He had hit Etta where his knowledge of her told him she was
unusually vulnerable. He had made one ally. The countess he looked upon
with a wise contempt. She was easier game than Etta. Catrina he
understood well enough. Her rugged simplicity had betrayed her secret to
him before he had been five minutes in the room. Paul he despised as a
man lacking finesse and esprit--a truly French form of contempt. For
Frenchmen have yet to learn that such qualities have remarkably little
to do with love.
Claude de Chauxville was one of those men--alas! too many--who owe their
success in life almost entirely to some feminine influence or another.
Whenever he came into direct opposition to men it was his instinct to
retire from the field. Behind Paul's back he despised him; before his
face he cringed.
"Then, perhaps," he said, when the princess was engaged in the usual
farewells with the countess, and Paul was moving toward the door--"then,
perhaps, prince, we may meet again before the spring--if the countess
intends her invitation to be taken seriously."
"Yes," answered Paul; "I often shoot at Thors."
"If you do not happen to come over, perhaps I may be allowed to call and
pay my respects--or is the distance too great?"
"You can do it in an hour and a half with a quick horse, if the snow is
good," answered Paul.
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