Etta gave a sudden laugh.

“Oh, yes,” she said, and her face was strangely red, “I shall still be the Princess Alexis.”

“With sufficient money to keep up the position,” he went on, with the cruel irony of a slow-spoken man.

A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta’s face—­the smile of one who is in agony and will not shriek.

“There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence,” went on Paul.  “I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever nature with the Baron de Chauxville.  I am not jealous of him—­now.  I do not know why.”

He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be.  Etta knew it.  The knowledge was part of her punishment.

“But,” continued her husband.  “I am not going to sacrifice the name my mother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb.  You will be kind enough to avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him.  If you disregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take means to enforce them.”

“What means?”

“I shall reduce your allowance.”

Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta’s life.  Dead things are better put out of sight at once.  Etta felt that Paul’s dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowance which was to be hers.  She would never get away from it; she could never shake off its memory.

“Am I to live alone?” asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice.

“That is as you like,” answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstanding her.  “You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish.  Perhaps—­your cousin.”

“Maggie?”

“Yes,” answered Paul.  For the first time since he had entered the room his eyes were averted from Etta’s face.

“She would not live with me,” said the princess curtly.

Paul seemed to be reflecting.  When he next spoke it was in a kinder voice.

“You need not tell the circumstances which have given rise to this arrangement.”

Etta shrugged her shoulders.

“That,” went on Paul, “rests entirely with yourself.  You may be sure that I will tell no one.  I am not likely to discuss it with any one whomsoever.”

Etta’s stony eyes softened for a moment.  She seemed to be alternating between hatred of this man and love of him—­a dangerous state for any woman.  It is possible that, if he had held his hand out to her, she would have been at his feet in a wild, incoherent passion of self-hatred and abasement.  Such moments as these turn our lives and determine them.  Paul knew nothing of the issue hanging on this moment, on the passing softness of her eyes.  He knew nothing of the danger in which this woman stood, of the temptation with which she was wrestling.  He went on in his blindness, went on being only just.

“If,” he said, “you have any further questions to ask, I shall always be at your service.  For the next few days I shall be busy.  The peasants are in a state of discontent verging on rebellion.  We cannot at present arrange for your journey to Tver, but as soon as it is possible I will tell you.”