"Monsieur Roché," Thérèse murmured, and held a card before me.
"I have already told you I will receive no one," I answered, with more than usual tartness, for the afternoon was warm, and the thought of my evening's engagements made me feel that life was unendurable.
"It is a matter of most urgent importance," she so far forgot herself as to urge, and I could scarcely restrain a smile, for through my maid's prim black gown I almost fancied I could hear the rustle of the note that had tempted her to impertinence.
Was it not enough that I had said I was not receiving? And one would assume not, for she still stood there, and the day was too warm to scold her.
But she was an excellent girl, the perfection of maids. To this day I have never met one who could dress my hair as she could, nor one who could understand my peculiar—my dearest friends say exasperating—temper so admirably, and so my heart softened, and, with merely an uplifting of the eyebrows, to show that I noted her persistence, I said I would receive Monsieur Roché. And well I made a virtue of necessity, for he was one who knew not refusal. I turned poor virtue into my necessity, as all did whom Monsieur Roché asked to favor him.
"One would even risk madame's anger for the happiness of seeing her," he murmured, as he took my hand; for, though he held the reputation of one not admiring the sweeter sex, a better gallant for turning a compliment, a more skilful adept in the epigram of flattery, this jaded world has never viewed.
"It is a trying hour for calling, monsieur, unless the reason be most urgent."
"It is most urgent," he gravely assented, as he placed a slender forefinger upon my shoulder. "Ma chère," he continued, softly, "you are the cleverest woman in Paris."
"I should have better liked the compliment had you said the prettiest," I answered, demurely.
"Tut, tut! The whole world tells you that. Why proclaim the obvious? I prefer to be original, and pronounce you the cleverest."
"With an object, monsieur,n'est ce pas?"
"With a very great object, madame—the desire for your assistance."
Monsieur Roché leaned impressively towards me.
"Have you heard the strange news," he asked, "that is being whispered in diplomatic Paris?"
"There are many strange things whispered in diplomatic Paris," I responded.
"Truly; but this is unprecedented. Sir Edward Rivington, the English Ambassador, has been abducted."
"Yes. It was mentioned to me by a particularly uninteresting gallant at last night's reception; but"—I shrugged my shoulders—"it is too absurd."
"And therefore the more likely to be true! In fact, I know that it is true and also that it is false."
"An enigma, monsieur?"
"Listen. The story is that a closed carriage called for Sir Edward two nights ago. He left the Embassy, saying he would return in an hour. He has not been seen since, and Paris is growing perturbed at this unwarrantable violation of international courtesy. That is the story. But the facts are that Sir Edward has tricked France, has purposely promulgated this mystery, and has departed on a secret mission to England."
"I can see no reason for such ridiculous procedure.Perfide Anglaisis only a Boulevard cry when there is no domestic sensation to occupy the green hour."
"Tush!" Monsieur Roché impatiently interrupted.Ma foi, how impatient these diplomats are! "France was in active negotiation with England, and also with Italy, upon the same point. What it was matters nothing."
"You are reticent, monsieur."
"It is sufficient that it discloses that England was not wholly in our thoughts. Now, by an unpardonable blunder, Sir Edward received among his own certain other papers intended for Signor Faliero."
"France was playing a difficult game, monsieur."
"A delicate and diplomatic one, madame."
"And has failed."
"Been tricked," he hotly retorted. "The superscription upon the cover was plainly to the Italian Ambassador, and Sir Edward knew that even English diplomacy or intrigue could not be stretched to the fine point of not at once returning the packet. He knew that we should immediately demand it, if necessary, and that restitution could not be withheld. The documents were handed to Sir Edward himself by one of my secretaries, who is now open to accept a fresh appointment, and a couple of hours later, when the error was discovered, I was met with this melodramatic fable of abduction."
"But what is to be gained by such a fabrication? Surely Sir Edward could say he had gone to England, if he wished to."
"What is gained," Monsieur Roché answered, incisively, "is a strong hold upon us, we never knowing whether the papers have been inspected or not. When he returns he will, no doubt, send the packet to me, apparently untouched, and we can only assume that England is cognizant of its contents. We shall be compelled to maintain the negotiations now in progress, and all the time Sir Edward Rivington will smile, and placidly await acoup d'état. It is maddening, simply maddening.Mon Dieu!it binds us hand and foot."
"I do not agree with your theories, monsieur," I said, calmly. "Sir Edward Rivington is an Englishman, and, as a nation, they are honorable."
"Tush! Sir Edward is a diplomat, and the code of honor is different. His aim is to serve his country. Should I hesitate to take advantage of such an opportunity for France?"
"You are unscrupulous, monsieur."
"For what," he cried, "do we all pay millions of francs a year? Secret service: such information as that which Sir Edward has had placed in his hands by chance. Is it reasonable that he would be such a child as to neglect a stroke of policy sufficient to render his country's position impregnable?"
"If all this be as you say, monsieur, then the damage is done, and beyond repair."
"Utterly. There is, however, one favor I would ask of you. To actually, indisputably, know that Sir Edward Rivington has been to England will at least make me sure of my ground. It will be a difficult task, one worthy of the cleverest woman, the prettiest widow in Paris." And, even in his worry of mind, he smiled as he paid me the double compliment. "Ask where you will in London, and they will tell you he is still in Paris. A man would fail miserably, a woman's intuition will succeed."
I pondered over the position. Love for a little excitement, something to relieve the ennui of a solitary existence, had induced me to undertake many little diplomatic services for my friend Monsieur Roché, but in all there had been something of the glamour of romance. This seemed more the task of a secret agency, or even the Quai de l'Horloge itself. What so simple as to discover if a man so well known in Paris as Sir Edward Rivington had crossed the Channel?
And yet, if things were as Monsieur Roché asserted, what infinite pains would be taken to conceal the visit! Looked at from that point of view, the mission appeared more fitting to my disposition, and I accepted.
Why is it ever the fashion to speak of London as a city of smoke and gloom? Paris is not all Champs-Elysées. We have our sunlight and our shadow; and London, sublime in its rugged beauty of stability, common alike to the city and the people, has the same; while Parliament Street, under the bright spring sunshine, might have been one of the boulevards of beloved Paris itself.
A far-seeing Providence must surely have intended women to shine in diplomacy, for men are so impressionable, and some women so fascinating, that the victory is assured before the struggle commences.
And because of this I refused to be satisfied with any of those zealous and most polite officials and secretaries, and ultimately, because I, too, am at times fascinating, found myself in the presence of one of the rulers of the State, whose name in France was as well known as those of our own politicians.
He received me graciously, and waited.
"At a reception in Paris," I said, after a moment, "I had the honor of meeting your Ambassador, Sir Edward Rivington; the greater honor of giving certain information, to him that was of service."
