Othmar was in his own house that day at two o’clock looking at a portrait, by Cabanel, of his wife, which had been sent home in the forenoon, and which had been left standing in the salon, where she passed most of her hours. The portrait was one of the triumphs of that elegant master. He had painted her in a gown of white velvet, with her favourite peacocks near, and some high shrubs of red azaleas to lend her the contrast of rich colour. The whole composition was a masterpiece of softness, brilliancy, and sunshine. Othmar stood looking at it and speaking of it to the Baron and to Yseulte when Alain de Vannes was ushered into the room, and, scarcely pausing for the usual ceremonies of salutation, said abruptly to him: ‘You have heard the news of the morning? Napraxine is dead.’

The Duc had calculated the effect of his abrupt speech. Othmar, on whose features the full light was falling from a window of which the curtains had been drawn back for the examination of Cabanel’s portrait, changed colour violently, and his whole face expressed the force of conflicting emotions with which he was moved. Yseulte watched him, fascinated with a vague terror; she had never seen him violently moved under the influence of any strong feeling.

Friederich Othmar, alone retaining his calmness, answered in amazement: ‘Napraxine! Napraxine dead! Are you certain? I saw him last night at midnight; he was in full health and spirits.’

‘Nevertheless he is dead,’ said De Vannes, keeping his gaze on Othmar; and he related the circumstances of the duel.

Othmar listened in profound silence; he had recovered his self-control, but the colour had not returned to his face.

‘What was the cause?’ asked Friederich Othmar, when he had heard all that there was to hear.

Alain de Vannes shrugged his shoulders.

‘De Prangins had spoken jestingly of the Princess—and someone else. Napraxine heard of it through some lamentable indiscretion; he insulted the old Duke; and the result is what I have said. He was run through the lungs and died in a few moments. De Prangins relieved Madame Napraxine of a troublesome lad in young d’Ivrea; he has now done her a still greater service by ridding her of the only ennui in her life which she was sometimes compelled to endure. I do not know who told her what had happened, but the body of Napraxine has already been taken to his house. The duel was fought in a private garden at Versailles.’

Then he paused, having no more to say, and, like a good orator, being unwilling to destroy by detail and diffuseness the effect of his unexpected statement.

Othmar muttered a few sentences of conventional regret and turned away to where the picture stood. Yseulte followed him with wistful eyes. She felt that the news had shocked and startled him strangely, but she was afraid to seem to have remarked his agitation. After a few moments he made some trivial excuse, and left the room.

Friederich Othmar resumed his occupation of examining Cabanel’s work through a lorgnon: people whom he knew died every day; it was not such a simple event as that which could cause him any excitement, and Platon Napraxine, though a very great person in his own way, had no place in the public life of Europe.

The Duc de Vannes approached Yseulte.

‘My cousin,’ he said with gentle mockery, ‘was poor Napraxine such a favourite of yours that you look so stricken with sorrow? If I had known that my intelligence would have caused such regret, I would have been less precipitate in relating it.’

Yseulte coloured; she was conscious that it was her husband’s emotion, not hers, at which he jested.

‘Death is always terrible,’ she murmured, not knowing what to say. ‘And Prince Napraxine always seemed so well, so strong, so full of health——’

De Vannes laughed a little grimly.

‘Poor Napraxine had only one vulnerable point—his heart; some gossiper pecked at that as jays peck at fruit; and this is the end. You know he adored his wife, most unfortunately for himself; she is called the Marie Stuart of our day, and to complete the parallel, it was necessary for her to be the cause of her husband’s death.’

‘But—she must suffer now?’ said Yseulte, her golden eyes dim and dark with feeling.

‘Suffer?’ echoed Alain de Vannes. ‘I see you do not know Madame Napraxine, though you meet so often. The long strict Russian mourning and all the religious rites will weary her terribly. Beyond that, she will not be much distressed, and she will have many—consolations.’

‘She has children,’ said Yseulte.

The Duc smiled.

‘It was not of her children that I was thinking,’ he said with meaning.

Friederich Othmar turned round from his examination of the portrait.

‘My child,’ he said to Yseulte, ‘will you pardon me if I remind you that your horses have been waiting a long time, and that the matinÉe at Princess Hohenlohe’s will be more than half over. M. le Duc will be kind enough to excuse the hint; he is always so amiable.’

Yseulte, who was still obedient with the unquestioning submission of her childish days, rose and bade adieu to her cousin, then went to her own apartments.

Friederich Othmar turned to the Duke:

‘Shall we walk down the boulevard together?’ he suggested, whilst he thought to himself, ‘That fox shall not get at her ear if I can help it.’

While Alain de Vannes assented and they sauntered down the staircase of Othmar’s house, the Duc said with a pleasant little laugh:

‘Ah, my dear Baron, if this duel had taken place with the same results fifteen months ago my little cousin would not have been mistress here!’

‘Who knows?’ said Friederich Othmar, vaguely, with that bland indifference which was his favourite mask and weapon.