"When shall I see you again?" Julien asked.
"It depends upon what reply I get from Madame Christophor," she answered. "She may want me at once, and I don't know yet whether I'll get an evening out or not! I shall have to leave you to discover that. Good night!"
She vanished within the dark doorway. Julien stepped back into the carriage more than a little puzzled. To him Anne had always seemed the prototype of all that was serene and matter-of-fact. To-night he had found her unrecognizable. There was something, too, in her face as she had turned away, a slight tremble in her voice, that bewildered him. As he drove back to his rooms through the lighted streets, it was strange that, notwithstanding the exciting adventure through which he had passed, his thoughts were chiefly concerned with the problem of this unfamiliar Lady Anne!
"My dear Julien!"
The Duchess was very impressive indeed. From the depths of an easy-chair in her sitting-room at the Ritz Hotel she held out both her hands, and in her eyes was that peculiar strained look which Julien had only been privileged to observe once or twice in his life. It indicated, or rather it was the Duchess's substitute for, emotion. Julien at once perceived, therefore, that this was an occasion.
"First of all," she went on, motioning him to a chair, "first of all, before I say a single word about this strange thing which has brought me to Paris, let me congratulate you. I always knew, dear Julien, that you would do something, that you would not allow yourself to be altogether crushed by the machinations of that hateful woman."
"Really," Julien began, "I am not quite sure—"
"I mean your letters, of course," she interrupted. "The Duke, when he finished the first one, said only one thing—'Wonderful!' That is just how we all feel about them, Julien. I met Lord Cardington only a few hours before I left London, and he was absolutely enthusiastic. 'If one thing,' he said, 'will save the country, it is this splendid attack upon the new diplomacy!'—as you so cleverly called it. The Duke tells me that that first article of yours is to be printed as a leaflet and distributed throughout the country."
"I am very glad," Julien said, "to hear all this. Tell me, what brings you to Paris? Is the Duke with you?"
The Duchess smiled at him reproachfully.
"You ask me what brings me to Paris, Julien? Come, come! You and I mustn't begin like that. I want you to tell me at once where she is."
"Where who is?"
"Anne, of course! Please don't play with me. Consider what a terrible time we have all been through."
Julien did not at once reply. His very hesitation seemed to afford theDuchess a lively satisfaction.
"There!" she declared. "You are not going to pretend, then, that you don't know? That is excellent. Julien, tell me at once where to find her. Take me to her."
"I am afraid I can't do that," Julien objected.
"My dear—my dear Julien!" the Duchess protested. "This is all so foolish. Why should there be any mystery about Anne's whereabouts? I am not angry. I ought to be, perhaps, but you see I have guessed my dear girl's secret. I've felt for her terribly during the last few weeks, but it was so hard to know what to do. It seemed shocking at the time, but perhaps, after all, the course which she adopted was the wisest."
"I am very glad to hear that you are taking it like that," Julien remarked, "and I am sure Anne will be. I think the best thing I can do is to go and see her and tell her that you are here—"
"She does not know, then?" the Duchess interrupted.
"Why, of course not," Julien replied. "I received your note early this morning—before I was up, in fact—and you begged me so earnestly to come round at once that I came straight here without calling anywhere."
The Duchess coughed.
"Very well, Julien, I will leave you to go and fetch Anne whenever you like. I shall await you here impatiently. Tell me how it was that you both managed to deceive us so completely?"
Julien shook his head.
"I haven't the slightest notion what you mean."
The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.
"For my part," she said, "I always looked upon dear Anne as the most unemotional, unsentimental person. Naturally I thought that she was a little attracted towards you, but on the other hand I had no idea that she looked upon marriage as anything but a reasonable and necessary part of life. I had no idea, even, that she had any real affection for you."
"Affection for me!"
Julien looked up. The Duchess was regarding him as a mother might look at a naughty child whom she intended to pardon.
"I did notice," she continued, "that Anne seemed very silent for some time after your departure, and there was a curious lack of enthusiasm about her preparations for the wedding with Mr. Samuel Harbord. She scarcely looked, even, at the pearls he gave her. You know that I found them on the floor of her bedroom after she had gone away? Well, well, never mind that," the Duchess went on. "When I got her hurried note and understood the whole affair, I must say that on the whole it was a relief to me. Dear Anne—she is only like what I was at her age, before I married the Duke. You ought to be very proud and happy, Julien."
"I should be very happy," Julien declared, "to understand in the least what you are talking about."
The Duchess stared at him.
"My good man," she cried, "my own daughter runs away on the eve of her marriage, throws all Society into a commotion, comes to Paris to join the man whom she cares for—you—you, Julien—and then you affect to misunderstand!"
Julien was speechless for several moments. He was conscious of a little wave of strange emotion. The walls of the hotel sitting-room fell away. He was standing on the edge of the wood behind the shrubbery of laurels. The smell of the country gardens, the distant music, the delicious stillness, the queer, troubled look in Anne's eyes, her suddenly quickened breath, that moment which had passed so soon! It came back to him with a peculiar insistence during those few seconds!
Then he brushed it away.
"My dear Duchess," he said slowly, "you are laboring under some extraordinary mistake. Anne and I were very good friends and I think that we should have made a reasonably contented couple. That, however, was naturally broken off at once owing to my misfortune. Anne's visit to Paris, her sudden flight from London, had nothing whatever to do with me. I met her here entirely by accident. No word has passed between us which would suggest for a single moment that she looked upon this matter any differently!"
The Duchess listened to him steadily. At first there were signs of a coming storm. Like a skilful general, however, she abandoned her position and changed her tactics. She got up and walked to the window, produced a handkerchief from her pocket, and stood dabbing her eyes. She looked out over the Place Vendôme. Julien, who had not the least idea what to say, kept silent.
