Chapter Eight.
The Old Love.
“I don’t like that woman, old fellow,” were the first words Dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which Yolande had been found.
“Why not?” I asked, rather surprised. “The Countess de Foville is always charming.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“One sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. This is one of mine.”
“And Yolande,” I asked, “what of her?”
“She’s better. But it was fortunate I made the discovery just when I did, or she would no doubt have passed away. I never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, I’d have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life.”
“But what was the cause of it all?” I demanded. “You surely know the reason?”
“No, we cannot yet tell,” he answered. “The marks puzzle us. That mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. At present we can say nothing.”
“Then why did you call me out?”
“Because I want to consult you,” he replied. “The fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which I don’t like at all. And, moreover, the few seconds during which I’ve seen the Countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth.”
I nodded. This was exactly my own theory. “Do you think Yolande has been the victim of foul play?” I inquired a moment later.
“That’s my suspicion,” he responded. “But only she herself can tell us the truth.”
“You really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?” I cried incredulously.
“Personally, I think there can be no doubt.”
“But by whom? No one called here after my departure.”
“It is that mystery which we must elucidate,” he said. “All I fear is, however, that she may render us no assistance.”
“Why?”
“Because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to preserve the secret. She must not see the Countess before we question her.”
“Is she yet conscious?” I asked in eagerness.
“Yes; but at present we must put no question to her.”
“Thank Heaven!” I gasped. Then I added, fervently grasping my friend’s hand: “You cannot realise, Dick, what great consolation this is to me!”
“I know, my dear fellow—I know,” he answered sympathetically. “But may I speak to you as a friend? You won’t be offended at anything I am about to say, will you?”
“Offended?—certainly not. Our friendship is too firm for that, Dick. What is it you wish to say?”
I saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity.
“Well,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think that in this affair you’ve told me exactly the truth.”
“What do you mean?” I inquired quickly.
“I mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not altogether good friends.”
“You are mistaken,” I assured him. “We were as good friends as ever before.”
“No high words passed between you?”
“None.”
“And nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief? Are you quite certain of this?” he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his glasses.
“I made one observation which certainly caused her surprise,” I admitted. “Nothing else.”
“Was it only surprise?” he asked very calmly.
“Surprise mingled with fear.”
“Ah!” he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this admission of mine. “And may I not know the nature of the information you gave her?”
“No, Dick,” I responded. “It is a secret—her secret.”
He was silent.
“You refuse to tell me?” he said disappointedly.
“I am unable,” I replied.
“And if I judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?”
“No, it is not,” I answered. “That’s the most curious part of the whole affair. The very existence of the secret has brought us together again.”
“You mean that you have forsaken Edith and returned to her?” he observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise.
“No; don’t put it in that way,” I implored. “I have not yet forsaken Edith.”
He smiled, just a trifle superciliously, I thought.
“And the Countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret—eh?”
“Of that I am not at all certain,” I replied.
He sniffed in distinct suspicion that what I had told him was not the truth. At the same instant, however, the Countess entered and demanded to know the condition of her child.
“She is much better, madame,” he answered. “Perfect quiet is, however, necessary, and constant observation of the temperature. To-morrow, or the day after, you may, I think, see her.”
“Not till then!” she cried. “I cannot wait so long.”
“But it is necessary. Your daughter’s life hangs upon a single thread.”
She was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless.
A few minutes later Jean entered with a message from Trépard asking Dick and myself to consult with him. We therefore left the Countess again, and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago was lying. As we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of recognition, and in an instant I was at her side.
“Yolande!” I cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had been defeated by life. “Yolande! my darling,” I burst forth involuntarily, “you have come back to me!”
A sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked:
“Gerald, is it actually you?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course it is. These two gentlemen are doctors,” I added. “This is my old friend Deane; and the other is Doctor Trépard, of whom I daresay you have heard.”
She nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions; then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her. She seemed in utter ignorance of it all.
“You were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after I left, and they thought you were dead,” I explained. “Cannot you tell us how it occurred?”
A puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to remember.
“I recollect nothing,” she declared.
“But you surely remember how you were attacked?” I urged.
“Attacked!” she echoed in surprise. “No one attacked me.”
“I did not mean that,” I answered, rather puzzled at her quick protest. “I meant that you were probably aware of the symptoms which preceded your unconsciousness.”
“I felt a strange dizziness and a curious tightness in the throat and chest. That is all I remember. All became blank until I opened my eyes again and found myself lying here, with these two gentlemen standing at my side. The duration of my unconsciousness did not appear to me longer than a few minutes.”
“Then mademoiselle has no idea of the cause of her strange illness?” inquired Deane in French. “None whatever, m’sieur.”
“Tell us one fact,” he urged. “During the time which elapsed between your parting with M’sieur Ingram and your sudden unconsciousness, did anyone enter the room?”
“No one; of that I am absolutely certain.”
“How were you occupied during that time?”
“I was writing a letter.”
“And before you rose did you feel the curious giddiness?”
“No, not until after I stood up. I tried to shout and attract help, but could not. Then I reached to press the bell, but stumbled forward, and the next instant I was lost in what seemed to be a dense fog.”
“Curious!” ejaculated Trépard, who stood by with folded arms, eagerly listening to every word—“very curious!”
“Did you feel any strange sensation on the left side of your neck beneath the ear, or upon your lower lip?” inquired Deane earnestly.
She reflected for a moment, then said:
“Now that I remember, there was a curious numbness of my lip.”
“Followed immediately by unconsciousness?”