Monsieur seemed to freeze a little. Secret service is necessary, but its agents, be they even pretty women, do not command more than the coldest respect.
"There were further matters which he deemed it desirable I should obtain details of, and as he was leaving suddenly for London upon a special mission, I was instructed to follow him, and, insisting upon seeing you in person, obtain his address, as it was not general knowledge that he had left Paris."
Monsieur looked at me curiously. He seemed debating in his mind whether he should tell me.
"You are under a strange misapprehension," he said, at length, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers.
"It is impossible that such can exist," I interrupted. "Those were my instructions from Sir Edward himself."
"Then he must have changed his plans," monsieur continued, blandly. "Assuredly he is not in London now, and, so far as I am aware, has not left Paris; certainly on no business that could bring him to the Foreign Office. We have our official messengers for such duties. Sir Edward would not come himself."
"I understood the matter was too secret—"
"I am afraid you have been deceived," he answered, with a quiet smile of amusement; "I can give you no address but the British Embassy, Paris, and that must be well known to you already."
The interview was ended, and as I left I carried with me the conviction that the conversation had been marked by such an absence of diplomacy on his part that it must be truthful, and Sir Edward Rivington had not come to England.
Yet I determined that I would stay in London, at all events until I had something more to show for my efforts—what, I knew not; and while I strolled, the gods came to my rescue.
My dearest friend, Gaspard Levivé, stood, hat in hand, before me.
"Madame, the fates are kinder to me than I deserve."
"Perhaps they have a better knowledge of your merit than you possess yourself," I responded, with an upward glance. "Are you staying in London?"
"Until this evening only. My friend, Sir Edward Rivington, has done me the honor to ask me to be his second. I have accepted, and return to Paris."
I stopped in bewilderment. "Sir Edward Rivington, the English Ambassador?" I said, hurriedly.
"Yes," he answered, with a smile. "It does not sound English, does it? But here is his letter: 'At le Duc d'Eautine's chateau to-morrow morning. I rely upon your honor to hold this secret, and, as you are in London, to deliver, yourself, the enclosed envelope at the Foreign Office.'"
"Mon Dieu!" I cried, excitedly. "Mon cher, you have not delivered it yet; you have it still?"
"I am on my way," he replied.
"Then you will not. You will hold it back; bring it to Paris, and give it to Monsieur Roché."
"It is impossible!" he exclaimed, glancing at me in surprise.
"It is not. If you deliver this you will ruin France! For the love of France, pause!"
"I will not be a traitor to a friend who trusts me, even for the love of France," he answered. "I have been asked to deliver this letter; how, then, can I carry it to Monsieur Roché? No, not for the love of France!"
"Then, Gaspard, for me!" I said, turning my eyes upon him. "Do this for me. Prove your protestations have not been idle. Do this for me."
His face flushed crimson, and then grew pale and gray, until, in but a few seconds, he seemed to have become death-like before my eyes.
"Why do you ask this'?" he asked, icily.
"For the sake of France," I repeated. And then, like the lifting of a veil, I saw things clearly, realized that I was tempting him, whom I loved to call my dearest friend, to disgrace; realized that it was not for love of France, but for love of victory, and Monsieur Roché's praises. Gaspard seemed to hesitate, and I trembled lest he should consent.
"Not even for your sake can I do this," he answered, slowly; and my heart quickened at the proof that he was as true as I believed him; yet, because I am a woman, I must perforce feign some slight resentment that he would not yield me what I wished he should not.
"Then leave your papers," I said, after a cold pause, "and escort me to Paris."
"You mean it?" he cried, his eyes brightening again.
"Yes, I mean it," I calmly replied; "one cannot break long friendships for the sake of a difference of opinion. Leave your papers,mon cher, and then rejoin me."
"I asked a favor yesterday," I said, as we drew near to Paris, "I ask another to-day. I want to accompany you to le Duc d'Eautine's."
Gaspard raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"It is an affair of honor," he protested. "You know what you ask is impossible, unheard of."
"Again?" I pettishly ejaculated.
"But you must see it yourself," he urged, with a half-amused smile. "How can you be present?"
"With the consent of the principals," I retorted. "Be my escort to Versailles, and then I will release you."
"As you will," he laughed; "but may I not know your reason?"
"The merest curiosity,mon ami. You, having been absent from Paris, have not heard our latest sensation. Sir Edward Rivington was abducted nearly a week ago, and you and I are two of the very few who know where he is."
"Impossible!"
"May be, but true. He has been abducted, and only we know by whom, and where he is to be found. Monsieur Roché, your chief, never believed in the rumor of abduction. He set it down as a subterfuge to delay the return of certain private papers intended for, no matter whom, that had fallen into Sir Edward's hands. Those papers,mon cher, that you delivered yesterday. The ones that concerned my visit to London. It might have been a wonderful thing for you, Gaspard, if you had not delivered them, but I did not mention your own interests."
"No interests of my own," he cried, laying his hand upon mine, "could have weighed like the heart-burning desire to serve you. There is nothing, that my honor would allow, that I would not do to win your faintest gratitude, and then count myself all too richly rewarded. Nothing I would not do—"
But fortunately we steamed into the Gare du Nord; Gaspard's poetic moment was ruined by a descent from the dizzy heights of sentiment to the commonplace confusion of an arrival platform, and, with a diplomat's smile at the inevitable, he accepted the position.
What creatures of impulse the sex we prefer must be. In a four hours' journey from Calais to Paris he must needs choose the last seventy seconds for serious conversation, in order to be interrupted at the instant when I was most attentive. And how those supreme moments, when lost, seem to be lost forever! Commonplaces, commonplaces, small talk and frivolity from Paris on to Versailles, from Versailles to the Chateau of le Duc d'Eautine.
I felt quite serious when he was speaking just before we arrived in Paris; but had he attempted to resume the subject I should have smiled, and he, wise in diplomacy beyond his years, realized the position, and accepted it.
Our carriage drove into the park of the Chateau, and, leaving the main drive, stopped, in a few minutes, where, in the shade of a magnificent cedar, a group of men were standing, evidently awaiting it. Le Duc d'Eautine, Monsieur Faudé, his bosom friend, and Sir Edward Rivington, the lost Ambassador, all seemingly charmed with one another's company, and only a suspicious-looking case, leaning against the tree, spoiled the harmony of the gathering.
It is a thing I have since almost boasted of. I am the only woman who has ever caused that paragon of courtesy, le Duc d'Eautine, to lose his temper and forget all etiquette.
"Sapristi!" he gasped, as I alighted—"what pleasantry is this, madame? And you, monsieur," he continued, fiercely, turning upon my poor Gaspard—"you, monsieur, explain this intrusion, or—"
"Tut, tut,mon cherDuc," I mildly interjected, "I come as a service to you, one of my oldest friends."