"Julien," she said at last, turning around, "this—this is a blow to me. If what you say is true, and of course it is, dear Anne's life is ruined. At present every one sympathizes with her. You know, Samuel Harbord, notwithstanding his enormous wealth—you have no idea, Julien, how horrid he was about the settlements—is very unpopular. There wasn't a soul except his own people who didn't thoroughly enjoy his position. Anne had run away to Paris, they all said, because she declined to give up her old sweetheart. You know what they will all say now? She came and you would have none of her! I ask you, Julien, as a man of the world, isn't that the view people are bound to take?"
"It is a very stupid view," Julien declared. "Anne cares no more for me than for any other man. She isn't that sort. Even if I were in a position to marry any one, I am quite sure that she would refuse me."
The Duchess began to see her way. She tried, however, to banish the look of relief from her face.
"My dear Julien," she said very gently, "you men, however well you mean, sometimes make such mistakes. I want to show you what I am sure you will see to be your duty. Things, of course, can never be as we had once hoped. On the other hand, I am a mother, Julien, and I want to see my daughters happy. We are very, very poor, but a little privation is good for all of us. The Duke will settle two thousand a year upon Anne, and I am quite sure that you can earn money with that wonderful pen of yours, and then, of course, there is your own small income."
"Anne doesn't want to marry me, and," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want to marry Anne. You forget that I am an outcast from life. I have to start things all over again. What should I do with a wife who has been used to the sort of life Anne has always led?"
"Dear Julien," the Duchess repeated, "I want to show you your duty. If you do not marry Anne, every one in London will say that she came to you and you refused her. It is your duty at least to give her the opportunity. It is unfortunate that she came here, perhaps, but we have finished with all that. She is here, every one knows that she is here, and you have been seen together."
Julien rose from his chair and walked up and down the room.
"I haven't talked very much with Anne," he said, pausing after a while, "but it seems to me that she is making a bid for liberty. She is an independent sort of girl, you know, after all, although she was very well content, up to a certain point, to take things as they came. I don't believe for a moment that she would marry me."
"At least," the Duchess persisted, "do your duty and ask her. If necessary, even let people know that you have asked her. It is your duty, Julien."
Julien hesitated no longer.
"Very well," he decided, "since you put it like that I will ask Anne, but I warn you, I think she will refuse me."
"She will do nothing of the sort," the Duchess declared; "but oh! Julien, it would make me so happy if you would take me to her, if I could have just a few minutes' talk with her first, before you said anything serious."
Julien smiled.
"Dear Duchess, I think not. I will go to see Anne alone. I will ask her to marry me in my own way. I will tell her that you are here, and whether she consents to marry me or not, I will bring her to see you. But my offer shall be made before you and she meet."
"You are a little hard, dear Julien," the Duchess murmured, "but let it be so. Only remember that the poor dear child may be feeling very sensitive—she must know that she has placed herself so completely in your power. Be nice to her, Julien."
The Duchess offered him a tentative but somewhat artificial embrace, which Julien with great skill evaded.
"We shall see," he remarked, "what happens. I shall find you here, I suppose?"
The Duchess nodded.
"I have traveled all night," she said, half closing her eyes. "Directly I saw that it was my duty, I came here without waiting a single second. I shall lie down and rest and hope, Julien, until I see you both. I shall hope and pray that you will bring Anne here to luncheon with me and that we shall have a little family gathering."
Anne was seated before the wide-open window in the little back room leading from Mademoiselle Rignaut's workshop. A sewing-machine was on the table in the middle of the apartment, the floor was strewn with fragments of material. Anne, in a perfectly plain black gown, similar to those worn by the other young ladies of the establishment, was making bows. She looked at Julien, as he entered, in blank amazement. Then a shadow of annoyance crossed her face.
"My dear Julien," she exclaimed, "fancy letting you climb these four flights of stairs! Besides, these are my working hours. I am not receiving visitors."
"Rubbish!" Julien interposed. "There's surely no need for you to pose as a seamstress?"
She laughed.
"Don't be foolish! Why not a seamstress? I am absolutely determined to do work of some sort. I am tired of living on other people and other people's efforts. Until I hear from Madame Christophor, or find another post, I am doing what I am fit for here. Don't make me any more annoyed than I am at present. I am cross enough with Janette because she will make me sit in here instead of with the other girls."
He came across the room and stood by her side before the window. The slight haze of the midsummer morning rested over the city with its tangled mass of roofs and chimneys, its tall white buildings with funny little verandas, the sweep of boulevards and statelier buildings in the distance. She looked up and followed his eyes.
"Don't you like my view?" she asked. "One misses the roar of London. Do you notice how much shriller and less persistent all the noises are? Yet it has its own inspiration, hasn't it?"
"Without a doubt," Julien answered. "Of course, you can guess what I came for?"
"If it were to ask me to lunch," she said, composedly threading her needle, "I am sorry, but I can't come. I have to make twenty-five of these bows and I am rather slow at it."
"Luncheon might have followed as an after-thought," he replied. "My real mission was to suggest that you should marry me."
Lady Anne's fingers paused for a moment in the air. She sat quite still. Her eyes were half closed. There was a curious little quiver at her heart, a little throb in her ears. On the whole, however, she kept her self-control marvelously.
"Whatever put that into your head?" she inquired, going on with her work.
He hesitated. It was in his mind to tell her of that evening at Clonarty, to speak of it, to recall that one wave of emotion on which, indeed, they might have floated into a completer understanding. He looked at her steadfastly. She was very graceful, very good to look upon. She sat upright in her poor cane chair, bending over her foolish little task. But he missed any inspiration which might have guided his tongue. She looked so thoroughly self-possessed, so splendidly superior to circumstances.