“Yes, almost immediately.”
The doctors exchanged glances, which showed that the mark upon the lip was the chief enigma of the situation.
Trépard glanced at his watch, dissolved yet another pillule of hydrated peroxide of iron, and handed her the draught to swallow. The antidote had acted almost like magic.
“You are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after Ingram had left?” repeated Deane, as though not yet satisfied.
“Absolutely.”
Dick Deane turned his eyes full upon me, and I divined his thoughts. He was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered that room. He was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her secret.
“My mother knows that I am recovering?” she went on. “If she does not, please tell her. She has been so distressed of late that this must have been the crowning blow to her.”
“I have told madame your mother everything,” I said. “Do not be uneasy on her account.”
“Ah,” she sighed, “how I regret that we came to Paris! I regret it all, Gerald, save that you and I have met again;” and she stretched out her hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she toyed like a child.
“And this meeting has really given you satisfaction?” I whispered to her, heedless of the presence of the others.
“Not only satisfaction,” she answered, so softly that I alone could catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of passionate affection which can never be simulated; “it has given back to me a desire for happiness, for life, for love.”
There were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and her small hand trembled within my grasp. My heart at that moment was too full for mere words. True, I loved her with a mad fondness that I had never before entertained for any woman; yet, nevertheless, a hideous shadow arose between us, shutting her off from me for ever—the shadow of her secret—the secret that she, my well-beloved, was actually a spy.
Chapter Nine.
At the Elysée.
Having reassured myself of Yolande’s recovery, I was compelled to rush off, slip into uniform, and attend a dinner at the Elysée. The function was a brilliant affair, as are all the official junketings of the French President. At the right of the head of the Republic, who was distinguishable by his crimson sash, sat the Countess Tornelli, with the wife of the United States Ambassador on his left. The President’s wife—who wore a superb gown of corn-coloured miroir velvet, richly embroidered and inlaid with Venetian lace, a veritable triumph of the Rue de la Paix—had on her right the Papal Nuncio, Monsignor Lerenzelli, the doyen of the Diplomatic Corps, while on her left was my Chief, Lord Barmouth.
The seat next me was allotted to his daughter Sibyl, who looked charming in rose chiffon. During dinner she chatted merrily, describing a charity bazaar which she had attended that afternoon accompanied by her mother. On the other side of her sat Count Berchtold, the secretary of the Austrian Embassy, who was, I shrewdly suspected, one of her most devoted admirers. She was charming—a typical, smart English girl; and I think that I was proved to be an exception among men by reason of the fact that I did not flirt with her. Indeed, we were excellent friends, and my long acquaintance with her gave me a prescriptive right to a kind of brotherly solicitude for her welfare. Times without number I had chaffed her about her little affairs of the heart, and as many times she had turned my criticisms against myself by her witty repartee. She could be exceedingly sarcastic when occasion required; but there had always been a perfect understanding between us, and no remark was ever distorted into an insult.
Dinner was followed by a brilliant reception. The great Salon des Fêtes, which only a year before was hung with funeral wreaths, owing to the death of the previous President, resounded with that peculiar hum made up of all the intonations of conversation and discreet laughter rolled together against the sustained buzzing of the orchestra a short distance away. The scene was one of glittering magnificence. Everyone knew everyone else. Through the crowd of uniforms—which always give an official reception at the Elysée the appearance of a bal travesti—I passed Monsieur Casimir Perrier, former President of the Republic; Monsieur Paul Deschanel, the lion of the hour; Monsieur Benjamin-Constant, always a prominent figure; Prince Roland Bonaparte, smiling and bowing; the Duchess d’Auerstadt, with her magnificent jewels; and Damat, the dapper Grand Chancellor of the Legion of Honour. All diplomatic Paris was there, chattering, laughing, whispering, and plotting. Around me sounded a veritable babel of tongues, but no part of the function interested me.
From time to time I saluted a man I knew, or bent over a woman’s hand; but my thoughts were of the one woman who had so suddenly and so forcibly returned into my life. The representatives of the Powers of Europe were all present, and as they passed me by, each in his bright uniform, his orders flashing on his breast and a woman on his arm, I asked myself which of them was actually the employer of my well-beloved.
The startling events of the day had upset me. Had it been possible I would have left and returned to my rooms for a quiet smoke and for calm reflection. But my duty required my presence there; hence I remained, strolling slowly around the great crowded salon with its myriad lights and profuse floral decorations, until I suddenly encountered the wizen-faced, toothless old Baronne de Chalencon, whose salon was one of the most popular in Paris, and with whom I was on excellent terms.
“Ah! my dear M’sieur Ingram!” she cried, holding forth her thin, bony hand laden with jewels. “You look tired. Why? No one here to-night who interests you—eh?”
“No one save yourself, Baronne,” I responded, bending over her hand.
“Flatterer!” she laughed. “If I were forty years younger I might accept that as a compliment. But at my age—well, it is really cruel of you.”
“Intelligence is more interesting to a diplomat than a pretty face,” I responded quickly. “And there is certainly no more intelligent woman in all Paris than the Baronne de Chalencon.”
She bowed stiffly, and her wrinkled face, which bore visible traces of poudre orchidée and touches of the hare’s-foot, puckered up into a simpering smile.
“Well, and what else?” she asked. “These speeches you have apparently prepared for some pretty woman you expected to meet here to-night, but, since she has not kept the appointment, you are practising them upon me.”
“No,” I said, “I really protest against that, Baronne. A woman is never too old for a man to pay her compliments.”
