Claude de Chauxville was one of those men—­alas! too many—­who owe their success in life almost entirely to some feminine influence or another.  Whenever he came into direct opposition to men it was his instinct to retire from the field.  Behind Paul’s back he despised him; before his face he cringed.

“Then, perhaps,” he said, when the princess was engaged in the usual farewells with the countess, and Paul was moving toward the door—­“then, perhaps, prince, we may meet again before the spring—­if the countess intends her invitation to be taken seriously.”

“Yes,” answered Paul; “I often shoot at Thors.”

“If you do not happen to come over, perhaps I may be allowed to call and pay my respects—­or is the distance too great?”

“You can do it in an hour and a half with a quick horse, if the snow is good,” answered Paul.

“Then I may make it au revoir?” enquired De Chauxville, holding out a frank hand.

“Au revoir,” said Paul, “if you wish it.”

And he turned to say good-by to Catrina.

As De Chauxville had arrived later than the other visitors, it was quite natural that he should remain after they had left, and it may be safely presumed that he took good care to pin the Countess Lanovitch down to her rash invitation.

“Why is that man coming to Tver?” said Paul, rather gruffly, when Etta and he were settled beneath the furs of the sleigh.  “We do not want him there.”

“I expect,” replied Etta rather petulantly, “that we shall be so horribly dull that even M. de Chauxville will be a welcome alleviation.”

Paul said nothing.  He gave a little sign to the driver, and the horses leaped forward with a musical clash of their silver bells.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

It is to be feared that there is a lamentable lack of local color in the present narrative.  Having safely arrived at Petersburg, we have nothing to tell of that romantic city—­no hints at deep-laid plots, no prison, nor tales of jail-birds—­tales with salt on them, bien entendu—­the usual grain.  We have hardly mentioned the Nevski Prospekt, which street by ancient right must needs figure in all Russian romance.  We have instead been prating of drawing-rooms and mere interiors of houses, which to-day are the same all the world over.  A Japanese fan is but a Japanese fan, whether it hang on the wall of a Canadian drawing-room or the matting of an Indian bungalow.  An Afghan carpet is the same on any floor.  It is the foot that treads the carpet which makes one to differ from another.

Whether it be in Petersburg or Pekin, it still must be the human being that lends the interest to the still life around it.  A truce, therefore, to picturesque description—­sour grapes to the present pen—­of church and fort and river, with which the living persons of whom we tell have little or nothing to do.