she stood conqueror.