When Paul stepped down from a railway-carriage in the _Gare de l'Est_
in Paris two days later, his language had improved slightly. But he
was still cursing himself for a consummate ass.
Baxter, who had received instructions to meet him, relieved him of his
travelling bag, and a taximeter cab, whisking him quickly to the
_Place Vendôme_, soon deposited him at the _Hôtel du Rhin._
As for the Russian lady, Paul was a bit discouraged over the
adventure. Langres and Paris were two entirely different places. What
chance had he of finding her here?
He confessed to himself that it was not a promising undertaking, yet
sooner or later everyone came to Paris. Here he was, and here would he
stay, for a time at least. Perhaps,--who knew?--he might find her more
easily than he dared hope. And from his apartments he looked out over
the tree-tops.
The sight of miles and miles of chimney pots were not at all
reassuring.
"Well! I'll never find her, mooning away up here," he thought. "I'll
go down to dinner--and then for a plan of action."
That night he went to the theatre, but his thoughts were not for the
elegantly gowned daughters of respectable _bourgeoises_ who disported
themselves for his amusement. What if they did play the parts of grand
duchesses better than those great ladies themselves know how? Only one
woman on earth interested Paul. And--confound his luck!--he did not
know where in this great town he could find her.
Our Paul was not in a particularly pleasant frame of mind when he
strolled out upon the pavement--not waiting even for the piece to end.
Another hour spent at a boulevard table impressed him as the height of
stupidity. He chafed under the enforced inaction of the situation.
"How many more wasted hours must he endure?" he asked himself.
He saw them slowly stretching out before him--days into months--months
into years--years into eternity. Ah! God! that must not be!
* * * * *
And while Paul was wondering, speculating over what seemed well-nigh
impossible, the lights of the Dalmatian Embassy in the _Faubourg St.
Germain_ gleamed brightly out upon the asphalt pavement.
In a sitting room on one of the upper floors sat Natalie Vseslavitch
and the wife of the Ambassador. The guests of the evening had gone,
and they were having one of those little, intimate ante-retiring chats
so dear to the hearts of all women.
"Now, my dear," the elder lady was saying, "I insist that it is high
time you were married. It is ridiculous for a charming girl like you
to take the stand you have. Let me see--you're thirty now--and not a
single man will you encourage--scarcely tolerate--except a few
grey-beards like my own good husband."
Natalie feigned gay laughter, though a bitter pang shot through her
heart at the unconscious stab of the good Countess.
"Just because you fell in love," she replied, "you expect me to do the
same at will. I repeat to you, as to all the rest, I would not give a
_kopeck_ for any man I have ever met. _Pouf_! they do not interest me.
Look! my adored one, I warn you that I shall prove a most intractable
guest if you attempt to inveigle me into any alliance. Ah! you look
guilty already! You see, I know you of old, you dear maker of
marriages!"
The Countess reddened slightly at the charge, but laughed away her
momentary embarrassment. It was true her interest in her young
companion had led her to manage _rencontres_ with various eligibles of
the Countess's acquaintance, and she had already in mind two or three
new possibilities--men prominent in the younger diplomatic set.
"Ah, well! you pretty little incorrigible!" the Countess sighed, "some
day you will thank your dear old friend for sheltering you under the
wings of her experience."
And thus they said good-night affectionately and parted--Madame to
plan some new way of entrapping her charming friend into matrimony;
Natalie to fall into a deep study as she prepared for the night.
The subject of her thoughts, she felt sure, could no longer be in
Langres. Fortunately, one can shift his thought-scenes around the
world in a twinkling. Paul, on the other hand, had spent some seven
dragging hours on his journey to Paris.
The next morning as she glanced over the columns of the _Matin_, the
Countess exclaimed:
"_Voila_! Sir Paul Verdayne is at the _Hôtel du Rhin._ You are too
young to have known him, my dear. Those sad years you were fortunately
away at the Convent." And the kind-hearted old lady's eyes filled at
the remembrance of Paul's sad story. "A charming man, truly. I shall
send him a note at once, asking him to dine with us to-night--we need
one more, and he is the very person. It is some years since I have
seen him, but in London he came often to the Embassy."
The elder lady did not perceive the somewhat startled look on the face
of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch.
"I shall have him take you in to dinner, my dear," she continued. "He
is most charming company when he wishes to be, I assure you."
"Oh, Countess, no!" the young woman cried. "Let some one else have
your wonderful Englishman. Good old Baron Lancret will amuse me
sufficiently, my dear."
"Ah, but no. The dear soul has grown quite deaf since you last saw
him. I can not think of allowing it. Be a good child now. This is no
plot. Sir Paul is an incurable misogynist--the only man I know who
would not fall in love with you. See! your old friend is doing her
best to provide you with an ideal dinner-partner. What more could you
wish? It is settled."
And a servant was promptly dispatched to the _Hôtel du Rhin_.
* * * * *
"Do the Count and myself the favor to dine with us this evening,"
Paul read when he opened the note. "You will not have forgotten your
old friends of a half-dozen years ago? We shall be charmed to see you
again--and I shall expect you without fail."
Well, he had no engagement for that night--and Paul sent back a polite
note of acceptance. He remembered many pleasant functions that he had
attended in years past at the Dalmatian Embassy in London. After all,
he had to do something. He could not go about searching for the
vanished lady every moment of the day and night. That much
distraction, at least, he would allow himself.
It was now eleven o'clock. He would wait until _déjeuner_ was over,
and then he would go out somewhere--anywhere--so long as there were
moving crowds of people to furnish some chance of his meeting her
again. Next time, without fail, he would manage a conversation.
That afternoon then he stepped out of the _hôtel_ and engaged a
_fiacre_--a taximeter would be of no use, Paul thought. Tearing
through the streets at break-neck speed annihilated distance rather
than time. He told the driver to take him anywhere he pleased, and
leaned back listlessly as he was piloted slowly through the avenues.
Paris, beautiful Paris, always intoxicated Paul. He had not cared for
it when he was younger. But in those days he was less cosmopolitan
than now. Our insular John Bull sees nothing outside our own tight
little island. But to Paul an awakening had come. Since those
wonderful weeks he had known in Switzerland and Venice--now long years
ago--he had looked out upon the world with different eyes. The
pulsating life of the streets quickened his own blood.
"To the _Bois de Boulogne_!" he directed the _cocher_, finally, and
soon they swung into the gay stream that flowed down the _Avenue du
Bois de Boulogne_ toward the most wonderful pleasure ground in the
world.