"The woman--who--sold--me--the Charity League papers dined at my house
in Paris--a fortnight ago," said Vassili, with a staccato tap on his
companion's knee by way of emphasis to each word.
"Then, my friend, I cannot--congratulate--you--on the society--in--which
you move," replied De Chauxville, mimicking his manner.
"Bah! She was a princess!"
"A princess?"
"Yes, of your acquaintance, M. le Baron! And she came to my house with
her--eh--husband--the Prince Paul Howard Alexis."
This was news indeed. De Chauxville leaned back and passed his slim
white hand across his brow with a slow pressure, as if wiping some
writing from a slate--as if his forehead bore the writing of his
thoughts and he was wiping it away. And the thoughts he thus
concealed--who can count them? For thoughts are the quickest and the
longest and the saddest things of this life. The first thought was that
if he had known this three months earlier he could have made Etta marry
him. And that thought had a thousand branches. With Etta for his wife he
might have been a different man. One can never tell what the effect of
an acquired desire may be. One can only judge by analogy, and it would
seem that it is a frustrated desire that makes the majority of villains.
But the news coming, thus too late, only served an evil purpose. For in
that flash of thought Claude de Chauxville saw Paul's secrets given to
him; Paul's wealth meted out to him; Paul in exile; Paul dead in
Siberia, where death comes easily; Paul's widow Claude de Chauxville's
wife.
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