"Isn't it natural?" he asked. "You and I were always good friends. We have come together here and we are both a little lonely. I have never known any one else in the world, Anne," he continued, "with whom I have been able to think of marriage with more—more content. One might live quite a pleasant life here. We should not be paupers. At any rate, there would be no reason for you to sit in this stuffy room making bows, or to go and write Madame Christophor's letters."
"Is that all?"
Again he was tempted. For a single moment she had raised her eyes and he had fancied that in that swift upward glance he had seen the light of an almost eager questioning, an almost pathetic search. He bent towards her, but she refused obstinately to look at him again.
"Dear Anne," he said, "I have always been fond of you."
Again her fingers were idle. An idea seemed to have occurred to her.She asked him a question.
"How long is it since you have seen my mother?"
He did not at once reply. She raised her head and looked at him. Then she knew the truth. She set her teeth and fought. A little sob was strangled in her throat.
"I left your mother a few minutes ago," he told her. "She arrived inParis this morning and sent for me."
Lady Anne worked for a time in silence. Then she laid the bow, which she had finished, upon the table, and leaned back in her chair, clasping her right knee with her hands.
"You really are the queerest person, Julien," she declared. "How you were ever a success as a diplomatist I can't imagine! You came in with the air of one charged with a high and holy mission. It was so obvious and yet for a moment it puzzled me. How I would love to have been with you this morning—with you and my mother, I mean—somewhere behind a curtain! Never mind, you've done the really right and honorable thing—you have given me my chance. I am very grateful, Julien."
She looked frankly enough into his face now and laughed. Julien remained silent.
"Can't you see, both of you," Anne went on, "you silly people, that something quite alien to us and our set has found its way into my life—a sort of middle-class complaint—Heaven knows what you would call it!—but it came just in time to place me in a most awkward position. I still haven't any doubt that marriage is a very respectable and desirable institution, but to me the idea of it as a matter of convenience has suddenly become—well, a little worse than the thing which we all shudder at so righteously when we pass along the streets of Paris. Of course, I know," she added, "that's a shocking point of view. My mother would hold, and you, too, that a legalized sale is no sale at all, that matrimony is a perfectly hallowed institution, a perfectly moral state, and all the rest of it. You see, I very nearly admitted it myself—I very nearly sold myself!"
She shuddered. Then she rose to her feet, straight and splendid, with all the grace of her beautiful young womanhood.
"Men don't think just as we do about this," she continued. "You are all much too Oriental. But a woman has at least a right to keep what she doesn't choose to sell, even if in the end she chooses to give it."
Julien moved a step nearer to her.
"Anne," he said, "supposing one cared?"
Every fibre of her body was set in an effort of resistance. The mocking laugh rose readily enough to her lips, the words were crushed back in her throat. Only the faintest shadow shone for a moment in her eyes.
"Ah, Julien," she murmured lightly, "if one cared! But does that really come, I wonder? Not to such men as you. Not often, I am afraid, to such women as I."
The door was suddenly opened. Little Mademoiselle Rignaut was covered with confusion.
"But, miladi," she exclaimed, "a thousand pardons—"
"Janette," Anne interrupted, "if I hear that once more I leave—I seek another situation."
"But, mademoiselle, then," Mademoiselle Rignaut corrected, "a thousand pardons indeed! I had no idea—"
"My dear Janette," Lady Anne protested, "why do you apologize for entering your own workshop? It is foolish, this. I go now, dear Julien, to put on my hat. You shall drive me to where my mother is staying—the Ritz, I suppose? Afterwards you shall leave us. Wait in the street below. I shall be less than two minutes."
Mademoiselle Rignaut was still apologetic as she conducted Julien down the narrow stairs.
"But indeed," she declared, "there never was a young lady so strange, with such charming manners, so sweet, as dear Miladi Anne. All the time she smiles, inconveniences are nothing, one would imagine that she were happy. And yet at night—"
"At night what?" Julien asked.
Mademoiselle shook her head.
"Miladi Anne is not quite so cheerful as she seems. At night I fancy that she does not sleep too well. One hears her, and, alas! Monsieur Sir Julien, last night I heard her sobbing quietly."
"Lady Anne sobbing?" Julien exclaimed. "It seems impossible."
"Indeed, but women are strange!" Mademoiselle Rignaut sighed.
Lady Anne came gayly down to the street a few minutes later. She was still wearing the plain black gown and the simplest of hats. Nevertheless, she looked charming. Her fresh complexion with its slight touch of sunburn, her wealth of brown hair, and the distinction of her carriage, made her everywhere an object of admiration in a city where the prevailing type of beauty was so different.
"Poor mother!" she exclaimed, as they crossed the Place de l'Opéra."Tell me, was she very theatrical this morning, Julien?"
Julien smiled.
"I am afraid I must admit that she was," he declared. "I found her very interesting."
"I hate to talk about her," Anne continued, "it makes one feel so unfilial, but really she is the most wonderful marionette that ever lived the perfect life. You see, I have been behind the scenes so long. Every now and then a little of the woman's nature crops up. Her cut to Mrs. Carraby, for instance, was quite one of the events of the season. It was so perfectly administered, so utterly scathing. I hear that the poor creature went to bed for a fortnight afterwards. Gracious, I hope I am not distressing you, Julien!" she added hastily.
"Not in the least," Julien assured her grimly. "I have no interest inMrs. Carraby."
Lady Anne sighed.
"That's how you men talk when your little feeling has evaporated. Julien, you're a selfish crowd! You make the world a very difficult place for a woman."
"I think," he said, "that your sex avenges itself.'
"I am not sure," she replied. "Men so often place the burden of their own follies upon a woman's shoulders."
"You rebuke me rightly," Julien declared bitterly.
"I was not thinking of you," she told him reproachfully. "I am sorry,Julien. I should not have said that."