We had strolled into a cool ante-room, and were sitting together upon one of the many seats placed beneath clumps of palms and flowers, the only light being from a hundred tiny electric lamps hung overhead in the trees. The perfect arrangement of those ante-rooms of the Salle des Fêtes on the nights of the official receptions is always noteworthy, and after the heat, music, and babel of tongues in the grand salon it was cool, quiet, and refreshing there.
By holding her regular salon, where everybody who was anybody made it a point to be seen, the Baronne had acquired in Paris a unique position. Her fine house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was the centre of a smart and fashionable set, and she herself made a point of being versed in all the latest gossip and scandal of the French capital. She scandalised nobody, nor did she seek to throw mud at her enemies. She merely repeated what was whispered to her; hence a chat with her was always interesting to one who, like myself, was paid to keep his ears open and report from time to time the direction of the political wind.
Tournier, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, and his wife were her most intimate friends; hence she was frequently aware of facts which were of considerable importance to us. Indeed, once or twice her friendliness for myself had caused her to drop hints which had been of the greatest use to Lord Barmouth in the conduct of his difficult diplomacy at that time when the boulevard journals were screaming against England and the filthy prints were caricaturing Her Majesty, with intent to insult. Even the Figaro—the moderate organ of the French Foreign Office—had lost its self-control in the storm of abuse following the Fashoda incident, and had libelled and maligned “les English.” I therefore seized the opportunity for a chat with the wizen-faced old lady, who seemed in a particularly good-humour, and deftly turned the conversation into the political channel.
“Now, tell me, Baronne,” I said, after we had been chatting some little time, and I had learnt more than one important fact regarding the intentions of Tournier, “what is your opinion regarding the occupation of Ceuta?”
She glanced at me quickly, as though surprised that I should be aware of what she had believed to be an entire secret.
“Of Ceuta?” she echoed. “And what do you at your Embassy know regarding it?”
“We’ve heard a good deal,” I laughed.
“No doubt you’ve heard a good deal that is untrue,” the clever old lady replied, her powdered face again puckering into a smile. “Do you want to know my honest opinion?” she added.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well,” she went on, “I attach very little importance to the rumours of a projected sale or lease of Ceuta to us. I might tell you in confidence,” she went on, dropping her voice, “that from some words I overheard at the garden-party at de Wolkenstein’s I have come to a firm conclusion that, although during the next few years important changes will be made upon the map of the world, Ceuta will remain Spanish. My country will never menace yours in the Mediterranean at that point. A Ministry might be found in Madrid to consider the question of its disposal, but the Spanish people would rise in revolution before they would consent. Spain is very poor, but very proud. Having lost so many of her foreign possessions, she will hold more strongly than ever to Ceuta. There you have the whole situation in a nutshell.”
“Then the report that it is actually sold to France is untrue?” I asked eagerly.
“A mere report I believe it to be.”
“But Spain’s financial indebtedness to France might prove an element of danger when Europe justifies Lord Beaconsfield’s prediction and rushes into war over Morocco?”
“Ah, my dear M’sieur Ingram, I do not agree with the prediction of your great statesman,” the old lady said vehemently. “It is not in that direction in which lies the danger of war, but at the other end of the Mediterranean.”
Somehow I suspected her of a deliberate intention to mislead me in this matter. She was a shrewd woman, who only disclosed her secrets when it was to her own interests or the interests of her friends at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to do so. In Paris there is a vast network of French intrigue, and it behoves the diplomatist always to be wary lest he should fall into the pitfalls so cunningly prepared for him. The dividing line between truth and untruth is always so very difficult to define in modern diplomacy. It is when the European situation seems most secure that the match is sufficiently near to fire the mine. Fortunate it is that the public, quick to accept anything that appears in the daily journals, can be placed in a sense of false security by articles inspired by one or other of the embassies interested. If it were not so, European panics would certainly be of frequent occurrence.
My Chief sauntered by, chatting with his close personal friend, Prince Olsoufieff, the Russian Ambassador, who looked a truly striking figure in his white uniform, with the Cross of St. Andrew glittering at his throat. The latter, as he passed, exclaimed confidentially in Russian to my Chief, who understood that language, having been first Secretary of Embassy in Petersburg earlier in his career:
“Da, ya po-ni-mai-ù. Ya sam napishu.” (“Yes, I understand. I will write for you myself.”)
Keen antagonists in diplomacy though they very often were, yet in private life a firm friendship existed between the pair—a friendship dating from the days when the one had been British Attaché in Petersburg and the other had occupied a position in the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs—that large grey building facing the Winter Palace.
“The lion and the bear strolling together,” laughed the toothless old Baronne, after they had passed. “Olsoufieff is a charming man, but he never accepts my invitations. I cannot tell why. I don’t fancy he considers me his friend.”
“Sibyl was at your reception the other evening,” I remarked suddenly. “She told me she met a man who was a stranger in Paris. His name, I think she said, was Wolf—Rodolphe Wolf. Who is he?”
“He was introduced by de Wolkenstein, the Austrian Ambassador,” she replied quickly. “I did not know him.”
“Have you never met him before?” I asked, looking sharply into her eyes.
“Once, I think, but I am not certain,” she said, with a palpable effort to evade my question.
I smiled.
“Come, madame,” I said good-humouredly, “you know Rodolphe Wolf quite as well as I do. When you last met, his name was not Wolf. Is not that so?”
“Well,” she answered, “now that you put it in that manner I may as well admit that your suggestion is correct.”
