“Doubtless, Excellency.  She went out on her snow-shoes half an hour ago.”

“That is all right,” said the Frenchman to himself when the door was closed.

He went to the fire and warmed his slim white fingers.  There was an evil smile lurking beneath his mustache.

When Etta opened the door a minute later he bowed low, without speaking.  There was a suggestion of triumph in his attitude.

“Well?” said the princess, without acknowledging his salutation.

De Chauxville raised his eyebrows with the resigned surprise of a man to whom no feminine humor is new.  He brought forward a chair.

“Will you sit?” he said, with exaggerated courtesy.  “I have much to say to you.  Besides, we have all the time.  Your husband and his German friend are miles away.  I passed Miss Delafield in the forest.  She is not quite at home on her snow-shoes yet.  She cannot be back for at least half an hour.”

Etta bit her lip as she looked at the chair.  She sat slowly down and drew in the folds of her rich dress.

“I have the good fortune to find you alone.”

“So you have informed me,” she replied coldly.

De Chauxville leaned against the mantel-piece and looked down at her thoughtfully.

“At the bear-hunt the other day,” he said, “I had the misfortune to—­well, to fall out with the prince.  We were not quite at one on a question of etiquette.  He thought that I ought to have fired.  I did not fire; I was not ready.  It appears that the prince considered himself to be in danger.  He was nervous—­flurried.”

“You are not always artistic in your untruths,” interrupted Etta.  “I know nothing of the incident to which you refer, but in lying you should always endeavor to be consistent.  I am sure Paul was not nervous—­or flurried.”

De Chauxville smiled imperturbably.  His end was gained.  Etta obviously knew nothing of his attempt to murder Paul at the bear-hunt.

“It was nothing,” he went on; “we did not come to words.  But we have never been much in sympathy; the coldness is intensified, that is all.  So I took the opportunity of calling when I knew he was away.”

“How did you know he was away?”

“Ah, madame, I know more than I am credited with.”

Etta gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders.

“You do not care for Osterno?” suggested De Chauxville.

“I hate it!”

“Precisely.  And I am here to help you to get away from Russia once for all.  Ah! you may shake your head.  Some day, perhaps, I shall succeed in convincing you that I have only your interests at heart.  I am here, princess, to make a little arrangement with you—­a final arrangement, I hope.”

He paused, looking at her with a sudden gleam in his eyes.

“Not the last of all,” he added in a different tone.  “That will make you my wife.”

Etta allowed this statement to pass unchallenged.  Her courage and energy were not exhausted.  She was learning to nurse her forces.