IN PARIS
For exactly a month Julien disappeared. At the end of that time,
looking very brown, a shade thinner, and possessed of a knowledge of
the older towns of Normandy which would not have disgraced a guidebook,
he arrived one cold, gray morning at the Gare du Nord. During all this
time he had scarcely seen one familiar face. It was an unpleasant shock
for him, as he waited for his baggage in the Customs House, to realize
that he was being watched from behind a pile of trunks by the little
man who had shown so much interest in him at the Café l'Athénée on the
night he had left England. The sight somehow annoyed him. He crossed
the room and accosted his late subordinate.
"What is your name?" he asked coldly. "You are in the Intelligence
Department, I believe?"
"My name is Foster, Sir Julien," the young man replied, after a
moment's hesitation.
"What are you doing over here?"
The young man hesitated.
"You will excuse me, Sir Julien," he said slowly, "but I am responsible
only to the permanent officials in control of my office. Besides,--"
"You can tell me at least how long you have been in Paris?" Julien
interrupted.
"Since the night, Sir Julien, when you came as far as Boulogne."
"May I ask," Julien demanded, "whether I am going to be subject to your
espionage?"
The young man whose name was Foster looked blandly at a pile of luggage
which was just arriving.
"I am not at liberty, Sir Julien," he said, "to explain my
instructions."
Julien shrugged his shoulders.
"Do as you like, of course. At the same time, let me tell you that you
irritate me. Keep out of my sight as much as possible. It will be
better for you."
Julien turned and left him there, declared his luggage, and was driven
to a quiet hotel in the Rue de Rivoli. There he had a bath, changed his
clothes, and strolled up the Champs Élysées towards the Bois. The sun
had come out and the avenue was crowded with automobiles and carriages.
He walked steadily on until he reached the first of the cafés in the
Bois. He took a chair and watched the crowd. A peculiar sensation of
loneliness oppressed him, a loneliness of which he had been scarcely
conscious during this last month's wanderings among the quiet places.
Paris had seemed so different to him on his last visit. He was
surrounded by friends and people who were anxious to become his
friends. He was in charge of a difficult mission which he was conscious
of conducting with skill. Everywhere he was meeting English people of
his own order, all delighted to see him, all pleased with his notice.
His few days in Paris were merely a change in the kaleidoscope from
London. The life--everything else--was the same. This time he was like
a man cast upon a desert island. He sat at his little table, sipping a
glass of vermouth, and conscious that no man in Paris had fewer
friends. The clubs were closed to him, there were no official visits to
pay, no calls to make, no familiar faces to look for. He was a man who
had had his day, a man disgraced, a man in whom the people had lost
faith, who was dead politically and socially. He thought his position
over carefully from every point of view. It was ruin, utter and
complete. He had disclosed a valuable political secret to a woman who
had not hesitated to make use of it. Nothing could be more ignoble. He
tried to fancy for himself some new life under altered conditions, but
everywhere he seemed to run up against some possibility, some
combination of circumstances which included a share in things which
were absolutely finished. His brain refused to fashion for him the
thought of any life which could leave outside everything which had been
of account to him up till now. Even in London, among the working
classes, it might have been easier. He remembered those few vivid
speeches of Kendricks'. What a gift the man had! Always he seemed to
see big things in life smouldering underneath the lives of these
ordinary people--big things unsuspected, invisible. There was nothing
of the sort to be found here. The only Paris Julien had ever known was
closed to him. Paris the vicious repelled him instinctively. He was
here, he had even looked forward to coming, but now that he had arrived
there was nothing for him to do. After all, he had better have found
some far distant corner in Switzerland or Italy. There was no club for
him to go to, no interest in perusing the newspapers, no visits from
ambassadors to think about. The puzzles of his daily life were ended.
There was nothing for him to do where he was but to eat and to drink
and to sleep!
He lunched at a restaurant of which he had never heard before, and
there, to his anger, almost at the next table, he found Foster. With a
trace of his former imperiousness of manner, he summoned him. The young
man rose, after a moment's hesitation, and obeyed the mandate.
"What are you doing here?" Julien demanded.
"Lunching, sir," the young man replied. "The place has been recommended
to me. I do not know Paris well."
"You lie," Julien declared. "Unless you knew Paris well, you wouldn't
be here for Number 3 Branch. Tell me, are you still watching me?"
"That is a question, Sir Julien, which, as I said before, I am not at
liberty to answer."
Julien drew a little breath between his teeth.
"Look here," he continued, "I want to warn you that I am a bad-tempered
man. You can write home if you like and tell them that you met me
coming out of the German Embassy and the Russian Embassy and the
Italian Embassy, with a list of prices in my hands for different pieces
of information. Is that what you're afraid of, eh?"
"Sir Julien," the young man answered, "I have to make reports only. It
is not my business to question the necessity for them."
Julien laughed. After all, the little man was right.
"Well, perhaps I do need looking after. Is there any particular place
where you would like me to dine? I don't want to bring you out into the
byways if I can help it."
The young man excused himself politely. Julien finished his luncheon
and then took a carriage back to his hotel. He found half-a-dozen
visiting cards in his box and glanced at them eagerly. Every one of
them was from the representative of a newspaper. He tore them into
pieces, left a curt message for their bearers, and went up to his room.
A telegram was lying upon his bureau. He tore it open and read:
Call on Madame Christophor this afternoon.