"It was the truth," he confessed, "absolutely the truth. Still, I have never blamed Mrs. Carraby for my disasters. It was my own asinine simplicity. Tell me, when shall I see you again? I think I ought to leave you here."
She laughed.
"You want to know about my interview with mother? Well, you shall know all about that, I promise you, because I have changed my mind. I intend to make you an auditor. Don't desert me, Julien, please. Remember, this is really a trying moment for me. I have to face an irate and obstinate parent. If friendship is worth anything, come and help me."
"I can't help thinking," he objected, "that your mother would rather talk to you alone."
"Then you will please to consider me and not my mother," Anne insisted, as they drew up before the door of the hotel. "I wish you to remain."
The Duchess received them perfectly. She did not attempt anything emotional. She simply held out both her hands a little apart.
"You dear, sensible people!" she cried. "Anne, how dared you give us such a shock!"
Anne leaned over and kissed her mother.
"Mother," she announced, "I am not going to marry Julien."
The Duchess started. The expression which flashed from her eyes was unmistakably genuine.
"Don't talk nonsense, Anne!" she exclaimed sharply.
"No nonsense about it," Anne retorted. "I can't bear to talk when any one is standing up. Sit down, and in a few sentences I'll let you know how hopeless it all is."
There was real fear in the Duchess's eyes.
"Anne," she gasped, "is there a man, then?"
"You idiotic person, of course there isn't!" Anne replied. "Why on earth you should all talk about a man directly a girl breaks away for a time, I can't imagine. Now sit down there and listen. I brought Julien along because if you bully me too much I shall make him take me away. We are excellent friends, Julien and I, and he has been very kind to me since I came here; but I met him entirely by accident, and if I hadn't I am quite sure that we might have lived here for years and never come across one another."
"But I have told every one in London!" the Duchess protested. "I have explained everything! I have told them how you always loved Julien, what a terrible blow his troubles were, and how you suddenly found that it was impossible for you to marry any other man, and like a dear, romantic child that you are you ran away to him."
"Yes," Lady Anne said dryly, "that's a very pretty story! That's just what I imagined you would tell everybody when you knew that I'd come here. That is just," she continued slowly, "what you have been rubbing into poor Julien this morning before he came to see me. Very well, mother, up to a certain point it came off, you see. Julien called most dutifully, found me sitting in an attic—'attic' is the correct word, isn't it?—and made his declaration. No, I don't think he declared anything, on second thoughts! He effectually concealed any feelings he might have had. It was a suggestion which he made."
"My manner of expressing myself," Julien began a little stiffly—
"Your manner of expressing yourself was perfect," Anne interrupted. "It was a great deal too perfect, mypreux chevalier. Only you see, Julien, only you see, mother, Julien offered me exactly what I left home to escape from. I have come to the conclusion," she went on, smoothing her skirt about her knees, "that it is most indecent and wholly improper even to think of marrying a man who does not love you and whom you do not love."
The Duchess closed her eyes.
"Anne, what have you been reading?" she murmured.
"Not a thing," Anne went on. "I never did read half enough. I'm simply acting by instinct. Julien and I were engaged for three months and at the end of that time we were complete strangers. The idea of marrying a stranger was not attractive to me. Let that go. Julien went. Along came Samuel—"
"We will not talk about Mr. Harbord," the Duchess interposed hastily.
"Oh, yes, we will! Now so far as Julien was concerned," Anne continued, "I dare say I should have smothered my feelings because there is nothing revolting about him. He is quite an attractive person, and physically everything to be desired. But when it came to a man who was not a gentleman, whose manners were odious, who offended my taste every time he opened his mouth—why, you see, the thing couldn't be thought of! Day by day it got worse. Towards the end he began to try and put his hands on me. That made me think. That's why I came to Paris."
"Anne," the Duchess declared severely, "you are indecent!"
"On the contrary," Anne insisted, "I think it was the most decent thing I ever did. Now please listen. I will not come back to England, I will not marry Julien, I will not think of or discuss the subject of marriage with any one. I am a free person and I haven't the least intention of spending my life moping. I am going to have a pleasant time and I am going to have it in my own way. You have two other daughters, mother—Violet and Lucy. Unless they change, they are exactly what you would have them. Be satisfied. Devote your energies to them and count me a black sheep. You can make me a little allowance, if you like—a hundred a year or so—but whether I have it or not, I am either going to make bows in Mademoiselle Rignaut's workshop, or I am going to be secretary to a very delightful lady—a Mrs. Christophor, or something of the sort."
The Duchess rose—she had an idea that she was more dignified standing.
"Anne," she said, "I am your mother. Not only that, but I ask you to remember who you are. The women of England look for an example to us. They look to us to live regular and law-abiding lives, to be dutiful wives and mothers. You are behaving like a creature from an altogether different world. You speak openly of things I have never permitted mentioned. I ask you to reflect. Do you owe nothing to me? Do you owe nothing to your father, to our position?"
"A great deal, mother," Anne replied, "but I owe more to myself than to any one else in the world."
The Duchess felt hopeless. She looked toward Julien.
"There is so much of this foolish sort of talk about," she complained. "It all comes of making friends with socialists and labor people, and having such terrible nonsense printed in the reviews. What are we to do, Julien? Can't you persuade Anne? I am sure that she is really fond of you."
"I wouldn't attempt to influence her for a single moment," Julien declared. "I won't say whether I think she is right or wrong. On the whole, I am inclined to think that she is right."
"You, too, desert me!" the Duchess exclaimed.
"Well, it all depends upon one's conception of happiness, of course,"Julien replied, "but so far as I am concerned, let me tell you that theidea of a girl like Anne married to an insufferable bounder likeHarbord, just because he's got millions of money, simply made me boil."
