When Paul rang the bell at the Dalmatian Embassy the next afternoon it
was with a firm determination to learn more of the Countess's guest.
If she would not tell him about herself, then he would find out from
the wife of the Ambassador.
The Countess had always warmly welcomed Paul, when Count Oreshefski
presided over the legation house in London, and Paul had responded to
her motherly interest by opening his heart to a greater extent even
than to his own mother, the proud Lady Henrietta. For the Countess had
known and loved his Queen--a fact which formed an unalterable bond of
sympathy between them.
Paul wandered about the drawing-room, when the footman had departed
with his card, too restless--too eager--to be seated. In one of his
turns about the room his eyes alighted on an object which instantly
arrested his idle steps. It was a woman's photograph, lying on a small
table, as though placed there by a careless hand and then forgotten. A
tiny object to work such an effect, but it was enough to bring Paul to
a round halt.
There, looking up at him from the card, was the face of the woman he
had come to see--Mademoiselle Vseslavitch. There was a wistful,
touching expression to the pictured face, but it was a remarkably fine
likeness, and Paul glowed with secret joy as he hid it away in his
breast-pocket, murmuring inaudibly to be forgiven for the theft,
but--alas for the cause of honesty--gleefully unrepentant.
He scarcely had time to move from the table, as his ear caught the
rustle of approaching silk, when the fair original of the photograph
entered, alone, and greeted him cordially.
"I am so sorry!" she said, as she held out her hand toward Paul. "The
Countess has been suddenly called to Etampes, where her sister is ill.
I am left to do the honours at the tea-table. You won't mind, I hope?"
Paul expressed himself as sorry to learn of the illness of the
Countess's sister; he did not know the lady. And he spoke the usual
regrets over missing the charming society of the Ambassador's wife.
But there was a light in his eye which denied any great grief. As a
matter of fact, he was overjoyed that he would have the Countess's
guest to himself.
"Come into the library," said Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, "and we will
have the tea things brought in there. It's not too early for you, is
it?"
Paul laughed at the idea of its ever being too early for an
Englishman's tea. Under pressure of work, when Parliament was sitting,
he drank innumerable cups. And even when he was spending his time at
Verdayne Place he always had tea ready to drink between sets of
tennis.
The Verdayne tea was famous all over the countryside. It was a Russian
variety. Paul always steadfastly refused to divulge to anyone--ever
the Vicar's wife--the place where he bought it, and he always had it
prepared in a Russian _samovar_.
Once in the library, a great sombre room to which an open coal fire
lent a cheerful touch, Paul's companion seated herself at a low
tea-table and busied herself with the _samovar_.
"This is Russian tea," she said, smiling. "You may not care for it."
"On the contrary," Paul replied, sipping the steaming amber fluid--"I
always use this same kind at home. One can't fail to detect the
peculiar aromatic flavour which tea retains when it has travelled
overland, but which most of the leaves sold in England lose in coming
by sea."
"This is my own--which I always carry with me," Mademoiselle
Vseslavitch remarked. "We have used no other in our family for many
years."
"And where, Mademoiselle, if I may ask, does this highly
discriminating family reside? Perhaps, in the course of my wanderings
there might come a time when it would be a most important matter for
me to obtain a cup of this truly remarkable brew."
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch laughed mischievously at Paul. She had
motioned him to a chair where the firelight reached his face, whereas
her own was more in shadow. He did not see the amusement in her eyes
when she replied:
"Oh! You can find tea like that in many houses east of the Balkans. It
is really not wonderful at all."
Paul saw that the lady did not care to tell him much of herself, and
he did not venture to press her further just then. But now that the
Countess was not there to question, he felt that he must make some
effort later.
As they sat there the lady talked to him of things in Paris, of the
Luxembourg, the Louvre, Nôtre Dame, the boulevards, and then she
wickedly mentioned the _Bois de Boulogne_. But Paul did not prove very
responsive on that subject. The remembrance of the spectacle he had
presented the afternoon before did not please him.
He knew right well that she was teasing him, though she did not
mention the incident. He almost wished she would--it might give him an
opportunity to say to her the words that he longed to say.
As for Lucerne--or Langres--Mademoiselle nimbly avoided those
spots--it was as if they had no place on her map of Europe. And try as
he could, Paul could not bring himself to mention them.
At last the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him. Suppose he
should boldly recall to Mademoiselle the _rencontre_ in the rustic
tea-house at Lucerne? Clearly, he might commit an unfortunate _faux
pas_ by such a move. No, he dared not speak to her of an incident so
unconventional. He must ignore the fact that he had ever seen her
before, unless she herself mentioned it. It was clear that she would
demand careful wooing. This was a time when he must keep himself well
in hand.
And just as Paul had reached this conclusion something happened--it
was but a little thing--that upset all his well-laid plans.
As the lady held out more tea for Paul and he drew near to take it, he
caught once more, as at Lucerne, the faintest breath of that strange
perfume so dear to his memory. His hand shook with such sudden
agitation that he set the cup upon the table, lest it fall.
The lady looked up quickly at Paul, and as he stood there over her
their eyes met fairly. All skillful fencing was over. The time had
come when the truth must be told.
"Let us drop the mask, Mademoiselle," he said with a slight choke in
his voice. Without warning the thrill of youth had fired his blood and
he cast prudence to the four winds. What mattered conventionality?
What mattered anything? He only knew that he cared more for her than
for all else in the whole world, and he took her hand in his with a
tumultuous heart.
"I love you, dear," he said simply. "You yourself are the beautiful
lady I have sought constantly since that time I first saw you, as I
looked up into the starry skies. At first I thought your eyes also
were stars."
She gazed up at him for a moment, her hand motionless in his, while
neither stirred.
"My heart misgives me!" she said then. "Words are so easily said--they
are often spoken idly--_pour passer le temps_--and soon forgotten. Ah!
Sir Paul! forgive me, I beg of you--if I was mad once. I promise
myself it shall never happen again. It was unfortunate--but there are
things one cannot explain."
"But I love you," Paul repeated.
"Are you sure it is love?" she asked him.
Ah! how well Paul knew now, and he bent toward the face of his dreams.
"No! no! not that!" she said, and rose from her place. "You don't know
what you do. Please go! go! quickly, for I must be alone."
And then as Paul hesitated for an instant, she fled through the heavy
draperies into the room beyond, leaving but a breath of the faint,
sweet perfume to hallow the air.
With heart bowed down Paul passed out through the great doorway, the
words from an old play ringing through his brain:
"She was lovable, and he loved her; but he was not lovable, and she
loved him not."