Steinmetz went up to him and took him by the arm.

“Come with me,” he said.

The Frenchman could have taken advantage of the presence of the servant to effect a retreat, but he did not dare to do so.  It was essential that he should obtain a few words with Etta.  To effect this, he was ready even to face an interview with Steinmetz.  In his heart he was cursing that liability to inconvenient fainting fits that make all women unreliable in a moment of need.

He preceded Steinmetz out of the room, forgetting even to resent the large, warm grasp on his arm.  They went through the long, dimly lit passage to the old part of the castle, where Steinmetz had his rooms.

“And now,” said Steinmetz, when they were alone with closed doors, “and now, De Chauxville, let us understand each other.”

De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders.  He was not thinking of Steinmetz yet.  He was still thinking of Etta and how he could get speech with her.  With the assurance which had carried him through many a difficulty before this, the Frenchman looked round him, taking in the details of the room.  They were in the apartment beyond the large smoking room—­the ante-room, as it were, to the little chamber where Paul kept his medicine-chest, his disguise, all the compromising details of his work among the peasants.  The broad writing-table in the middle of the room stood between the two men.

“Do you imagine yourself in love with the princess?” asked Steinmetz suddenly, with characteristic bluntness.

“If you like,” returned the other.

“If I thought that it was that,” said the German, looking at him thoughtfully, “I would throw you out of the window.  If it is any thing else, I will only throw you down stairs.”

De Chauxville bit his thumb-nail anxiously.  He frowned across the table into Steinmetz’s face.  In all their intercourse he had never heard that tone of voice; he had never seen quite that look on the heavy face.  Was Steinmetz aroused at last?  Steinmetz aroused was an unknown quantity to Claude de Chauxville.

“I have known you now for twenty-five years,” went on Karl Steinmetz, “and I cannot say that I know any good of you.  But let that pass; it is not, I suppose, my business.  The world is as the good God made it.  I can do nothing toward bettering it.  I have always known you to be a scoundrel—­a fact to be deplored—­and that is all.  But so soon as your villany affects my own life, then, my friend, a more active recognition of it is necessary.”

“Indeed!” sneered the Frenchman.

“Your villany has touched Paul’s life, and at that point it touches mine,” continued Karl Steinmetz, with slow anger.  “You followed us to Petersburg—­thence you dogged us to the Government of Tver.  You twisted that foolish woman, the Countess Lanovitch, round your finger, and obtained from her an invitation to Thors.  All this in order to be near one of us.  Ach!  I have been watching you.  Is it only after twenty-five years that I at last convince you that I am not such a fool as you are pleased to consider me?”