Anne, for some reason or other, was looking quite pleased.
"I am so glad to know you felt like that, Julien. It's really the nicest thing you've said to me all the morning. Well, that's over now. Mother, why don't you give us some lunch and take the four o'clock train back? It's the Calais train, which I know you always prefer."
The Duchess reflected for a moment. There were advantages in lunching at the Ritz with Julien on one side of her and Anne on the other. She gave a little sigh and consented.
The luncheon in the beautiful restaurant of the Ritz was a meal after the Duchess's own heart. She was at home here and received the proper amount of attention. Not only that, but many acquaintances—mostly foreign, but a few English—paused at her table to pay their respects. To every one of these she carefully introduced her daughter and Sir Julien. The situation was not without its embarrassments. Lady Anne, however, dissipated them by an unaffected fit of laughter.
"Mother thinks she is putting everything quite right by lending us the sanctity of her presence," she declared. "We have been seen lunching at the Ritz. After this, who shall say that I ran away from home to meet a riding master in Paris, or some other disreputable person? I may perhaps be pitied as the victim of a hopeless infatuation for you, Julien, but for the rest, if we only sit here long enough I shall be whitewashed."
The Duchess was a little uneasy.
"I must say, Anne," she protested, "that you seem to have developed a great deal of levity during the last few days. It's not a subject to be alluded to so lightly. Ah! now let me tell you who this is. A wonderfully interesting person, I can assure you. She was born in Paris of American parents, very wealthy indeed, married when quite young to Prince Falkenberg, and separated from him within two years. They say that she lives a queer, half Bohemian sort of life now, but she is still a great person when she chooses. My dear Princess!"
Madame Christophor, who had entered the room on her way to a luncheon party, paused for a moment and shook hands. Then she recognized Julien.
"Really," she murmured, "this is most unexpected. My dear Duchess, you have quite deserted Paris. Is this your daughter—Lady Anne? I scarcely remember her. And yet—"
"We met yesterday," Lady Anne interrupted promptly. "You know, I want to be your secretary, Madame Christophor, if you will let me. My mother has entirely cast me off, so it doesn't matter."
The Duchess made a most piquant gesture. It was really an insufferable position, but she was determined to remain graceful.
"My dear Madame Christophor," she said, "you have no grown-up children, of course, so I cannot ask for your sympathy. But I have a daughter here who is giving me a great deal of trouble. I flatter myself that I have modern views of life, but Anne—well, I won't discuss her."
Madame Christophor smiled.
"Young people are different nowadays, Duchess," she remarked. "If Lady Anne really wants to come into life on her own, why not? She can be my secretary if she chooses. I shall pay her just as much as I should any one else, and I shall send her away if she is not satisfactory. There are a great many young people nowadays, Duchess," she continued, "in very much your daughter's position, who do these odd things. I always think that it is better not to stand in their way. Sir Julien, I want to speak to you before you leave this restaurant. I have something important to say."
The Duchess was a little taken aback. To her it seemed a social cataclysm, something unheard of, that her daughter should propose to be any one's secretary. Yet this woman, who was certainly of her own order, had accepted the thing as entirely natural—had dismissed it, even, with a few casual remarks. Julien, who since Madame Christophor's arrival had been standing in his place, was somewhat perplexed.
"You are lunching here?" he asked.
"With the Servian Minister's wife. I shall excuse myself early. It is a vital necessity that we talk for a few minutes before you leave here. Five minutes ago I sent a note to your rooms."
"I shall be at your service," Julien replied slowly.
"I shall expect you in the morning," Madame Christophor said, smiling at Lady Anne. "Don't be later than ten o'clock. I am always at home after four, Duchess, if you are spending any time in Paris," she added.
They watched her as she passed to the little group who were awaiting her arrival. She was certainly one of the most elegant women in the room. Lady Anne looked after her with a faint frown.
"I wonder," she murmured, "if I shall like Madame Christophor?"
"I had no idea, Julien," the Duchess remarked, "that you were friendly with her."
Julien evaded the question.
"At any rate," he said, turning to Anne, "this will be better for you than making bows."
"I suppose so," she assented. "All the same, I am very much my own mistress in that dusty little workshop. If Madame Christophor—isn't that the name she chooses to be called by?—becomes exacting, I am not even sure that I shan't regret my bow-making."
"Tell me exactly how long you have known her, Julien!" the Duchess persisted.
"Since my arrival in Paris this time," Julien answered. "I had—well, a sort of introduction to her."
"She is received everywhere," the Duchess continued, "because I know she visits at the house of the Comtesse Deschelles, who is one of the few women in Paris of the old faction who are entirely exclusive. At the same time, I am told that she leads a very retired life now, and is more seen in Bohemia than anywhere. I am not at all sure that it is a desirable association for Anne."
"Well, you can leave off troubling about that," Anne said. "Remember, however much we make believe, I have really shaken the dust of respectability off my feet. Hamilton Place knows me no longer. I am a dweller in the byways. Even if I come back, it will be as a stranger. People will be interested in me, perhaps, as some one outside their lives. 'That strange daughter of the poor dear Duchess, you know,' they will say, 'who ran away to Paris! Some terrible affair. No one knows the rights of it.' Can't you hear it all? They will be kind to me, of course, but I shan't belong. Alas!"
The Duchess was studying her bill and wondering how much to tip the waiter. She only answered absently.
"My dear Anne, you are talking quite foolishly. I wish I knew," she added plaintively, a few minutes later, "what you have been reading or whom you have been meeting lately."
"Don't bother about me," Anne begged. "What you want to do now is to tell Parkins to pack up your things and I'll come and see you off by the four o'clock train. Julien must wait outside for my future employer. What I really think is going to happen is that she's going to ask for my character. Julien, be merciful to me! Remember that above all things I have always been respectable. Remind her that if I were too intelligent I should probably rob her of her secrets or money or something. I am really a most machine-like person. Nature meant me to be secretary to a clever woman, and my handwriting—don't forget my handwriting. Nothing so clear or so rapid has ever been seen."