"I need no service, madame."
"You need great service,mon enfant," I retorted, reprovingly, for my twenty-seven years afforded me vast superiority over his twenty-five. "You need great service. What is this foolish escapade of abducting the representative of England, and compelling him to fight a duel in your own park before he regains his freedom? What is—"
"It is an affair of my own, madame," he interrupted.
"An affair of your own," I cried, with a suspicion of anger in my tones. "It is an affair of the nation, of France, when you lure an Englishman, an Ambassador, to your house, and force him into a duel."
"I force him to nothing," he said, as we walked aside. "He has been my guest—"
"Tut! Paris knows he has disappeared; you lured him away, and you now hold him a prisoner here until he fights this duel,n'est ce pas?"
"I do not contradict. I but defend my honor; Sir Edward Rivington spoke of me indiscreetly. He alluded to me before my friends as a mere boy; he ridiculed my duels, laughed at our code of honor, mocked at what he described the satisfaction of a scratch, and scoffed as only an Englishman can. A man who has never stood before the sword of his enemy. I challenged him; he laughed, and turned aside with the sneer that Englishmen had neither time nor inclination for such pleasantries. He spoke of his duty to his own country, and, in a word, covered himself with the invulnerability of his official position. He, at the Embassy, was in England, not in France. I removed him from his Embassy. In the grounds of my chateau he is in France, and not in England. In France, where a man avenges insults with his sword."
"Excellent! But if you wound him?"
"Be assured, madame, I shall not. I shall not wound him, nor shall he touch me, but he shall learn that duelling in France is not child's play. I will tire him until he realizes that, and then disarm him; and my sense of honor will be satisfied when he finds his ridicule recoils upon himself."
"And if he wound you?"
He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.
"Then I will apologize to him, and grant my swordsmanship is but a sport for children."
"May I speak with your prisoner?"
"With my guest, madame."
"As you will. Then with your guest."
He bowed, and he and his friend drew back as I walked towards the English Ambassador.
"Paris is more than anxious concerning you, Sir Edward."
"If Paris meant yourself, madame," he responded, "I could bless my imprisonment."
"Then you call it imprisonment?"
"Englishmen have a manner of calling things by their right names," he suavely observed.
"And you propose to—"
"Fight," he drawled. "I really don't care about it, but there's a medium in all things, you know. Not but what he's been most obliging. Except that I'm imprisoned till I give him what he calls satisfaction, I've been very comfortable. Even allowed, on my word of honor not to communicate the peculiar circumstances, to send my private despatches to England."
I shuddered as I thought of those despatches. Truth to tell, in the excitement of the situation, they and Monsieur Roché's distress had left my memory.
"But if you wound or kill him, Sir Edward?"
"I shall do neither."
"But, if he—" I paused, and Sir Edward gravely shook his head.
"Not the faintest chance in the world," he said. "I shall tire him out, and disarm him, thus abundantly proving my theory that these affairs of honor in France are arranged with the minimum of inconvenience to either party."
I could not repress a smile; there was such a wealth of humor in this duel, where neither party intended to injure the other.
"It is merely an exhibition of swordsmanship, Sir Edward?"
"Merely that, madame."
"Then I may remain?"
"It might be disconcerting to your friend."
"But if he permit?"
"Then to me it will be an honor."
But the Duke was less easy to win. It was impossible, unheard of, and yet, while he spoke he wavered, and graced his consent with a whisper that I was the Tournament's Queen.
"On guard, messieurs!"
Like a flash the swords crossed, and the duel commenced.
There was an uplifting of the eyebrows on the part of the Duke, as the trick which had disarmed many an opponent was skilfully met, a tightening of the lips by Sir Edward as a similar attempt of his own was as easily frustrated.
It was a duel that set my blood tingling with excitement, as pass after pass was parried, thrust after thrust was turned aside, and neither man gained a point, neither man lost an inch, until it seemed that equals had met, and who was victor would never be determined; that to be vanquished would be almost as great an honor as to vanquish.
The Duke slipped as he parried a thrust, and I thought that the unexpected had happened; but, like lightning, the Englishman's rapier was drawn back, and his adversary acknowledged the courtesy and skill which had saved his life with a bow worthy of himself.
An hour passed, and still the combat waged. I wearied of the eternal "On guard, messieurs!" It seemed so fruitless that two such masters of fence should strive for empty victory.
"On guard, messieurs!"
Sir Edward Rivington was hesitating, and stood with the dawn of a smile upon his face.
"On guard, messieurs!s'il vous plait."
The Ambassador shook his head, and, throwing down his sword, advanced, with hand extended to his adversary.
"I tender you my apologies," he said, gravely. "I admit I spoke triflingly of French duelling. I admit that I sneered at several of your own affairs of honor. I confess that I regarded them as child's play, not knowing then, as I do now, that you are a sublime master of the art of swordsmanship, and could have killed every man who stood before you."
"Every man, save yourself, Sir Edward!" the Duke exclaimed, with a slight smile of satisfaction.
"You were playing, as I was, for the disarm."
"And neither of us succeeded. Frankly, for the first time in my life I have met my equal. Strange that he should be one of the nation that discountenances the use of the rapier."
"You will accept my unconditional withdrawal," Sir Edward continued. "Nay, more, if you desire it, it shall be more openly proclaimed."
For answer le Duc d'Eautine handed his sword to his second, and took Sir Edward's outstretched hand in both of his.
"Sir Edward Rivington," he exclaimed, "I am too honored. Say no more. My greatest pride is that I have won the respect of England's Ambassador; my greatest honor that I have gained the friendship of a splendid swordsman."
These and many other high-flown compliments, dear to our nation, passed between them and between their seconds, until it seemed we must all have floated back to olden times, to the stately days of the Louis—so anxious was each man to pay courtly compliments to the other.
Mon Dieu!what changeable mortals, what creatures of impulse men are; and yet they say that we women are wavering and fickle!
"You will be my guest,mon ami, for just another day?" the Duke hazarded, doubtfully, it must be confessed.
"My dear friend," replied the Ambassador, "don't you think that you have delayed the course of diplomatic relations sufficiently long? I expect you will get into disgrace for this attack upon my sacred person, as it is," and he broke into a merry laugh.
"I have made one true friend," returned the Duke, seriously; "what matter the means? Should I find it necessary to suddenly quit France, I shall carry with me the honor of counting yourself among those whom I hold nearest to my heart."
"Quit France! All nonsense," brusquely interjected Sir Edward. "Put your best team to a coach, and I'll drive you all back to Paris; then, for a moment, the urgency of State affairs,et après, in a poor way you will permit me to return your hospitality. At seven,mes amis, at the 'Bristol.'"
