With the many details of the evening that Paul spent, I will not weary
you, dear reader. Wandering about the boulevards he went, like one
walking in a dream, at times stopping to rest at some quiet table
apart from the throng of merry-makers, entirely disregardful of the
laughing faces, the friendly glances that now and then searched him
out. Like a canker worm misery gnawed at his heart.
He stopped at a cable office and despatched to his mother, the Lady
Henrietta, a message which, though she knew it not, was pregnant with
meaning.
"Delayed indefinitely in Paris."
Paul wondered afterward, as he sat quietly sipping his coffee in a
small _café_, that in the little breast of one mortal there could be
such room for infinite wretchedness. Within his heart that night was
nothing but darkness and pain. He felt as though his very heart was
breaking and bleeding. The sweat lay cold upon his brow and he sighed
deeply.
Alas it was all true. He loved her, though she loved him not; he gave
her all, and she gave him nothing; and yet he could not part from her.
He could not help his unlucky passion.
Contrary to his wont, he did not, as he sat alone, dream his way back
into the past. He looked rather into the mystic haze of the future,
and heard not the confused sound of the voices of men and women, nor
the gay music which filled the place.
Paul, after all, was no seer. As to what the outcome would be, all the
dreaming he might do would tell him nothing. He rose and proceeded to
his _hôtel_.
* * * * *
But to return for a moment to the source of Paul's unhappiness. He
might not have been so wretched as he sat in the little _café_ could
he have seen her in her boudoir, now weeping with wild uncontrollable
sobs, now smiling radiantly through her tears.
For Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch was at once the happiest and the
most miserable of women. She had taken advantage of the privilege of
her sex when she feigned to doubt Paul's fervent declaration that
afternoon. She _did_ believe him. Her keen feminine instinct told her
that his simple "I love you" were not the idle words she pretended to
think them.
And yet with the joy of being loved by the one who was the dearest to
her own heart came also the crushing remembrance of the dreadful
barrier by which she was forever shut from happiness. However, the
indomitable will of her proud ancestry finally asserted itself. She
sat down at her dainty writing table, and in a steady hand she wrote:
"I am going away to-morrow, and I may never see you again. When
this reaches you I shall be gone. Whether we meet again sometime
will depend upon many things. As for those which concern me, I
cannot write you now. And you? Can you not imagine obstacles for
yourself? Has it not occurred to you, even now, that I--a strange
woman--may be many things you had not, at first, dreamed of?
There are those, as you must surely know, whose business it is to
roam about the centers of Europe. And for what purpose? None know
their missions, or what master they may serve, except the one
whose will they implicitly obey. You have told me that you love
me. Are you sure, my friend, that that would not all be changed
if I were some one--something--that I seemed not? Think well over
this, I pray you. It may mean much to me.
"Meanwhile do not try to find me, for I shall be hidden far
away. Some day, perhaps, you may know all."
When Paul received this letter the following morning it was almost
more than he could bear. How could she have misjudged him so! A
longing seized him to find her--in spite of her charge. The situation
was unendurable--he must seek her out and convince her that it was
she herself alone that mattered. What was position to him? He had
position. He was endowed with worldly goods. And he could marry whom
he chose. He looked at the note again.
What could she mean?
Ah! he had it! She was a secret agent--there was no doubt--working
probably in the service of the Dalmatian government. Well, for all
that Paul cared nothing. The only course of action open to him was to
follow her, to the ends of the world, if need be.
He would convince her--she _must_ be convinced--and then, he hoped,
all would be well. She cared for him, somewhat--the tone of the letter
seemed to show that--though she tried to conceal it, evidently. The
Countess was expected back that day--he would seek her help.
Paul wasted no time. Another hour found him at the Dalmatian Embassy,
face to face with the Countess Oreshefski, who was instantly all
sympathy as she noted his agitation.
"My dear lady," he said to her, "you will not think it strange, I
hope, if I ask your help in a matter of great importance to me?"
"What is it, Sir Paul? You know that if I can be of assistance to you
in any way it will make me only too happy." And the Countess regarded
him with a tender look.