The Duchess signed her bill, slightly undertipped the waiter and accepted his subdued thanks with a gracious smile.
"I can see," she said, as they left the room, "that I shall have to wash my hands of you. Nevertheless, I shall not lose hope."
She shook hands solemnly with Julien, and he performed a like ceremony with Lady Anne.
"When shall I see you again?" he asked the latter.
"You had better question Madame Christophor concerning my evenings out," she replied. "It is not a matter I know much about. I am sure you are quite welcome to any of them."
Julien found a seat in the broad passageway. Several acquaintances passed to and fro whom so far as possible he avoided. Madame Christophor came at last. She was the centre of the little party who were on their way into the lounge. When she neared Julien, however, she paused and made her adieux. He rose and waited for her expectantly.
"We are to talk here?" he asked.
She nodded.
"In that corner."
She pointed to a more retired spot. He followed her there.
"Order some coffee," she directed.
He obeyed her and they were promptly served. She waited, chatting idly of their luncheon party, of the coincidence of meeting with the Duchess, until they were entirely freed from observation. Then she leaned towards him.
"Sir Julien," she said, "I have read your articles, the first and the second. You are a brave man."
He smiled.
"Are you going to warn me once more against Herr Freudenberg?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"If you do not know your danger," she continued, "you would be too great a fool to be worth warning. Remember that Freudenberg came from Berlin as fast as express trains and his racing-car could bring him, the moment he read the first."
"I have already had a brief but somewhat unpleasant interview with him," Julien remarked.
"I congratulate you," she went on. "Unpleasant interviews with Herr Freudenberg generally end differently. Now listen to me. I have a proposition to make. There is one house in Paris where you will be safe—mine. I offer you its shelter. Come there and finish your work."
Julien made no reply. He sipped his coffee for a moment. Then he turned slowly round.
"Madame Christophor," he said, "once you told me that you disliked and distrusted all men. Why, then, should I trust you?"
She winced a little, but her tone when she answered him was free of offense.
"Why should you, indeed?" she replied. "Yet you should remember that the man against whose cherished schemes your articles are directed is the man whom I have more cause to hate than any other in the world."
"Herr Freudenberg," he murmured.
"Prince Adolf Rudolf von Falkenberg," she corrected him. "Do you know the story of my married life?"
"I have never heard it," he told her.
"I will spare you the details," she continued. "My husband married me with the sole idea of using my house, my friends, my social position here for the furtherance of his schemes. Under my roof I discovered meetings of spies, spies paid to suborn the different services in this country—the navy, the army, the railway works. When I protested, he laughed at me. He made no secret of his ambitions. He is the sworn and inveterate enemy of your country. His feeling against France is a slight thing in comparison with his hatred of England. For the last ten years he has done nothing but scheme to humiliate her. When I discovered to what purpose my house was being put, I bade him leave it. I bade him choose another hotel, and when he saw that I was in earnest, he obeyed. It is one of the conditions of our separation that he does not cross my threshold. That is why I say, Sir Julien, that you have nothing to fear in accepting the shelter of my roof."
"Madame Christophor," Julien said earnestly, "I am most grateful for your offer. At the same time, I honestly do not believe that I have anything to fear anywhere. Herr Freudenberg has made one attempt upon me and has failed. I do not think that he is likely to risk everything by any open assaults. In these civilized days of the police, the telephone and the law courts, one is not so much at the mercy of a strong man as in the old days. I do not fear Herr Freudenberg."
Madame Christophor shrugged her shoulders.
"My friend," she admitted, "I admire your courage, but listen. You say that one attempt has already been made to silence you. For every letter you write, there will be another made. At each fresh one, these creatures of Herr Freudenberg's will have learned more cunning. In the end they are bound to succeed. Why risk your life? I offer my house as a sanctuary. There is no need for you to pass outside it. You could take the exercise you require in my garden, which is bounded by four of the highest walls in Paris. You can sit in a room apart from the rest of the house, with three locked doors between you and the others. You may write there freely and without fear."
Julien smiled.
"I am afraid it is my stupidity," he said, "but I cannot possibly bring myself to believe in the existence of any danger. I will promise you this, if I may. If any further attempt should be made upon me, any attempt which came in the least near being successful, I will remember your offer. For the present my mind is made up. I shall remain where I am."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Ingrate!"
"Not that, by any means," he assured her heartily. "You know that I am grateful. You know that if I refuse for the moment your offer it is not because I mistrust you. I simply feel that I should be taking elaborate precautions which are quite unnecessary."
"I might even spare you," she remarked, smiling, "Lady Anne for your secretary."
"Even that inducement," he answered steadily, "does not move me."
She sighed.
"You will have your own way," she said, "and yet there is something rather sad about it. I know so much more of this Paris than you. I know so much more of Herr Freudenberg. Remember that there are a quarter of a million Germans in this city, and of that quarter of a million at least twenty thousand belong to one or the other of the secret societies with which the city abounds. All of them are different in tone, but they all have at the end of their programme the cause of the Fatherland. By this time you will have been named to them as its enemy. Twenty thousand of them, my friend, and not a scruple amongst the lot!"
He moved in his place a little restlessly.
"One does not fight in these ways nowadays," he protested.
"Pig-headed Englishman!" she murmured. "You to say that, too!"
His thoughts flashed back to those few moments of vivid life in his own rooms. He thought of Freudenberg's calm perseverance. An uncomfortable feeling seized him.
"I do not know," she went on, leaning a little towards him, "why I should interest myself in you at all."