Sir Edward Rivington must have been a past master of all the arts. As he handled his rapier perfectly, so he drove the four-in-hand; and, doubtless, in all other things he was equally admirable. These English are so thorough.
And of a truth he was certainly charming in conversation, for I, who sat beside him, can vouch for it.
"Will the budding flowers of diplomatic relations have withered owing to your absence, Sir Edward?" I ventured to ask as we drove through St. Cloud.
"No; I do not think so," he answered, with a laugh. "But, seriously, it is a little troublesome. They must have been retarded somewhat, and I shall possibly be blamed for taking a brief holiday at such an important moment."
"Then you will call it a holiday?"
He looked at me with a slight elevation of the eyebrows.
"Naturally!"
"You are more than generous, Sir Edward."
"Tut, tut! but still, things may be a trifle unpleasant. For instance, an hour before le Duc d'Eautine's pressing invitation that I should become his guest arrived, I received a bundle of official papers from your Premier, Monsieur Roché, and, not realizing that I was going to take a holiday, placed them at once in my safe, where they now repose, untouched and unlocked at."
"Untouched and unlocked at!" I cried, my blood tingling with delight at the kindness of the fates.
"Yes; it sounds undiplomatic, does it not?"
"Are we driving direct to the Embassy?"
"Why not? It will destroy the ridiculous rumor of abduction."
"Then, Sir Edward, as a distinct favor to me, will you not at once open the bundle and give to me, in order that I may myself return it to my friend, Monsieur Roché, a document placed there by error, which is not addressed to you?"
"Certainly," he replied, flicking the leaders with his whip. "I should have returned it under any conditions, but, since you wish it, I will do so through you."
I sighed a sigh of deep contentment. "You will make me ever your debtor," I murmured.
"Not at all. But is this the reason of your visit to Versailles?" he inquired after a moment, with a strange little smile.
"Suppose you exchange a little small talk with your other friends, and not devote all your attention to me," I suggested, in a tone of mild reproof.
And, generously discreet, Sir Edward obeyed my desires, till we rolled into Paris, I passing the while in thinking what a fortunate thing it was that Gaspard had not given way to my temptations and purloined his Excellency's private despatches.
Monsieur Roché waltzed divinely, and so thoroughly original was that charming man that he never once made allusion to either the crush or the heat. Yet they were both insufferable.
We strolled into the conservatory, and, taking my fan from my hand, he gently waved it before me, keeping time to the distant strains of the waltz, which we preferred to sit out.
"To be beautiful and accomplished," he murmured, as he seated himself beside me, "is no excuse for idleness when a woman is also brilliant."
I recognized the prelude to a commission, and became attentive, for I wasennuiof the tiring pleasures that make up the daily routine of the existence of a woman of fashion.
"It is different from the English affair," he whispered, reflectively.
"And so it need be!" I replied, a little testily, for Gaspard Levivé and I had been somewhat ill at ease with each other since we journeyedtête-à-têtefrom London to Paris.
"It is what a woman's soul craves for—romance."
"A commission from Monsieur le Premier, and yet romantic," I cried, with a laugh. "Monsieur fears to plead his own cause, and would send a persuasive ambassador,n'est ce pa?"
"One as skilful in tact and diplomacy as she is in herself perfection," the flatterer answered; and then, "It is not a service to myself," he added, somewhat stiffly, for my bachelor friend was sensitive on these little matters, and rather prided himself on a flattering unction that he laid to his soul, that no woman in Paris—but I wander, for as he spoke I took my fan abruptly from his hand, and gazed severely right through his perplexed face into the ballroom beyond.
"I fail to understand," I said, stonily. "A commission from some one else? Are my services, then, at the command of any one who condescends to require them?"
He put out his hand deprecatingly.
"I imagined," I said, fluttering my fan viciously, "that I dealt with diplomats who regarded my service as much their secret as my own;" and I spoke with warmth, for I felt I had deserved better of him than this.
From my heart I loved these commissions for the excitement they afforded me, and not for mere gain; for what was that to me? My most hazardous adventure brought me the souvenir I chose—a plain gold bangle engraved with the date; my most romantic, a diamond necklace worthy of an empress.
Monsieur Roché stayed the fan that I was fluttering wildly in my indignation, and gently took my fingers in his own.
"Why is a woman the sternest critic—the harshest judge of her best friends?" he asked. "You are an accomplished woman, a clever woman, a beautiful woman, and yet—"
"Simply a woman," I interjected.
"And therefore as lacking in reason as all others of your sex, and as prone to jump at erroneous conclusions. No one in the world knows of what you call your Secret Service save those whom you have met and defeated, and they would be the last to proclaim it."
I felt miserably repentant—what creatures of impulse even the cleverest of women are!—so, smiling upon him, I handed back the fan.
"The vanquished must deliver up his sword," I cried. "I own I was in the wrong, so take a woman's weapon as a sign."
"My dearest friend is in Paris," he said, as he slowly waved the ostrich-plumes, "and in great trouble."
I glanced interestedly towards him as he continued:
"Prince Humbert of Elvirna is the man; the trouble, Prince Ferdinand, his son; the cause, as usual, a woman."
"Cheap cynicism but poorly becomes a man of intellect, much less a diplomat, monsieur."
"Then I will amend the phrase," he answered, contritely, "and say the cause, a woman, and leave 'as usual' out."
"It is strange that man, who owes all that is the better part of his life to woman, should so often make her the object of his sneers," I observed.
"Strange, save that he so often owes all that is the worst," he answered, with a passing shade of irritation. "This young fool, this man, who must marry for the good of the tiny kingdom which will be his own some day, has chosen—"
"To follow his own affections," I interrupted, with a smile.
"Tush! He has chosen to become enamored of thepasséecharms of a third-rate actress—an adventuress searching for youthful fools with simple hearts and simple brains who cannot discriminate between nature and art, and would never credit the brightness of their siren's eyes was due to belladonna."
"He will get over it,mon cher. Even you, I doubt not, have had your weaknesses."
Monsieur scowled at my covert allusion, but ignored it.
"Do you think that this wretched play-actress will give him an opportunity until it is too late?" he asked. "He now lives in Arcadia, wanders from morn till eve in leafy woods, whispering sentimental folly and admiring sunsets, living only in the light of his goddess's eyes, cooing with this soiled dove, while his father vainly implores for his return to reason and to duty."
"And the remedy,mon cher?"
"Yourself."
"I scarcely comprehend."
"The boy is only infatuated. Infatuation gives way to greater temptation. He would fall madly in love with the first fresh, pretty face he saw."
"Thank you, monsieur!" I cried, with mock indignation, and, rising, I courtesied to the ground before the perplexed gaze of my friend, who shivered at his blunder.
He twisted his mustache with energy, but did not speak; and I, regaining possession of my fan, waved it with an air of lofty scorn, and tried to keep back the smile that, despite my efforts, was breaking round the curves of my lips.