Paul had a strange attraction for women, as I have said, and this fine
woman, having lost her only son--Paul's own age--many years before,
had always felt a mother's interest in him.
"You are very kind," Paul continued, "and I will be quite frank with
you. I shall have to presume upon your good nature to ask your advice
and help once more. To come to the point at once: Yesterday, here in
your house, I told Mademoiselle Vseslavitch that I loved her. To-day
she is gone,--where I do not know." Paul looked at his companion with
appealing eyes.
"My dear friend!" the Countess exclaimed, with truly feminine
irrelevancy, "I am delighted. I would not be a woman if I were not
always ready to enlist in the cause of a lover. And as for helping
you, I would do anything for Sir Paul Verdayne which lay in my power.
You want to find her at once?" she asked him.
"Yes, Madame."
"Then you are going to Russia--to-day, if I read your face rightly.
Well, it is a long journey. I will tell you in two words where to find
her--near Kieff. Go to that city; from there a ride of some fifty
miles across country awaits you--to the Vseslavitch estate. Everyone
in Kieff knows the place. You will have no great difficulty finding
it--beyond the inevitable discomforts of travel in that corner of the
world. But what are hardships to a man in love?" And she smiled at
Paul in a manner so infectious that he already felt his spirits
rising.
"You are too kind, my dear lady!" he exclaimed. "You are a real
fairy-god-mother. See, with your magic wand you have touched the
mountain in my path--and it is gone. And now, god-mother," he said,
almost gaily, "tell me--who is this beautiful lady?"
"Ah! that you must learn from her own lips. Simply Mademoiselle
Vseslavitch she must be to you until she wills it otherwise." She
laughed as she read the sudden disappointment written on Paul's face.
"You remember the old tale of the knight whose kiss transformed the
beggar-maid into a king's daughter? Some such method I would suggest,
perhaps."
"But I've tried that already!" Paul almost said. But he caught himself
in the nick of time.
"How can I ever thank you enough?" he said as he rose to go. "You saw
Mademoiselle yourself before she went?" he asked.
"No. She left hurriedly this morning, very early, before my return. My
maid told me that she had gone back to her home."
With grateful words Paul made his adieu and hurried away. The door had
scarcely closed behind him when a footman entered the morning-room. In
his hand he carried a small tray--and on it there lay a letter.
"A note which Mademoiselle Vseslavitch directed me to give you,
Madame," he said.
The Countess opened it.
"DEAR LADY:
"I am going home. Forgive my seeming rudeness. You know my
moods too well, I think, not to understand that I have
suddenly felt the call of the _steppe_. And I charge you, my
old friend, as you love me, tell no one of my whereabouts.
Ever your devoted
"NATALIE."
That was all.
"This note, François--why was it not given me before?" she asked the
footman sharply.
"Ah, pardon Madame--they did not tell me you had returned until just
now. And Mademoiselle charged me to deliver it to you with my own
hands."
The Countess motioned him away. Had she been indiscreet to take Sir
Paul so quickly into her confidence? It was still not too late,
probably, for a messenger to catch him at the _Hôtel du Rhin_ before
he left. He was too much a gentleman, she knew, not to consider as
unsaid the information she had given him, if she asked it of him.
"_Pouf_!" she exclaimed, with a shrug. "This is but the whim of a girl
who does not know her own mind. Come--I will be a consistent fatalist.
The affair is out of my hands. After all, it is just what I have long
wished--though I never dreamed for such good fortune as that it would
be Sir Paul Verdayne. She'll simply have to forgive me"--and the
Countess smilingly hummed an old Dalmatian love-song as she left the
room.
Meanwhile, Paul paced the floor of his sitting-room impatiently while
Baxter packed his luggage. A strange exultation moved him, and he
dreamt of joy and love. To him, his dreams were more than mere
bubbles--before his eyes lay all the glory of the earth, and a whole
Heaven besides. Ah! if the good god-mother could only have endowed him
with seven-leagued boots! He could scarcely wait for the long journey
to be finished. And it had not yet begun.
"Hurry, Baxter!" he called, as he looked again at his watch. And
Baxter, thinking of the pretty _femme de chambre_, once more was
tempted to give notice.