“And what is the object of his sudden visit to Paris?”
“I cannot make out,” she replied in a more confidential tone. “As I tell you, de Wolkenstein introduced him, but, as m’sieur knows, I am very quick to detect a face that I have once seen, and I recognised him in an instant.”
“Sibyl told me that he had a long chat with her, and she described him as a most charming fellow.”
“Ah, no doubt! I suspected him and watched. It was evident that he came to my salon in order to meet her.”
“To meet Sibyl! Why?”
“That I cannot tell.”
“But I think, Baronne, we may be both agreed upon one point.”
“And that is?”
“That the man who now calls himself Rodolphe Wolf is here in Paris with some secret motive.”
“I am entirely in accord, m’sieur—quite. Some steps must at once be taken to ascertain that man’s motives.”
“It seems curious that he should have been introduced for the purpose of meeting Sibyl. What information did he want from her?”
“How can we tell? You know better than myself whether she ever knows any secrets of the Embassy.”
“She knows nothing,—of that I am absolutely convinced,” I responded. “Her father is devoted to her; but, nevertheless, he is one of those strict diplomatists who do not believe in trusting women with secrets.”
“Yet Wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her,” she said reflectively.
“No doubt. As soon as she returned she began to talk of him.”
And next instant I recollected the strange effect the news of his arrival in Paris had had upon Yolande, and the curiously tragic event which had subsequently occurred. All was puzzling—all inscrutable.
A silence fell between us. I was revolving in my mind whether I should ask this wizen-faced old leader of Society a further question. With sudden resolve I turned to her again and asked:
“O Baronne, I had quite forgotten. Do you chance to know the Countess de Foville, of Brussels? They have a château down in the Ardennes, and move in the best set in Belgium?”
“De Foville? De Foville?” she repeated. “What, do you mean the mother of that little witch Yolande?”
“Yes. But why do you call her a witch?” I demanded, with feigned laughter.
“Why?” cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with displeasure. “Well, I do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but all I can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to pursue is to cut her acquaintance.”
“What do you mean?” I gasped.
“I mean exactly what I have said.”
“But I don’t understand,” I cried. “Be more frank with me,” I implored.
“No,” she answered in that hard voice, by which I knew that mention of Yolande’s name had displeased her. “Remember that we are friends, and that sometimes we have interests in common. Therefore, take this piece of advice from an old woman who knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Knows that your friendship with the pretty Yolande is dangerous—extremely dangerous.”
Chapter Ten.
Confession.
Next day, when the manservant asked me into the tiny boudoir in the Rue de Courcelles, I found Yolande, in a pretty tea-gown of cream silk adorned with lace and ribbons, seated in an armchair in an attitude of weariness. The sun-shutters were closed, as on the previous day, for the heat in Paris that July was insufferable, and in the dim light her wan figure looked very fair and fragile. The qualities which imparted to her a distinct individuality were the beautiful combination of the pastoral with the elegant—of simplicity with elevation—of spirit with sweetness.
She gave vent to a cry of gladness as I entered, rose, and stretching out her hands in welcome, drew a seat for me close to her. I looked at her standing before me in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.
“You are better, Yolande? Ah! how glad I am!” I commenced. “Last night I believed that you were dead.”
“And if I had died would it really have mattered so very much to you?” she asked in a low, intense voice. “You have forgotten me for three whole years until now.”
“I know—I know!” I cried. “Forgive me.”
“I have already forgiven,” she said, allowing her hand still to remain in mine. “But I have been thinking to-day—thinking ever so much.”
Her voice was weak and faltering, and I saw that she was not herself.
“Thinking of what?”
“Of you. I have been wondering whether, if I had died, you would have sometimes remembered me?”
“Remembered you?” I said earnestly. “Why, of course, dearest. Why do you speak in such a melancholy tone?”
“Because—well, because I am unhappy, Gerald!” she cried, bursting into sudden tears. “Ah! you do not know how I suffer—you can never know!”
I bent and stroked her hair, that beautiful red-gold hair that I had so often heard admired in the great salons in Brussels. It had been bound but lightly by her maid, and was secured by a blue ribbon. She had apologised for receiving me thus, but declared that her head ached, and it was easier so. Doctor Deane had called twice that morning, and had pronounced her entirely out of danger.
“But why are you suffering?” I asked, caressing her and striving to charm away her tears. “Cannot you confide in me?”
She shook her head in despair, and her body was shaken by a convulsive sob.
“Surely there is confidence between us?” I urged. “Do you not remember that day long ago when we walked one evening in the sunset hand-in-hand, as was our wont, along the river-path towards La Roche? Do you not remember how you told me that in future you would have no single secret from me?”
“Yes,” she answered hoarsely, with an effort, “I recollect.”
“Then you intend to break your promise to me?” I whispered earnestly. “Surely you will not do this, Yolande? You will not hide from me the cause of all this bitterness of yours?” She was silent. Her breast, beneath its lace, rose quickly and fell again. Her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon the carpet.
“I would not break my promise,” she said at last, clasping my hand convulsively and lifting her eyes to mine; “but, alas! it is now imperative.”
“Why imperative?”
“I must suffer alone,” she responded gloomily, shaking her head. Her countenance was as pale as her gown, and she shivered as though she were cold, although the noonday heat was suffocating.
“Because you refuse to tell me anything or allow me to assist you?” I said. “This is not in accordance with the promise made and sealed by your lips on that evening long ago.”
“Nor have your actions been in accordance with your own promise,” she said slowly and distinctly.
“To what do you refer?”