"Let us be serious, and quite frank with each other," he said at length. "I want you to go for a week to the solitudes of the Forest of Lecrese, in the Kingdom of Elvirna, and, winning this young headstrong from his folly, add yet another service to those which have made me eternally your debtor. Show him—it will be so easy!—what poor theatrical blandishments are possessed by this play-actress when compared with the wit and sparkle of a brilliant woman—what faded beauty when nature challenges art. Surely it is to your taste, for is it not romantic?"
"It is romantic," I acquiesced. "But let us, as you say, be frank. Pursue the story further. Suppose the cure prove efficacious—what then? Is there one greater than I who in turn will win him from me? One more beautiful, more accomplished, more fascinating, who will say, 'Again, most simple youth, you are mistaken. Behold! I am the only woman worthy of your love.'"
The diplomatist chuckled. "If," he said, "I thought there could be one possessing such unheard-of charms, I would not dare to say so—but there is no one! I simply ask you to destroy this wretched entanglement, and then, if the Fates decree that he must surrender utterly to your beauty, so be it. It is better for a man to break his heart for love of a good woman than have it broken by a false one. It is a romance with endless possibilities. Do you consent?"
I reflected. It was a peculiar mission, and, moreover, one in which failure would be such a crushing blow to vanity, that my only refuge would be a convent. What if I set myself to fascinate a man and—failed! Yet there was such a glamour of excitement with it. To match myself against this adventuress, to fight for a man's honor, to triumph for the right. All men's eyes confessed me beautiful. Impartially I had scanned myself, posed as my harshest critic—and a woman can be her own severest critic if she will—and I too had finished by saying, however reluctantly, "Yes,ma chère, you really are rather pretty." There was something exhilarating in the thought that here was the opportunity to prove myself right or wrong, and men truthful or mere flatterers.
"I consent," I cried, "on two conditions: that, success or failure, Prince Humbert does not meet me in my character study, and that I am allowed absolute freedom of action, whatever course I take."
"Agreed on all things, and I thank you."
We rose, and I placed my hand upon his arm. "Modesty is woman's sweetest charm," he remarked, and I gazed into his face, vainly striving to fathom the meaning of an observation so apropos of nothing. "Why mention failure?" he continued, and we returned to the ballroom.
The Woods of Lecrese, bathed in the glowing fire of an audacious sunset, were enough to awaken sentimental yearnings in the breast of one even more worldly than I. A long, undulating road swept far into the purple distance, losing itself among the trees that interlaced above; on either side a cool vista of virgin greensward spread from the carriage-drive, only relieved by the crimson splashes of the fallen leaves that foretold the coming autumn, and yet not so severely as to make one dread the winter. All was solitude and peace. A dangerous hour, and a dangerous place, I told myself, for a foolish youth and a designing woman.
I stopped the carriage, and stepped out on to the roadway.
"Knock out the axle-pin," I cried, "and throw it into that thicket; then take a horse each, and ride for assistance."
I spoke in the same tone as I might have ordered my coffee, but who, save my own servants, would have carried out such inane orders without an implied protest? "Go to the blacksmith in the first village you come to."
So they left me, and I, like the lost princess of a fairy-tale, stood by my broken-down carriage, and awaited the Prince, for I knew he must ride this way, and it pleased me that we thus should meet.
A glance in the mirror of my travelling-case stilled any doubts I might have had. I was free from the dust of travel; indeed, I had driven but five kilometres that it might be so. An ostrich-feather-trimmed cloak of silver gray suited me to perfection, and the evening light, with just the fading glow in the sky, was most becoming.
Presently the cantering of a horse upon the road told me of the approach of him whom I awaited. I wearily rested my head upon my hand, and leaned against the carriage, and so absorbed did I become in my woman's thoughts as to what manner of man he would be, that it was his voice that roused me to the knowledge of his presence.
I glanced upward, and he pleased me well. A man rather above the average height, well knit and athletic, with clear-cut, sensitive features, a slight mustache, a kindly look of good-temper in his frank, blue eyes, and a cap set jauntily upon the side of his head of curling hair. Scarcely the man, I thought, to be the easy dupe of a vulgar adventuress; but the world is so strange.
He vaulted lightly from his horse, and, cap in hand, walked towards me; and I saw the look that I have seen in the eyes of other men come into his.
He did not crave pardon for speaking. He came as a man of the world to a woman in distress; came and counted there could be no offence.
"You have had an accident," he said; "can I be of service to you?"
"It is nothing," I answered, with a swift glance into his eyes; "my servants have gone to seek a blacksmith, or a coach-builder."
"The nearest is twenty kilometres away: we are far from civilization at Lecrese; you cannot wait until they return."
"And the nearest village?"
"Five kilometres."
I gazed around in some perplexity up to the sky, where the rosy tints were fading from the fleecy clouds, and then back into his face for inspiration. "If you are riding that way," I said, "I will ask you to send me a carriage from there."
He laughed a merry, good-tempered laugh, as though a child had asked for the moon, and again reminded me of our distance from civilization.
"Can you walk five kilometres?" he asked, with such a serious look upon his face that I smiled with amusement.
"Of course," I answered; "do you take me for an old woman?"
"No," he cried, with boyish emphasis; "only I thought, perhaps—"
"Perhaps I was one of those poor creatures to whom exertion is purgatory. Show me the road, please."
"It is the one I am taking myself."
"Which, although an interesting announcement, scarcely suffices to indicate the direction," I murmured.
"I mean, if you will permit, we will walk together."
"For the moment, at least," I cried, "circumstances have made the highway our joint property: then let us share companionship for mutual benefit;" and I drew my cloak about my shoulders, while he, laughing a strange little laugh, as though he scarcely understood me, swung his horse's bridle on his arm, and we strolled along together.
What need to recount what happened upon that walk, for have I not said that it was a dangerous place for a foolish youth and a designing woman?
What need either to speak of other days when we met by chance again, and I saw a glow of pleasure in his face; what need to speak of his moments of gloom, when, even as we talked, the light went out of his eyes; and I, who have felt the pulse of love so often that I know its every beat, told myself that he was wondering how he was to break with the other woman, the one whom I had never met.
And I, too, felt ill at ease; the country is so different from the capital. In the life that I had lived, to-night's dangeroustête-à-têtewas forgotten in the rush of to-morrow's engagements, but here it was different; I yearned for finality, and a release from a position that was becoming embarrassing.
Deprived of the company of my cavalier, I walked alone in the woods of Lecrese, priding myself that victory was mine, and in yet a few days I might say to him that I journeyed to Paris in full confidence that he would follow me.
