“The peasants will make a demonstration.  The rest we must leave to—­well, to the course of fortune.  I have no doubt that our astute friend Karl Steinmetz will manage to hold them in check.  But whatever the end of the demonstration, the outcome will be the impossibility of a longer residence in this country for the Prince Pavlo Alexis.  A regiment of soldiers could hardly make it possible.”

“I do not understand,” said Etta, “what you describe as a demonstration—­is it a rising?”

De Chauxville nodded, with a grin.

“In force, to take what they want by force?” asked the princess.

De Chauxville spread out his hands in his graceful Gallic way.

“That depends.”

“And what do you wish me to do?” asked Etta, with the same concentrated quiet.

“In the first place, to believe that no harm will come to you, either directly or indirectly.  They would not dare to touch the prince; they will content themselves with breaking a few windows.”

“What do you want me to do?” repeated Etta.

De Chauxville paused.

“Merely,” he answered lightly, “to leave open a door—­a side door.  I understand that there is a door in the old portion of the castle leading up by a flight of stairs to the smoking-room, and thence to the new part of the building.”

Etta did not answer.  De Chauxville glanced at his watch and walked to the window, where he stood looking out.  He was too refined a person to whistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time.

“This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursday evening,” he said, turning round and slowly coming toward her.

“And I refuse to do it,” said Etta.

“Ah!”

Etta sprung to her feet and faced him—­a beautiful woman, a very queen of anger.  Her blazing eyes were on a level with his.

“Yes,” she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till she seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face.  “Yes; I refuse to betray my husband—­”

“Stop!  He is not your husband!”

Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed.  Her fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the fingers of a child seeking support.  She seemed to lose several inches of her majestic stature.

“What do you mean?” she whispered.  “What do you mean?”

“Sydney Bamborough is your husband,” said the Frenchman, without taking his dull eyes from her face.

“He is dead!” she hissed.

“Prove it!”

He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose of easy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion of their interview.

“Prove it, madame!” he said again.

“He died at Tver,” she said; but there was no conviction in her voice.  With her title and position to hold to, she could face the world.  Without these, what was she?