“You told me that you loved me, Gerald,” she said in a deep voice, suddenly grown calm. “You swore by all you held most sacred that I was all the world to you, and that no one should come between us. Yet past events have shown that you have forgotten those words of yours on the day when we idled in the Bois beneath the trees. You, too, remember that day, do you not—the day when our lips met for the first time, and we both believed our path would in future be strewn with flowers? Ah!” she sighed, “and what an awakening life has been to me since then!”
“We parted because of your refusal to satisfy me as to the real state of your feelings towards the man who was my enemy,” I said rather warmly.
“But was it justifiable?” she asked in a tone of deep reproach and mingled sweetness. Her blue eyes looked full upon me—those eyes that had held me in such fascination in the golden days of youth. “Has any single fact which you have since discovered verified your suspicions? Tell me truthfully;” and she leaned towards me in an attitude of deepest earnestness.
“No,” I answered honestly, “I cannot say that my suspicions have ever been verified.”
“And because of that you have returned to me when it is too late.”
“Too late!” I cried. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I have said. You have come back to me when it is too late.”
“You speak in enigmas, Yolande. Why not be more explicit?”
Her pale lips trembled, her eyes were brimming with tears, her chilly hand quivered in mine. She did not speak for some moments, but at last said in a low, tremulous voice half choked by emotion:
“Once you loved me, Gerald,—of that I feel confident; and I reciprocated your affection, God knows! Our love was, perhaps, curious, inasmuch as you were English and I was of a different creed and held different ideas from those which you considered right. It is always the same with a man and woman of different nationality—there must be a give-and-take principle between them. Between us, however, there was perfect confidence until, by a strange combination of circumstances—by a stroke of the sword of Fate—that incident occurred which led to our estrangement.”
She paused, her blanched lips shut tight. “Well?” I asked, “I am all attention. Why is it too late now for me to make reparation for the past?”
I loved her with all my soul. I was heedless of those words of the old Baronne, of Anderson’s suspicions, and Kaye’s denunciation. Even if she were a spy, I adored her. The fire of that old love had swept upon me, and I could not hold back, even though her touch might be as that of a leper and her lips venomous.
“Reparation is impossible,” she answered hoarsely. “Is not that sufficient?”
“No, it is not sufficient,” I answered clearly. “I will not be put off by such an answer.”
“It were better,” she cried—“better that I had died yesterday than suffer like this. You rescued me from death only to torture me.”
Her words aroused within me a distinct suspicion that her strange illness had been brought to pass because, using some mysterious means, she had made an attempt against her own life. I believed that she had suffered, and was still suffering, from the effects of some poison, the exact nature of which neither Deane nor Trépard could as yet determine.
“I do not seek to torture you, dearest,” I protested. “Far from it. I merely want to know the truth, in order that I may share your unhappiness, as your betrothed ought to do.”
“But you are not my betrothed.”
“I was once.”
“But not now. You taunt me with breaking that promise which I made three years ago, yet you yourself it was who played me false—who left me for your prim, strait-laced English miss!”
In an instant the truth was plain. She was aware that I had transferred my affections to Edith! Someone had told her—no doubt with a good many embellishments, or perhaps some scandalous story. In the salons through which we of the diplomatic circle are compelled to move, women’s tongues are ever at work match-making and mischief-making. On the Continent love and politics run always hand-in-hand. That is the reason why the most notorious of the demi-monde in Paris, in Vienna, and in Berlin are the secret agents of their respective Governments; and many are the honest men innocently denounced through jealousy and kindred causes. A false declaration of one or other of these unscrupulous spies has before now caused the downfall of a Ministry or the disgrace of a noble and patriotic politician.
“I know to whom you refer,” I said, with bowed head, after a moment’s pause. “It is currently reported that I love her. I have loved her. I do not seek to deny it. When a man sustains such a blow as I sustained before we parted, he often rushes to another woman for consolation. The influence of that second woman often prevents him from going to the bad altogether. It has been so in my case.”
“And you love her now?” she cried, the fire of fierce jealousy in her eyes. “You cannot deny it!”
“I do deny it,” I cried. “True, until yesterday I held her in esteem, even in affection; but it is not so now. All my love for you, Yolande, has returned to me. Our parting has rendered you dearer and sweeter to me than ever.”
“I cannot believe it,” she exclaimed falteringly.
“I swear that it is so. In all my life, although am compelled to treat women with courtesy and sometimes to affect flirtation, because of my profession as a diplomatist, I have loved only one woman—yourself;” and I raised her chilly hand to my lips, kissing it fervently.
Mine was no mere caprice at that moment. With an all-consuming passion I loved her, and was prepared on her account to make any sacrifice she demanded. Let the reader remember what had already been told me, and reflect that, like many another man, I loved madly, and was heedless of any consequences that might follow. In this particular I was not alone. Thousands before me had been allured to their ruin by a woman’s eyes, just as thousands of brave women’s hearts have been broken and their lives wrecked by men’s false oaths of fidelity. I have heard wiseacres say that the woman only suffers in such cases; the man never. Whether that rule proves always true will be shown in this strange story of my own love.
She drew her hand away slowly, but forcibly, saying:
“You cannot love two women. Already you have shown a preference for a wife of your own people.”
“It is all over between us,” I protested. “Mine was a mere passing fancy, engendered, I think, by the loneliness I suffered when I lost you.”
“Ah,” (she smiled sadly), “that is all very well! A woman, when once played false by the man she loves and trusts, is never the same—never!”