Then, in the silence of the sultry afternoon, I heard his voice, and another in reply, that told me that if I chose to play the eavesdropper I might behold my rival, the actress; and I did choose, because I was upon a diplomatic mission, and—because I am a woman.
Through a cluster of bushes I gently forced my way, sighing as a jealous thorn caught me and ripped a strip from my silken mantle; and then, drawing the branches upon one side, I looked into the glade, where she was resting upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He sat by her side—and—angels defend us!—held her hand.
Though it be against my desires, the truth is the truth. She was not painted, neither was she old, or even plain, and, worst of all, as she sat listening to him there was a look upon her face that spoke faithfully to me that she loved him.
And he looked back at her with the reflection of the same light within his eyes.
Yet, what a clever little adventuress she was. I laughed scornfully to myself as they continued their conversation.
"What are these distinctions that the world calls difference of class?" she said, in a thoughtful voice. "Who has ordained that this man and that woman shall marry because they are on the same social scale?"
"Why talk of such things?" he answered. "How can it affect us? I am a poor student—"
"And I a poorer girl," she interrupted, "on a visit all too brief."
"On a visit that must last forever. I worship you, and you love me."
"I have not said so," she murmured, so softly that I could scarcely catch the words.
"Your eyes have told me; you will not sacrifice our love."
"Oh, if I were only a man," she said, placing both hands upon his shoulders.
"What, then, my love?" and he would have embraced her.
"Nothing," she answered, and the look in her eyes restrained him. "Let us go."
They passed on together, and I could not but smile at the manner in which the wretched little flirt pretended to keep him from her, and yet with every action strengthened the chain that bound him.
Then as they moved onward I discreetly followed, for I had fixed in my mind that I would spoil this rustic love-making, and show her that I knew her for what she was.
Not a poor girl, as she was pleased to term herself, but a common actress from some booth of Montmartre, a skilled adventuress, who had set herself to delude a foolish boy, knowing what was to be gained thereby. And in truth he was a foolish boy, a most annoying one, a most deceitful one, for I had made no progress when I had counted all was won.
He left her at the gate of a tiny cottage, and, as soon as the bend in the road had hidden him from view, I walked through the garden, and, lifting the latch, boldly entered.
Mademoiselle had removed her hat, and stood resting her head against the latticed window, gazing up the path that he had taken.
She turned as I entered, and stood looking towards me, and yet not with so very much wonderment, for suddenly she broke into a smile.
"You have entered to rest a while," she said. "You are welcome; we are not altogether strangers, for I have heard so much of you."
"Heard of me?" I queried, rather sharply, for this girl seemed to have the manners of such as myself.
"Certainly," she replied, still smiling; "you are thegrand damewhose carriage broke down, and who is so charmed with the rustic delights of Lecrese that she prolongs her stay indefinitely," and there was a tinge of becoming satire in her voice.
"How do you know that?"
"You are the only one who would walk in the woods in a costume fit only for driving in the Bois de Boulogne," she answered, and I flushed with annoyance, for she looked so cool, while I was hot with the glowing of the sun and the burning of my temper.
"We cannot all pretend to rustic innocence, mademoiselle."
"Nor succeed, if we did, madame," she retorted, and then the flash of anger left her face. "You will forgive me," she cried, taking my hand. "I forget myself; you will rest and take tea with me."
I would have bargained my soul for a cup of tea, but I ignored the offer, and continued, "I have come to speak with you on a matter of importance."
"Be seated," she answered, coldly, and she, too, sat and waited.
She plagued me because of her calmness and dignity, the air of superiority she assumed towards me.
"Don't you think this farce has been played long enough, mademoiselle?" I asked, scornfully, and she merely raised her eyebrows, and maintained her unruffled composure.
"This Arcadian love-making," I cried, reddening with vexation, "this whispering of paradise, this thistle-down entanglement. Don't you think it is time to say good-bye?"
"Quite," she answered, with supreme contempt. "Good-bye," and she returned to the window.
Then something—who can follow the subtle changes that occur in a woman's heart?—something came into mine, and instead of anger I felt a pang of pity for the girl who so disdained me. I walked towards her, and laid my hand upon her arm.
"You know it must be so," I said.
"Yes, it must be so."
"He is of one world and you of another."
"You know that?" she said, in surprise.
"Yes, I know who you are, and who he is. Your words in the wood an hour since were romance, and romance is out of date. It is impossible. Your paths lie asunder: you must take yours, and leave him his."
I had placed my arm around her shoulder, and somehow the contempt I felt for this play-actress had vanished, and my eyes were misty as she turned hers towards me. Then in a second she was crying softly in my arms.
"You will say good-bye," I whispered.
"Yes," she answered, her face still hidden, "I will say good-bye."
"To-day?"
"Yes, to-day—within an hour he will return, and then, with courage taken into both my hands, I will say good-bye. I have been sadly foolish, and now I will break his heart because I wasted wisdom until too late."
I did not tell her that men's hearts, and the hearts of princes in particular, do not break so easily. Neither did I say that the heart that fluttered against my own was nearer breaking than his would ever be, but I kissed her again, and so we waited until we heard his Highness's whistle, as he approached the gate, and, gaining no response, walked up to the door and knocked.
"Come in," I cried, for her permission was so choked that it could not reach him, and he entered and stood gazing in annoyed bewilderment.
"You, madame?"
"I, monsieur."
"What does this mean?"
She walked across and took his hand, holding it tightly between both her own.
"Only this, dear," she whispered, "we have had our dream, and now the awakening comes. It was all my fault, and you must leave me, and forget we ever met—but, no, do not forget; remember me as the wickedest woman whom you have ever known. The one who falsely won your love, and then spurned it, and left you with only a bitter knowledge of the evil of the world."
"You mean that you have fooled me, and do not love me?" he said, stonily.
"Yes, I have fooled you," she answered, and she seemed to shrink beneath the lie that her love told her would teach him the sooner to forget.
"And you do not love me?" he repeated, his face growing gray in the glowing sunlight.
"I do not love you," she answered, and the boy believed her.
"Good-bye," he said; "shall I murmur my gratitude for the few hours of happiness in my fool's paradise?"
Then, while the sneers still hovered around his lips, while I counted all was ended, she flung her arms around him, and drew his head down, until his cheek touched hers.
"Not so, my own," she sobbed, "not so; we must part, but not like this. I cannot live if you should think me so worthless. We must part; you must go one way and I the other, but I love you, dear, I love you."
"Mademoiselle," I cried, sharply, "this is mere childishness, this is the weakest folly;" and she, with her eyes glistening, turned again from him, and answered, wearily:
"Yes, 'tis folly, 'tis madness—good-bye."
"No," he cried, wildly, "you shall not go!"
"She must—she shall," I answered, angrily.
"Are you bereft of reason that you would so disgrace yourself—your State?"
