"If Madame the Princess," was visible, he went on, would the servant
tell her that M. de Chauxville was waiting in the library to assure her
that there was absolutely no danger to be anticipated in the day's
sport. The princess, it would appear, was absurdly anxious about the
welfare of her husband--an experienced hunter and a dead shot.
Claude de Chauxville then went to the library, where he waited, booted,
spurred, rifle in hand, for Etta.
After a lapse of five minutes or more, the door was opened, and Etta
came leisurely into the room.
"Well?" she enquired indifferently.
De Chauxville bowed. He walked past her and closed the door, which she
happened to have left open.
Then he returned and stood by the window, leaning gracefully on his
rifle. His attitude, his hunting-suit, his great top-boots, made rather
a picturesque object of him.
"Well?" repeated Etta, almost insolently.
"It would have been wiser to have married me," said De Chauxville
darkly.
Etta shrugged her shoulders.
"Because I understand you better; I _know_ you better than your
husband."
Etta turned and glanced at the clock.
"Have you come back from the bear-hunt to tell me this, or to avoid the
bears?" she asked.
De Chauxville frowned. A man who has tasted fear does not like a
question of his courage.
"I have come to tell you that and other things," he answered.
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