“Then am I to understand, Yolande, that you refuse to pardon me, or to accept my affection?”
“I have already pardoned you,” she faltered; “but to accept the love you once withdrew from me without just reason is, I regret to say, impossible.”
“You speak coldly, as though you were refusing a mere invitation to dinner, or something of no greater importance,” I protested. “I offer you my whole heart, my love—nay, my life;” and I held her hand again, looking straight into those wonderful eyes, now so calm, so serious, that my gaze wavered before them.
Slowly she shook her head, and her trembling breast rose and fell again.
“Ours was a foolish infatuation,” she answered with an effort. “It is best that we should both of us forget.”
“Forget!” I cried. “But I can never forget you, Yolande. You are my love. You are all the world to me.”
Her eyes were grave, and I saw that tears stood in them.
“No,” she protested quietly; “do not say that. I cannot be any more to you than other women whom you meet daily. Besides, I know well that in the diplomatic service marriage is a serious drawback to any save an ambassador.”
“When a man is in love as I am with you, dearest, he throws all thoughts of his career to the winds; personal interests are naught where true love is concerned.”
“You must not—nay, you shall not—wreck your future on my account,” she declared in a low, intense voice. “It is not just either to yourself or to the Englishwoman who loves you.”
“Why do you taunt me with that, Yolande?” I asked reproachfully. “I do not love her. I have never truly loved her. I was lonely after you had gone out of my life, and she was amusing,—that was all.”
“And now you find me equally amusing—eh?” she remarked, with just a touch of bitter sarcasm.
“Why should you be jealous of her?” I asked. “You might just as well be jealous of Sibyl, Lord Barmouth’s daughter.”
“With the latter you are certainly on terms of most intimate friendship,” she answered with a smile. “I really wonder that I did not object to her in the days long ago.”
“Ah!” I laughed, “you certainly had no cause. It is true that we have been good friends ever since the day when she arrived home from the convent-school at Bruges, a prim young miss with her hair tied up with ribbon. Thrown constantly together, as we were, I became her male confidant and intimate friend; hence my licence to give her counsel in many matters and sometimes to criticise those actions of which I don’t approve.”
“Then if that is so, you care a little for her—just a little? Now admit it.”
“I don’t admit anything of the kind,” I answered frankly. “For five years we have been constantly together; and times without number, at Lady Barmouth’s request, I have acted as her escort here and there, until she looks upon me as a kind of necessary appendage who has a right to chaff her about her flirtations and annoy her by judicious sarcasm. I don’t entertain one single spark of love for her. In brief, she has developed into an essentially smart girl, in the true sense of the word, and by reason of our constant companionship knows that to attempt a flirtation with me would result in a most dismal failure. I accused her once, not long ago, of having designs upon my heart, whereupon she replied that to accomplish such a thing would be about as easy as to win the affection of the bronze Neptune in the garden-fountain of the Embassy.”
“You have been seen together a great deal of late?”
“Who told you so?”
“A friend who knows you both.” Then she added: “From my information I hear that last season you danced so much with her and were so constantly at her side that people were talking of a match between you.”
“Ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “Of course gossips are always too ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. As one of the staff of the Embassy, and her most intimate male friend, it was only courtesy to take her beneath my care. When she had no other partner and wanted to dance, then she sometimes asked me. I think she did it to annoy me, for she knew that I was never fond of dancing.”
“Do you remember the Countess of Flanders’ balls at Brussels—how we danced together?” she remarked.
“Remember them!” I echoed. “They were in the golden days when everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose—the days when our love was perfect.”
She sighed again, but no word escaped her. She was, I knew, reflecting upon those blissful days and nights when we met here and there at all hours and at all the best houses in Brussels, dining, lunching, dancing, and gossiping—together always.
“Will you not resolve to forget the past, Yolande?” I asked fervently, taking her hand in mine again. “Come, tell me that you will—that you will not hold me aloof like this? I cannot bear it—indeed I can’t, for I love you;” and I bent until my lips touched her finger-tips.
“I cannot!” she cried at last, with an effort rising and firmly withdrawing her hand from my grasp.
“You cannot? Why?” I demanded, taken somewhat aback by her sudden attitude of determination.
“I will not allow you to ruin yourself, Gerald, on my account,” she declared in a very low but calm voice.
“But why should my love for you prove my ruin?” I cried madly. “The truth is that you do not love me. Why not admit it at once?”
“You are in error,” she hastened to protest. “I do love you. I love you to-day with the same fond affection as I entertained for you until that day—fatal to me—when you turned your back upon me and left me. But, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then.” She paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: “Gerald, my love, hear me! These are my last words, but I pronounce them—I make confession—so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between us.”
“Well,” I said, “speak—tell me!”
“Ah!” she cried hoarsely, covering her face with her hands, “you wring this confession from me. I am the most unhappy girl in all the world. Would that I were dead that it was all ended! If I did not love you, Gerald, I should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after our marriage. But I cannot—I cannot! Even though we shall part to-day for ever, I have resolved to be frank with you because I still have one single spark of honesty left within my heart!”
“I don’t understand,” I exclaimed. “Tell me.”
“Then listen,” she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments of hesitation. “When we were lovers in the old days I was, as you know, a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my God and for yourself. But I am that no longer. I am unworthy your love, Gerald. I am unfit to be your wife, and can never be—never!” and she threw herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while I stood there rigid as a statue.
Chapter Eleven.
Deane Speaks his Mind.