"It is no disgrace to marry the noblest woman this world has seen," he retorted, hotly, and I admired him for the blaze of passion in his eyes.
"You speak like a child," I cried. "She says good-bye because she knows that you must part. Prince Ferdinand of Elvirna cannot wed a nobody."
"Prince Ferdinand!" she gasped, and, stepping back a pace, gazed through her tears into his face.
"Eh! Prince Ferdinand," he answered, in scorn, "and curse the day that made me so. I am no struggling student. Curse the day that made me Prince, I say! Curse the day!"
"Prince Ferdinand," she repeated, and I thought the girl must be bewitched, for she smiled.
I caught him by the arm and drew him towards me, for I could see by the look on her face that she was no scheming adventuress.
"If there be disgrace," I cried, witheringly, "it is yours. You came with deceit and falsehood. You won her heart, pretending to be such as she, no better in the world's eyes, and no worse."
"Were I Prince a thousand times over, and a thousand times on that," he answered, softly, "I would give it all for her."
"Happily, there must be two to the bargain, and she is too true a woman to hold you, when she knows it means your social ruin."
"On the contrary, madame; now I know he is what he is I will marry him."
Her face was wreathed in smiles, smiles that had chased away the mist of sorrow's tears, and I shuddered as I realized that I had brought about the very end that I came to prevent.
"You will marry him?" I gasped.
"Oui, madame," she replied, and courtesied to the ground. "You know me. Are we not what the world calls eligibles?"
I could only gaze in bewilderment.
"Tell the Prince who I am," she cried, with a roguish laugh; and then, as I still stood silent, she courtesied again to the ground before him.
"René, only daughter of the Compte de Pontiers, may it please your Highness," she murmured.
He would have taken her to his arms in a rush of delight, but she ceremoniously waved him back.
"Present us with all due form and etiquette, madame."
It was a strange introduction, for three times did they bow with court formality to each other, and then the rustic lovers came to life again, and he clasped her in his arms.
"If you knew he was such an exalted personage, and knew me not to be a poor actress upon a visit, as I pretended," René cried, turning towards me, "why did you insist that I must break away from happiness because of my position? Surely we are what our world calls eligibles?"
And while I, in a generous instant, would have confessed the whole truth, a flush came over her face.
"My father must never know of this foolish masquerade," she said, gravely.
"You never met Prince Ferdinand until two minutes since," I answered. "Is it not so? We will say that his Highness's infatuation for an actress died the natural death of most infatuations; and then, a little later, make known his coming alliance with no less a lady than René, daughter of the Compte de Pontiers."
So ended Prince Ferdinand's entanglement. So ended my romantic mission that was such a successful failure; and now sometimes when I admire that diamond necklace I wonder if an accusation might not be formulated against me for obtaining jewels under false pretences. And yet—why?
For the moment the exhilarating fascination of "Le Pole Nord" had absolutely enthralled the heart of feminine Paris.
To skate for an hour and then sit and sip one's coffee, to hold an informal reception among one's own particular enemies, or to flirt with one's dearest friends for the remainder of the afternoon, was now the amusement upon which Society had set its approving hall-mark, and for once in the way the craze that fashionable Paris had smiled upon was something in the nature of pleasure, and not a task.
It was delight to glide across the ice to the strains of that excellent orchestra; it was premature paradise to know that one's tailor-made gown, edged with fur to maintain an illusive suggestion of winter, need not await a frost before it could pique one's bosom companion; it was new life to feel one's blood tingling with the glow of health and new elation; to realize that one had successfully mastered the intricacies of double grape-vines and Canadian eights; and it was fashionable, for did not the Duchess de Maussapet, the Countess Venezia, and all others we poor women have been taught to imitate, grace the assembly almost every afternoon?
We had danced a quadrille upon the ice, and as the final bars died away my eyes met those of my diplomatic friend Monsieur Roché, as he leaned against a pillar, and there was a look upon his face, a peculiar gesture as he bowed to me, that told me why so staid a man had joined the frivolities of "Le Pole Nord."
Yet it went against my heart to dismiss my companion, for he was the most handsome instructor that "Le Pole Nord" possessed, an Apollo in his fur-trimmed jacket and jaunty cap, and all my feminine friends were dying to skate with him. It went against my heart to give him up to a woman who would only bore him.
He sighed as he unfastened my skates, and I sighed too, and walked to where Monsieur Roché was waiting.
And the poor man did look so absurd in his silk hat and conventional frock-coat compared with my late companion; but that man was now skating with a woman I detested, and I promptly dismissed him from my thoughts.
"I have looked everywhere for you," Monsieur Roché exclaimed, as he took my hand.
"There is only one place where I could be, monsieur, and that is here. To be away from 'Le Pole Nord' at this time of the day is to be out of the world. Would you care to cultivate the art with my assistance?"
"I wish for your guidance over something even more slippery than ice," he answered, as we seated ourselves upon a lounge.
"Well?"
"You know that we are entertaining an envoy from China, who presumably tours the world on a voyage of pleasure and enlightenment."
"His Excellency Hun Sun?"
"Precisely." Monsieur Roché leaned towards me until his lips almost touched my ear. "This journey of pleasure is a subterfuge. The Ambassador comes from China to France."
"And the object of his visit?"
"To gain a pledge from France for defensive, or even offensive, protection."
I pursed my lips, for who in the world did not know that England and Russia would have to be reckoned with?
"There are powers in China," Monsieur Roché continued, "who have offered such inducements to tempt this protective alliance that we cannot resist them. Who those powers may be, whether the Emperor himself or those who do not love him, concerns you nothing. Hun Sun came to me and gave the message by word of mouth, but because of the secrecy which must be maintained in such a matter, no writing was to pass between France and China which, if by any chance intercepted, could be brought up against"—Monsieur Roché paused—"those who had sent him."
"We civilized nations are far behind the heathen in diplomacy," I murmured.
"Far behind," he acquiesced. "Many a man would be happier if he had never learned to write. There was to be no writing between us that could incriminate. Hun Sun gave me the message, asked for a witness, and before that witness, who was Gaspard Levivé, my chief secretary, handed me a small gold seal. If France agreed, our answer was to be a mere interchange of diplomatic courtesies, sealed with that seal, and all would be understood."
"It seems over-elaborated and cumbersome caution,mon ami, for surely the man trusted to bring the message could be trusted to take the answer."
"Except that as it is he can never know the answer,ma chère. However, it is not the methods of this diplomacy that I wished to consult you upon, but this: when his Excellency handed me the seal, I placed it upon the table by my side; five minutes afterwards he left, and when I turned to the table it was gone, and no one but ourselves had been near it. By 'ourselves' I mean Hun Sun, myself, and Gaspard Levivé. There seems to be no possible reason for his Excellency to steal what he need not have delivered; there would be no sense in my concealing what no one need know I have received, and so—"
"There is only Gaspard?" I sharply interjected, and I felt my pulses throb with indignation, for who knew better than I, since the affair of the abducted Ambassador, that the man I was honored in calling my dearest friend was as true as any who served our country.