"Why do you, then?" he asked, looking at her suddenly.
She played with the trifles that hung from her chatelaine. He watched for the raising of her eyes, but he watched in vain. She did not return his inquiring look.
"Never mind," she said, "I have warned you. It is for you to act as you think best. If you change your mind, come to me. I will give you sanctuary at any time. Take me to my automobile, please."
He obeyed her and watched her drive off. Then he went slowly and unmolested back to his rooms.
The concierge of Julien's apartments issued with a somewhat mysterious air from his little lodge as his tenant passed through the door. He was a short man with a fierce, bristling moustache. He wore a semi-military coat, always too short for him, and he was so stout that he was seldom able to fasten more than two of the buttons of his waistcoat.
"Monsieur!"
"What is it, Pierre?" Julien asked. "Any callers for me?"
"There have been callers, indeed, monsieur," Pierre replied, "callers whose errand I do not quite understand. They asked many questions concerning monsieur. When they had finished, the man—bah! he was a German!—he thrust into my hand a hundred franc note. He said, 'No word of this to Monsieur Sir Julien!' I put the note into the bottom of my trousers pocket, but I made no response. I am not dishonorable. I keep the note because these men should think me craven enough to give them information, to hear their questions, and to say nothing to monsieur, one of my own lodgers! It was an insult, that. Therefore I keep the hundred franc note. Therefore I tell monsieur all that these two men did ask."
"You showed," Julien declared, "a rare and excellent discretion.Proceed."
"They asked questions, monsieur, on every conceivable subject," Pierre continued. "Their interest in your doings was amazing. They asked what meals you took in the house, at what hour you went out and at what hour you returned. Then the shorter of the two wished to take the room above yours. I asked him more than double the price, but he would have engaged it. Then I told him that I was not sure. There was a gentleman to whom it was offered. They come back this afternoon to know the result."
"If they find a lodging in this house," Julien said, "I fear that I must leave."
"It shall be," Pierre decided, "as monsieur wishes. I am not to be tempted with money when it comes to a question of retaining an old tenant. The room is let to another. It is finished."
Julien climbed the stairs thoughtfully to his apartments, locked himself in and sat down before his desk. For an hour or more he worked. Then there came a timid knock at the door. He looked around, frowning. After a moment's hesitation he affected not to notice the summons, and continued his work. The knocking came again, however, low but persistent. Julien rose to his feet, turned the key and opened the door.
"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, genuinely surprised.
It was Mademoiselle Ixe who glided past him into the room. She signed to him to close the door. He did so, and turning slowly faced her. She was standing a few yards away, her lips a little parted, pale notwithstanding the delicately artistic touch of coloring upon her cheeks. Her hands were crossed upon the jade top of her lace parasol. In her muslin gown and large hat she formed a very effective picture as she stood there with her eyes now fixed upon Julien.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "I do not quite understand."
"Look outside," she begged. "See that there is no one there. I am so afraid that I might have been followed."
Julien stepped out onto the landing and returned.
"There is no one about at all," he assured her.
She drew a little sigh.
"But it is rash, this! Monsieur Sir Julien, you are glad—you are pleased to see me? Make me one of your pretty speeches at once or I shall go."
"But, mademoiselle," Julien said, wheeling a chair towards her, "who indeed could be anything but glad to see you at any time? Yet forgive me if I am stupid. Tell me why you have come to see me this afternoon and why you are afraid that you are followed?"
"Why?" she murmured, looking up into his eyes. "Ah, Monsieur SirJulien, it is hard indeed to tell you that!"
Mademoiselle Ixe was without doubt an extraordinarily pretty young woman. She was famous even in Paris for her figure, her looks, the perfection of her clothes, the daintiness and distinction of those small adjuncts to her toilette so dear to the heart of a Parisienne. Julien looked at her and sighed.
"Perhaps, mademoiselle," he said, "you will find it hard also to tell me whether you come of your own accord or at the instigation of Herr Freudenberg?"
She looked genuinely hurt. Julien, however, was merciless.
"It is, perhaps, because Herr Freudenberg has told you that I once lost great things through trusting a woman that you think to find me an easy victim?" he went on. "Come, am I to give you those sheets over there," he added, pointing to his writing-table, "and promise for your sake never to write another line, or have you more serious designs?"
"Monsieur Julien," she faltered,—
He suddenly changed his tone.
"Am I cruel?" he asked. "Forgive me, mademoiselle—forgive me,Marguerite."
She held out her delicately gloved hand towards him; her face she turned a little away and one gathered that there were tears in her eyes which she did not wish him to see.
"Take off my glove, please," she whispered. "I did not think you would be so cruel even for a moment."
He took her fingers in his, fingers which promptly returned his pressure. His right arm stole around her.
"Monsieur Sir Julien," she continued very softly, "please promise that you will speak to me no more now of Herr Freudenberg. Tell me that you are glad I have come. Say some more of those pretty things that you whispered to me in the Rat Mort."
His arm tightened about her. She was powerless.
"Julien!" she murmured.
He laughed quietly. Suddenly she struggled to escape from him.
"Let me go!" she cried. "Sir Julien, but you are rough. Monsieur!"
He flung her from him back into the chair. In his left hand he held the pistol he had taken from the bosom of her gown—a dainty little affair of ivory and silver. He turned it over curiously. She lay back in the chair where he had thrown her, gripping its sides with tremulous fingers, her eyes deep-set, distended, staring at him. He thrust the weapon into his pocket.
"Really," he said, "I thought better of Herr Freudenberg. Why doesn't he come himself?"
"Oh, he will come!" she answered.
"Will he?" Julien replied. "I should have thought better of him if he had come first, instead of sending a woman to do his work."
She sat up in the chair. Julien had known well how to rouse her.