He frowned and threw the unsigned telegram into a wastepaper-basket.
"That decides it," he muttered to himself. "I will not call upon Madame
Christophor."
Nevertheless, he changed into calling attire and presently strolled out
once more into the sunshine. From habit he turned into the Champs
Élysées. The sight of a group of acquaintances drove him into a side
street. He walked for a short distance and then paused to see his
whereabouts. He was in the Avenue de St. Paul. He studied the numbers.
Exactly opposite was Number 17. He stood there, gazing at the house,
and at that moment a large automobile glided up to the front door. The
footman sprang down and a lady descended, passing within a few feet of
him. She was tall, very elegant, and her eyes, gaining, perhaps, a
little color from the pallor of her cheeks, were the most beautiful
shade of violet-blue which he had ever seen. She was a woman whom it
was impossible not to notice. Julien stood quite still, watching her.
The footman who had stepped down in advance had rung the bell, and the
postern door already stood open. The lady did not at once enter. She
was looking at Julien. This, then, was Madame Christophor! He was aware
at that moment of two distinct impressions--one was that she knew
perfectly well who he was; the other that at any cost, however _gauche_
it might seem, it was better for him to ignore the faint gleam of
recognition which already lent the dawn of a gracious smile to her
lips.
The woman was certainly expecting him to speak. Every second her
hesitation seemed more purposeful. Julien, however, with an effort
which was almost savage, set his teeth and walked on. She looked after
him for a moment and began to laugh softly to herself. Julien walked
steadily on till he had reached the corner of the street. Then he
turned away abruptly and without glancing around. He was angry with
himself, angry at the sound of that faint, musical laugh. He had quite
made up his mind not to call upon Madame Christophor. It would, in
fact, now be impossible. He would never be able to explain his
avoidance of her.
He was in a part of Paris of which he knew nothing, but he walked on
aimlessly, anxious only to escape the vicinity of the clubs and of the
fashionable thoroughfares. Suddenly he was conscious that an automobile
had drawn up close to the curbstone by his side. The footman sprang
lightly down and accosted him.
"Monsieur," he announced, "Madame Christophor has sent her automobile.
She would be happy to receive you at once."
Julien glanced inside the automobile. It was daintily upholstered in
white. A pile of cushions lay on the seat, there was a glove upon the
floor, the faint fragrance of roses seemed to steal out. Almost he
fancied that the woman's face was there, leaning a little towards him,
with the curious smile about the lips, the wonderful eyes glowing into
his. Then he set his teeth.
"You had better inform your mistress," he said, "that there is some
mistake. I have not the honor of the acquaintance of Madame
Christophor. You have followed the wrong person."
The man hesitated. He seemed perplexed.
"But, monsieur," he persisted, "madame pointed you out herself. It was
only because of a block in the roadway that we were not able to catch
you up before. We have, indeed, never lost sight of you."
Julien shook his head. "Pray assure madame," he said, "of my most
respectful regrets. I have not the honor of her acquaintance."
He walked on. The two men sat for a moment on the box of the car,
watching him. Then they turned around and the car disappeared. Julien
jumped into a little carriage and drove back to his hotel. As he passed
through into the office, the clerk leaned forward.
"Monsieur is desired upon the telephone," he announced.
Julien frowned.
"Who is it?"
The man shrugged his shoulders and pointed to the booth. Julien
hesitated. Then he stepped inside and held the receiver to his ear.
"Who is this?" he asked.
A very slow, musical voice answered him. He never for a moment had a
doubt as to whose it might be.
"Is this Sir Julien Portel?"
"This is Julien Portel," he answered. "Who is it speaking?"
"I am Henriette Christophor," the voice replied. "I had word from
England, Sir Julien Portel, that you were coming to see me."
"I shall do myself that honor," Julien assured her, "before I leave
Paris."
"You were not polite," the voice continued, "that you did not come this
afternoon."
"Madame," Julien said, "I am not here to make acquaintances. It is true
that I promised to call upon you; I do not know why, I do not know whom
I promised, I do not know for what reason I was asked to come. Since I
have promised, however, and you are kind enough to desire it, I will
come."
"And why not now?" the voice persisted. "You are alone in Paris, are
you not? I have something to say to you, something which is best said
quickly."
Julien hesitated.
"You will come?" the voice begged. "My automobile will be at your hotel
in ten minutes. You shall come, and if you dislike, after all, to make
that call, you shall drive with me, if you prefer it. Monsieur, if you
please!"
"I will be ready," Julien answered.
He hung up the receiver and walked out into the hall. He was angry with
himself because only an hour ago he had told himself that he would not
make that call. He was angry, too, because the fact of his making it or
not making it had assumed a ridiculous importance in his eyes.
He walked to the bar and filled his case with cigarettes. Then he took
up a monthly magazine and read. His own official resignation was dealt
with in a political article of some significance. It interested him
curiously. One sentence in particular he read several times:
It is not our desire to play the alarmist, but we would point out to
Great Britain that she may at any time within the next few weeks be
called upon to face a situation of great gravity, and we cannot help
expressing our regret that when that time comes the country should be
deprived of the advice, sound judgment and experience of a man who,
notwithstanding his youth, has already made his mark in European
politics.
Julien flung the paper down. What that situation might be he knew,
perhaps, better than any man!
The porter hurried up to him.
"There is a lady outside who inquires for monsieur," he announced.