"There is only Gaspard," monsieur repeated.
"Then you insinuate that your secretary, my friend, has stolen the seal?" I cried, angrily.
"I insinuate nothing," he answered. "I come to you, because you have solved many difficult problems, to help me in this."
"And I refuse, monsieur. You are a poor diplomat to attempt to gain a woman's sympathy by attacking one whom she esteems and admires."
"I think not, for I have already aroused your deepest interest in my unfortunate position."
"Indeed!"
"Certainly; because one is implicated whom," Monsieur Roché glanced into my face and smiled, "you esteem and admire."
"I repeat that you are a poor diplomat," I cried, angrily, "and I will prove it. Because you have chosen to insult my friend, because you have chosen to insinuate that he is a traitor and a thief, I renounce my position. I refuse this commission and all others, and I have the honor to wish you good-day and good-bye. Now, monsieur, have I proved that you are a poor diplomat? A child in what you count yourself a master?"
I had risen, and stood looking down upon him, and I felt there was a tinge of scorn and perhaps contempt in my glance, but he took my hand and gently drew me down to the lounge beside him.
"You have only proved," he said, "what a woman's true regard is worth.Mon Dieu!how could any man be a traitor whom you have placed so high in your esteem?"
"Then I have misunderstood you," I quickly answered. "I take back to myself all that I have said. I become a penitent, I accept this and all other commissions, and think you, monsieur, absolutely the best and nicest man in Paris."
He looked at me with almost a twinkle in his eyes, and then, "Am I not a good diplomat?" he mildly interjected.
"You are a most unscrupulous politician," I answered. "You never suspected Gaspard?"
"Never. I was merely quickening your interest in the position. Am I not a good diplomat?"
"You're the most irritating middle-aged man in France."
My companion shrugged his shoulders, smiled for a moment, and then leaned towards me. "I did not steal it, and Gaspard did not." He raised his eyebrows.
"Hun Sun stole it himself."
"Precisely my own opinion," Monsieur Roché murmured, appreciatively. "He, although a chosen envoy to France, is against us. He was bound to deliver his message, but in the same instant he rendered it futile. We cannot own that we have lost the seal, and without it we cannot accept."
"And your object in seeking me at such an hour is to ask me to regain the seal?"
"Yes,ma chère, you are the one woman in the world who is brilliant enough to do it, because—"
"Not so much sugar, if you please, monsieur. Thank you;" and I took my cup from his hand, leaving him to apply my remark in its double sense, and smiled with satisfaction because I noticed that Paul was cutting figures and flourishes in solitude. I knew that empty-headed woman would bore him.
"But I may count upon your assistance?" Monsieur le Premier plaintively interjected.
"To regain the seal is utterly impossible," I quietly answered.
"Impossible?"
"Altogether. The man who could rob you before your very eyes is too clever to allow himself to be robbed in turn. I do not care for missions without a hope of success. There is but one thing you can do: bribe Hun Sun to come over to the side of France."
"Unfortunately, Hun Sun has departed for the land where bribery is unknown."
I sat forward in my seat in amazement; even monsieur's diplomatic manner of putting it did not completely hide his meaning.
"When did it happen?"
"Late last night. He returned from his appointment with me to his suite at L'Imperatrice Hôtel, and, after transacting some business with his secretary Ling Wen, retired for the night, and forever. Living diplomats mourn a talented man, who has gone to join the politicians who have preceded him—or, at least, some of them."
"And that being so,mon ami, I undertake the mission. You may make your plans, for I promise you shall have the seal within twenty-four hours—unless," I added, "it was never taken to the hotel."
"You mean it?" he cried, a flush of pleasure chasing the sallow lines of worry from his face.
"In spite of cheap masculine cynicism,mon cher, a woman sometimes means what she says. I think I can regain it for you. Where is the—"
"The body was removed secretly in the early morning to the Chinese Embassy."
"And no one knows of his Excellency's death?"
"Outside those pledged to silence, no one."
"Let me see," I murmured, reflectively; "his secretary's name is—?"
"Ling Wen, with, say, twenty odd additions."
"Ling Wen will be sufficient. At seven o'clock to-night, monsieur, you will send an imperative message that you must see Ling Wen at once, and—No, that is all you need do. You will not skate? Then,mon ami, au revoir."
It was ten minutes past seven when mycoupé, drew up at the door of L'Imperatrice Hôtel, and I requested to be conducted to the apartments of his Excellency Hun Sun; and I felt pleased with myself, for my much-tried milliner had obliterated volumes of misdeeds with a gown and cloak that were perfection. A shade of perplexity gathered upon the face of the waiter as he heard my request, and that perplexity was deepened in the features of monsieur le manager, when he was called and listened to my desire.
"His Excellency Hun Sun had only just departed."
I had serious thoughts of recommending that man to Monsieur Roché as an uncultivated diplomat.
"And"—he seemed prepared to sink into the ground at the humiliation of disappointing me—"his Excellency's secretary, Ling Wen, had also just been called away."
"It did not matter; I would wait;" and because my own countrymen can refuse a pretty woman nothing, I gained my point, and was conducted by the gentleman himself to the suite of the envoy, to await, as he again so diplomatically put it, "the one who should first return."
There were three rooms—a reception-room, a bedroom, and a study—and I trembled with excitement as I realized that the object of my visit, the stolen seal, was somewhere in those rooms, and in a few minutes I might be passing out of the hotel, and all would be over.
An obliging bunch of keys lay invitingly upon the study table, and rapidly I opened drawer after drawer in that apartment and the bedroom, and became more and more irritated, as my search proved ever fruitless.
The reception-room only was left, and my vexation evaporated in a laugh of approaching triumph, as I realized that a cunning man would hide what he had to hide in the most open room, and not in the most private.
There was only an ormolu writing-table with fancy drawers that refused to yield to the persuasion of my keys, but a broad-bladed Oriental knife tempted me, and, thrusting it into the edge, I pressed upon it, and forced the front from the drawer.
It came with a sharp snap, and a quiet chuckle caused me to turn with a start.
His Excellency's secretary, Ling Wen, was sitting in a chair, his hands upon his knees, smiling blandly at me.
I did not speak. For the first time in my life I could not find the right words to say, but could only gaze into the face of Ling Wen, who sat there, his long fingers spread out over the knees of his yellow, embroidered silk robe. I glanced at the clock. I had been at work over an hour.
"You are searching for something," he said, quietly—"pray continue;" and the invitation was too gracious not to be accepted. I swept the contents of the drawer upon the carpet.