THE TALLEYRAND CLUB
It has been said of the Talleyrand Club that the only qualifications
required for admittance to its membership are a frock-coat and a glib
tongue. To explain the whereabouts of the Talleyrand Club were only a
work of supererogation. Many hansom cabmen know it. Hansom cabmen know
more than they are credited with.
The Talleyrand, as its name implies, is a diplomatic club, but
ambassadors and ministers enter not its portals. They send their
juniors. Some of these latter are in the habit of stating that London is
the hub of Europe and the Talleyrand smoking-room its grease-box.
Certain is it that such men as Claude de Chauxville, as Karl Steinmetz,
and a hundred others who are or have been political scene-shifters, are
to be found in the Talleyrand rooms.
It is a quiet club, with many members and sparse accommodation. Its
rooms are never crowded, because half of its members are afraid of
meeting the other half. It has swinging glass doors to its every
apartment, the lower portion of the glass being opaque, while the upper
moiety affords a peep-hole. Thus, if you are sitting in one of the deep,
comfortable chairs to be found in all these small rooms, you will be
aware from time to time of eyes and a bald head above the ground glass.
If you are nobody, eyes and bald head will prove to be the property of a
gentleman who does not know you, or knows you and pretends that he does
not. If you are somebody, your solitude will depend upon your
reputation.
There are quite a number of bald heads in the Talleyrand Club--bald
heads surmounting youthful, innocent faces. The innocence of these
gentlemen is quite remarkable. Like a certain celestial, they are
"childlike and bland"; they ask guileless questions; they make blameless
mistakes in respect to facts, and require correction, which they receive
meekly. They know absolutely nothing, and their thirst for information
is as insatiable as it is unobtrusive.
The atmosphere is vivacious with the light sound of many foreign
tongues; it bristles with the ephemeral importance of cheap titles. One
never knows whether one's neighbor is an ornament to the Almanac de
Gotha, or a disgrace to a degenerate colony of refugees.
Some are plain Messieurs, Señores, or Herren. Bluff foreigners with
upright hair and melancholy eyes, who put up philosophically with a
cheaper brand of cigar than their souls love. Among the latter may be
classed Karl Steinmetz--the bluffest of the bluff--innocent even of his
own innocence.
Karl Steinmetz in due course reached England, and in natural sequence
the smoking-room--room B on the left as you go in--of the Talleyrand.
He was there one evening after an excellent dinner taken with humorous
resignation, smoking the largest cigar the waiter could supply, when
Claude de Chauxville happened to have nothing better or nothing worse to
do.
De Chauxville looked through the glass door for some seconds. Then he
twisted his waxed mustache and lounged in. Steinmetz was alone in the
room, and De Chauxville was evidently--almost obviously--unaware of his
presence. He went to the table and proceeded to search in vain for a
newspaper that interested him. He raised his eyes casually and met the
quiet gaze of Karl Steinmetz.
"Ah!" he exclaimed.
"Yes," said Steinmetz.
"You--in London?"
Steinmetz nodded gravely.
"Yes," he repeated.
"One never knows where one has you," Claude de Chauxville went on,
seating himself in a deep arm-chair, newspaper in hand. "You are a bird
of passage."
"A little heavy on the wing--now," said Steinmetz.
He laid his newspaper down on his stout knees and looked at De
Chauxville over his gold eye-glasses. He did not attempt to conceal the
fact that he was wondering what this man wanted with him. The baron
seemed to be wondering what object Steinmetz had in view in getting
stout. He suspected some motive in the obesity.
"Ah!" he said deprecatingly. "That is nothing. Time leaves its mark upon
all of us. It was not yesterday that we were in Petersburg together."
"No," answered Steinmetz. "It was before the German Empire--many years
ago."
De Chauxville counted back with his slim fingers on the
table--delightfully innocent.
"Yes," he said, "the years seem to fly in coveys. Do you ever see any of
our friends of that time--you who are in Russia?"
"Who were our friends of that time?" parried Steinmetz, polishing his
glasses with a silk handkerchief. "My memory is a broken reed--you
remember?"
For a moment Claude de Chauxville met the full, quiet, gray eyes.
"Yes," he said significantly, "I remember. Well--for instance, Prince
Dawoff?"
"Dead. I never see him--thank Heaven!"