An hour later I was seated in my room at the Embassy staring blankly at the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. I loved Yolande—nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to allow me to resume my place at her side. At one moment it seemed to me as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another I could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct suspicion. My love’s strange words were in themselves a sufficient self-condemnation. Her service as a political agent had been secured by one or other of the Powers—France, I suspected; and, to put it plainly, she was a spy!
This knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. Of all the women I had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of our diplomacy, Yolande was certainly the chief. The events which had culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery. Why had she done this? Who had tempted her or forced her to it?
Those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and I, loving her so fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. There was an affinity between us that I knew might some day prove fatal.
But we had parted. She had announced her intention of leaving Paris, accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored that I would never seek her again.
“I shall take care to evade you,” she had said. “To-day we meet for the last time. We must each go our own way and strive our hardest to forget.”
Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible. When a man has loved as ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair one who in youth’s golden days was your all in all. The sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman’s chiffons as she passes, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. You recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. The most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love.
I had been a fool. This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there ruminating. I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent. My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control. True, indeed, it is that love is blind.
I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. What mad words I wrote I almost forget. All I know is that even then I could not hold back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. I tried to put the letter aside for calmer reflection, but could not. My pen ran on, recording the eloquence of my heart. Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for the messenger of the Embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to her.
“There is no answer, m’sieur?” the man inquired.
“None,” I answered.
Then the door closed again, and I was alone.
Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. Fate had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my life.
Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: “Doctor Deane has called, and wishes to see you, sir.”
I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.
“Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!” he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise, “what’s the matter? You don’t look yourself.”
“Oh, nothing,” I answered with ill-feigned carelessness. “A bit worried, that’s all.”
“Worried over mademoiselle—eh?” he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.
I nodded in the affirmative.
“Ah, I guessed as much,” he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the table and flinging himself into a chair. “Mind if I smoke? I’ve been busy all day, and am dying for a weed.”
“Smoke? Why, of course,” I answered, pushing my cigars and some matches before him.
I took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously through the smoke, asked at last:
“What has occurred between you? Mademoiselle is leaving Paris to-morrow.”
“How did you know?”
“I called half an hour ago, and found both her and the Countess making preparations for a hasty departure. Have you quarrelled again?”
“No, there is no quarrel between us,” I answered gravely. “On the contrary, there is a perfect understanding.”
An incredulous smile crossed his features. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know, after all, what right I have to interfere in your private affairs at all, old chap, but if I might be allowed to make an observation I should say that there is some very extraordinary mystery surrounding both the Countess and her daughter.”
“You don’t like the Countess?”
“No, I don’t. I conceived a violent prejudice against her on the first occasion that I saw her. That prejudice has already ripened into—well, I was about to say hatred.”
“Why?”
“Well, I called upon them this afternoon with an object, and found the Countess determined to place impediments in my way.”
“What was your object?”
“I wished to satisfy myself of a certain fact.”
“Of what fact?” I inquired with quick suspicion. “Of the cause of her daughter’s sudden attack last night.”
“And what did you find?” I asked eagerly.
“I discovered a rather curious circumstance,” he said. “You will remember telling me that when you searched the room you found she had written a letter almost immediately before her mysterious attack. Well, when I had a look round that room later I saw the letter sealed in its envelope and addressed to the Baroness Maillac, at Grands Sablons, lying in the little letter-rack, and took possession of it, in the faint hope that it might direct me to some clue as to the cause of her curious condition. You will remember, too, the curious, unaccountable mark upon her lip. I wished to see that mark again. I examined it, but against the wish of the Countess, who appeared to regard me with considerable animosity.”
“What was in the letter? You opened it, of course?”
“Yes, I opened it, but the note inside was of no interest whatever. Nevertheless, I had my suspicions, and have proved them to be well grounded.”
“What have you proved?”
“Briefly this: the mark upon mademoiselle’s lip caused me to suspect poisoning; yet it was apparent that she had not attempted suicide, but that the poison, whatever its nature, had entered the tiny crack in the lip by accident. I therefore came to the conclusion that her lip had come into contact with some baneful substance immediately prior to her attack, and when you mentioned the writing of the letter it appeared to me that the gum upon the envelope might be the channel by which the poison was conveyed to the mouth. The greater part of the night I spent in dissolving the gum and making experiments with the solutions thus obtained.”
“And what did you discover?”
“I discovered the presence of a most powerful specific irritant poison. I used Mitscherlich’s method of detection, and although I cannot yet actually determine the poison with which the gum on the envelope had been impregnated, I proved its terrible effect by experiments. A rabbit inoculated with a single drop of the solution died, in fourteen seconds, of complete paralysis of the muscles, while a drop placed on a piece of meat and given to a cat proved fatal within one minute.”
“Then there was poison on the envelope?” I gasped, astounded.
“Yes, but only upon that particular envelope. While left alone in the room awaiting mademoiselle, I secured four other of the same envelopes from the stationary rack on her escritoire. These I took home at once, made solutions, and tested them upon rabbits without effect. This proved that one envelope alone was poisoned.”
“Then she was actually poisoned?” I said, surprised at his ingenuity and careful investigation.
“Undoubtedly so. The most curious feature is the mysterious character of the poison. At first I suspected strychnia; but as that attacks the sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, and the symptoms were so totally different, I was compelled to abandon that theory, as also another I formed—namely, that the paralysis of the motor nerves might be due to curare. After some hours of study and experiment, however, I found that the poison was one extremely difficult of detection when absorbed into the system—that its symptoms were none of those ordinarily attributed to irritant poisons by Tanner and the other toxicologists—that it was a poison not commonly known, if, indeed, known at all.”
