Etta raised her head a little.  She was within an ace of handing over to Karl Steinmetz the rod of power held over her by the Frenchman.  There was something in Steinmetz that appealed to her and softened her, something that reached a tender part of her heart through the coating of vanity, through the hardness of worldly experience.

“I have known De Chauxville twenty-five years,” he went on, and Etta deferred her confession.  “We have never been good friends, I admit.  I am no saint, princess, but De Chauxville is a villain.  Some day you may discover, when it is too late, that it would have been for Paul’s happiness, for your happiness, for every one’s good to have nothing more to do with Claude de Chauxville, I want to save you that discovery.  Will you act upon my advice?  Will you make a stand now?  Will you come to me and tell me all that De Chauxville knows about you that he could ever use against you?  Will you give yourself into my hands—­give me your battle to fight?  You cannot do it alone.  Only believe in my friendship, princess.  That is all I ask.”

Etta shook her head.

“I think not,” she answered, in a voice too light, too superficial, too hopelessly shallow for the depth of the moment.  She was thinking only of Sydney Bamborough, and of that dread secret.  She fought with what arms she wielded best—­the lightest, the quickest, the most baffling.

“As you will,” said Steinmetz.

CHAPTER XXXV

ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM

A Russian village kabak, with a smoking lamp, of which the chimney is broken.  The greasy curtains drawn across the small windows exclude the faintest possibility of a draught.  The moujik does not like a draught; in fact, he hates the fresh air of heaven.  Air that has been breathed three or four times over is the air for him; it is warmer.  The atmosphere of this particular inn is not unlike that of every other inn in the White Empire, inasmuch as it is heavily seasoned with the scent of cabbage soup.  The odor of this nourishing compound is only exceeded in unpleasantness by the taste of the same.  Added to this warm smell there is the smoke of a score of the very cheapest cigarettes.  The Russian peasant smokes his cigarette now.  It is the first step, and it does not cost him much.  It is the dawn of progress—­the thin end of the wedge which will broaden out into anarchy.  The poor man who smokes a cigarette is sure to pass on to socialistic opinions and troubles in the market-place.  Witness the cigarette-smoking countries.  Moreover, this same poor man is not a pleasant companion.  He smokes a poor cigarette.

There is also the smell of vodka, which bottled curse is standing in tumblers all down the long table.  The news has spread in Osterno that vodka is to be had for the asking at the kabak, where there is a meeting.  Needless to say, the meeting is a large one.  Foolishness and thirst are often found in the same head—­a cranium which, by the way, is exceptionally liable to be turned by knowledge or drink.