"You do not think that he is afraid?" she cried. "Afraid of you? Bah! For the rest, it was I who insisted on coming. He was troubled. I knew why. I said to myself, 'It is a risk I will take. I will go to Sir Julien's rooms. I will shoot him. I will pretend that it was a love affair. I will go into court all with tears, I will wear my prettiest clothes, nothing indeed will happen. An affair of jealousy—a moment of madness. One takes account of these things. Then Herr Freudenberg himself has great friends here, friends in high places. He will see that nothing happens.'"
"A very pretty scheme," Julien remarked sarcastically. "Supposing, however, I turn the tables upon you, mademoiselle. You are here and I have taken away this little plaything. Would Herr Freudenberg be jealous if he knew, I wonder?"
She glanced at the door.
"Locked," Julien continued grimly. "Do you still wish me to come and make pretty speeches to you?" he added. "You are certainly looking very charming, mademoiselle. Your gown is exquisite. What can I do more than echo what all Paris has said—that there is no one of her daughters more bewitching? Can you wonder if I lose my head a little when I find you here with me in my rooms—a visit, too, of pure affection?"
She rose to her feet. The patch of color upon her cheeks had become more vivid.
"You will let me go?" she faltered.
Julien unlocked the door.
"Mademoiselle," he answered, "I shall most certainly let you go. Permit me to thank you for the pleasure which your brief visit has afforded me."
The door was opened before her. Julien stood on one side. The smile with which he dismissed her was half contemptuous, half kindly. Upon the threshold she hesitated.
"Sir Julien!"
"Mademoiselle Ixe?"
"If there were no Herr Freudenberg," she whispered, "if it were not my evil fortune, Monsieur Sir Julien, to love him so foolishly, so absolutely, so that every moment of separation is full of pain, every other man like a figure in a dream—if it were not for this, Monsieur Sir Julien, I do not think that I should like to leave you so easily!"
Julien made no reply. She passed out with a little sigh. He heard the flutter of her laces and draperies as she crossed the passage and commenced the descent of the stairs. Julien was closing the door when he heard a familiar voice and a heavy footstep. Kendricks, with a Gladstone bag in his hand, came bustling up.
"Julien, you dog," he exclaimed savagely, "you're at it again! Why the devil can't you keep these women at arm's length? What has that pretty little creature of Herr Freudenberg's been doing here?"
Julien laughed as he closed the door.
"Don't be a fool, David! She wasn't here at my invitation."
"Tears in her eyes!" Kendricks muttered. "Sobbing to herself as she went down the steps! Crocodile's tears, I know. These d—d women, Julien! Out with it. What did she come for?"
Julien produced the pistol from his pocket.
"It was," he explained, "her amiable intention to please her lord and master at the slight expense of my life. Fortunately, the game was a new one to her and she kept on feeling the bosom of her gown to see whether the pistol was there still."
"What did you do?" Kendricks demanded.
"What was there for me to do?" Julien replied. "I took her little toy away and told her to run off. This is the second time, David. Estermen and Freudenberg have had a shy at me here themselves, and they'd have gotten me all right but for an accident. I won't tell you what the accident was, for the moment, owing to your peculiar prejudices. How are things in London?"
Kendricks threw himself into an easy-chair and began to fill his pipe.
"Julien," he declared, "you've done the trick! I'm proud of my advice, proud of the result. There isn't a club or an omnibus or a tube or a public-house where that letter of yours isn't being talked about. They tell me it's the same here. Have you seen the German papers?"
"Not one."
"Never was such a thunderbolt launched," Kendricks continued. "They are all either stupefied or hysterical. Freudenberg left Berlin an hour after he saw the article. You tell me you've met him already?"
"Yes, he's been here," Julien replied. "He offered to make me a Croesus if I'd stop the letters. When I refused, well, we had a scuffle, and by Jove, they nearly got me! He means to wipe me out."
"We'll see about that!" Kendricks muttered. "I'm not going to leave your side till we're through with this little job."
"Madame Christophor suggested that I should go there and finish,"Julien said. "What do you think of that?"
"Madame Fiddlesticks!" Kendricks retorted angrily. "The wife ofFalkenberg! Do you want to walk into the lion's jaws?"
"She is separated from her husband," Julien reminded him. "My own impression is that she hates him."
"I'd never believe it," Kendricks insisted. "The fellow has the devil's own way with these women. Look at that little wretch I met on the stairs. A harmless, flirting little opera singer a year ago. Now she'd come here and murder a man against whom she hasn't the slightest grudge, for his sake. I tell you the fellow's got an unwholesome influence over every one with whom he comes in contact."
"Have you read to-day's letter?" Julien asked abruptly.
"Read it! Man alive, it made the heart jump inside me! I tell you it's set the war music dancing wherever a dozen men have come together. I always thought you had a pretty gift as a maker of phrases, Julien, but I never knew you dipped your pen in the ink of the immortals. I tell you no one doubts anything you have written. That's the genius of it. No one denies it, no one attempts arguments, every one in England and France whose feelings have been ruffled is already wanting to shake hands all over again. One sees that giant figure, the world's mischief-maker, suddenly caught at his job. It's gorgeous! How about number four?"
"Half written," Julien declared, pointing to his table.
Kendricks went to the door and locked it, went to the cupboard and brought out the whiskey and soda, undid his Gladstone bag, buttoned a life preserver on his left wrist, and laid a Mauser pistol on the table by the side of him.
"Julien," he said, "I feel like the biggest ass unhung, but I am here with my playthings to be watchdog. Get to your desk and write, man. One drink first. Come."
They raised their glasses.
"What have you called number three?" Kendricks asked.
"'A Maker of Toys!'" Julien replied.
"Here's damnation to him!" Kendricks said, raising the glass to his lips. "Now get to work, Julien."