“Then you think that Yolande was the victim of a deliberate attempt upon her life?”
“Of that I am absolutely convinced. Having taken possession of the letter, I could not well mention it or make inquiries regarding it. I thought it would be best to leave such inquiries to you, who are her intimate friend. I went there to-day in order to satisfy myself regarding the mark on the lip, and also to secure some of the other envelopes. Both of these objects I fortunately accomplished, and have succeeded in establishing the fact that she was poisoned in a most ingenious and secret manner by some person who is evidently no novice in the use of that most deadly and mysterious substance.”
“But whom do you suspect?”
He blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and, with his eyes fixed upon the panelled ceiling, answered:
“Ah! that’s the enigma.”
“Well,” I said, after a pause, “you seem so hostile towards the Countess, I’m wondering if you suspect her?”
“I can’t very well, even though there are several curious circumstances which seem to point in that direction. The great fact in favour of her innocence is that she sent for you. Therefore I should like to obtain more direct evidence before actually condemning her. Some of the circumstances are distinctly suspicious, even damning, yet others go far to prove the exact contrary.”
“But I can’t see what object she could have in getting rid of her daughter,” I observed, much puzzled by this extraordinary theory.
“Unless she feared some awkward revelations which Yolande might make in a moment of desperation. To me there is still a good deal of mystery surrounding both mother and daughter.”
“I quite agree, Dick. But do you think it possible that a mother could deliberately attempt to kill her daughter by such dastardly means? I don’t.”
“Such a thing is not unknown in the annals of crime,” he answered, knocking the ash slowly from his cigar. “You see, it is practically plain that Yolande is in possession of some secret, and has grown nervous and melancholy. Of the nature of that secret we have no idea. If it were disclosed it might seriously affect the Countess; hence it would be to the latter’s advantage if her daughter’s lips were sealed.”
“But, my dear fellow, I know the Countess well. She’s one of the most charming of women, and utterly devoted to Yolande. Your suggestion seems incredible.”
“How incredible it appears to you is of no import, my dear Ingram,” he answered calmly. “You asked me to investigate the strange affair for you, and I’ve done so to the best of my ability. I found that the young lady had been poisoned, in a most secret and ingenious manner, by someone well acquainted with the use of the unknown drug. That the envelope was carefully prepared is quite plain, but by whom it is impossible to say—”
“Not by her mother,” I declared, interrupting him. “I can’t believe that.”
“It is for you to discover that. You can ask her a little later about the letter, without giving her any clue to the fact that I have secured it. She must remain under the impression that the letter was duly posted by one of the servants.”
“But she is leaving Paris,” I said.
“You can see her this evening and make the necessary inquiries, surely?”
“No,” I responded. “I shall not see her again.”
“Then it is true, as I’ve already suggested, that you’ve quarrelled?”
“No,” I declared, “we have agreed to part again—that’s all.”
He was silent for a moment, contemplating the end of his cigar. Then he observed:
“Well, if I may be permitted to say so, old fellow, I think you’ve chosen a very wise course. You, in your official position, ought not to be mixed up with any mystery of this sort.”
“I know, Dick—I know quite well,” I responded hastily. “You, however, do not love a woman as I love Yolande.”
“Love be hanged!” he cried, laughing. “Love is like the influenza—painful while it lasts, but easily forgotten.”
“This matter is too serious for joking,” I said, a trifle annoyed by his flippancy.
“Ah, I’ve heard that story once or twice before! It is astonishing what a difference a month makes in the course of the malady. Take my tip, old chap, and think no more of her. Depend upon it, your charming Yolande with the pretty hair, that used to be admired so much in Brussels, is not worth the position of wife to a good fellow like you.”
“That’s all very well,” I sighed. “I know I was a fool to have called upon her, but I was compelled.”
“What compelled you?”
“A circumstance over which I had no control,” I answered, for I did not intend to explain to him the accusation made against her by Kaye.
“And you at once fell in love with her again? Ah! such meetings are always extremely dangerous.”
“Yes; that is only too true. I know I have been foolish, and now must suffer.”
“Rubbish!” he cried. “Why, my dear fellow, Edith loves you, and is perfectly devoted to you. She is charming, pretty, smart, with all the qualities necessary for the wife of a successful diplomatist. Some day, when you get your promotion, you will be gazetted minister to one or other of the South American Republics, and with her as your wife you’ll be perfectly happy.”
“You seem to have already carved out my future for me, Dick.”
“I’ve only prophesied the ordinary course of things.”
“I shall, I feel certain, never marry Edith,” I answered, shaking my head. “It is entirely out of the question.”
“Well, we shall see. A man hardly ever marries his first love, you know. There always seems an evil fortune connected with first loves.”
“How coldly philosophical you are, Dick! Is it because you’ve never been in love?”
“Never been in love?” he echoed. “Why, my dear old fellow, I’ve been in love a hundred times, but it’s never been sufficiently serious to cause me to pop the question. I’m quite catholic in my tastes, you see. I’m fond of women as a sex.”
What he said was perfectly true. He was a popular favourite among the English colony in Paris, and was an inveterate diner-out. Indeed, his well-set-up figure was constantly to be seen at all smart gatherings, and I had overheard many a dainty Parisienne whisper nice things about him behind her fan.
“You’ll find a pair of eyes fascinating you one of these days, never fear,” I said. “Then it will be my turn to smile.”
“Smile away, old chap; you’ll never offend me. We are too old friends for that.”