"The princess?"
"I never see; she keeps a gambling house in Paris."
"And little Andrea?"
"Never sees me. Married to a wholesale undertaker, who has buried her
past."
"En gros?"
"Et en détail."
"The Count Lanovitch," pursued De Chauxville, "where is he?"
"Banished for his connection with the Charity League."
"Catrina?"
"Catrina is living in the province of Tver--we are neighbors--she and
her mother, the countess."
De Chauxville nodded. None of the details really interested him. His
indifference was obvious.
"Ah! the Countess Lanovitch," he said reflectively, "she was a foolish
woman."
"And is."
M. de Chauxville laughed. This clumsy German ex-diplomat amused him
immensely. Many people amuse us who are themselves amused in their
sleeve.
"And--er--the Sydney Bamboroughs," said the Frenchman, as if the name
had almost left his memory.
Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took up the _Morning
Post_. He unfolded the sheet slowly, and having found what he sought, he
read aloud:
"'His Excellency the Roumanian Ambassador gave a select dinner-party at
4 Craven Gardens, yesterday. Among the guests were the Baron de
Chauxville, Feneer Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney
Bamborough, and others.'"
Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his chair.
"So, my dear friend," he said, "it is probable that you know more about
the Sydney Bamboroughs than I do."
If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted he certainly did not show it.
His was a face eminently calculated to conceal whatever thought or
feeling might be passing through his mind. Of an even white
complexion--verging on pastiness--he was handsome in a certain
statuesque way. His features were always composed and dignified; his
hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but ever smooth and
sleek upon his high, narrow brow. His eyes had that dulness which is
characteristic of many Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the
habitual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigarettes.
De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with easy nonchalance.
"Not necessarily," he said, in cold, even tones. "Mrs. Sydney Bamborough
does not habitually take into her confidence all who happen to dine at
the same table as herself. Your confidential woman is usually a liar."
Steinmetz was filling his pipe; this man had the evil habit of smoking a
wooden pipe after a cigar.
"My very dear De Chauxville," he said, without lookup, "your epigrams
are lost on me. I know most of them. I have heard them before. If you
have anything to tell me about Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, for Heaven's sake
tell it to me quite plainly. I like plain dishes and unvarnished
stories. I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person with a dull
palate and a thick head."
De Chauxville laughed again in an unemotional way.
"You alter little," he said. "Your plainness of speech takes me back to
Petersburg. Yes, I admit that Mrs. Sydney Bamborough rather interested
me. But I assume too much; that is no reason why she should interest
you."
"She does not, my good friend, but you do. I am all attention."
"Do you know anything of her?" asked De Chauxville perfunctorily, not as
a man who expects an answer or intends to believe that which he may be
about to hear.
"Nothing."
"You are likely to know more?"
Karl Steinmetz shrugged his heavy shoulders, and shook his head
doubtfully.
"I am not a lady's man," he added gruffly; "the good God has not shaped
me that way. I am too d--d fat. Has Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in
love with me? Has some imprudent person shown her my photograph? I hope
not. Heaven forbid!"
He puffed steadily at his pipe, and glanced quickly at De Chauxville
through the smoke.
"No," answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Frenchmen, by the way, do
not admit that one may be too middle-aged, or too stout, for love. "But
she is au mieux with the prince."
"Which prince?"
"Pavlo."
The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the other's benevolent
countenance. Steinmetz continued to smoke placidly and contentedly.
"My master," he said at length. "I suppose that some day he will marry."
De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched the button of the
electric bell, and when the servant appeared, ordered coffee. He
selected a cigarette from a silver case with considerable care, and
having lighted it smoked for some moments in silence. The servant
brought the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was leaning
back in his deep chair, with his legs crossed. He was gazing into the
fire, which burnt brightly, although it was nearly May. The habits of
the Talleyrand Club are almost continental. The rooms are always too
warm. The silence was that of two men knowing each other well.
"And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough?" asked Steinmetz suddenly.
"Why not, indeed?" replied De Chauxville. "It is no affair of mine. A
wise man reduces his affairs to a minimum, and his interest in the
affairs of his neighbor to less. But I thought it would interest you."
"Thanks."
The tone of the big man in the arm-chair was not dry. Karl Steinmetz
knew better than to indulge in that pastime. Dryness is apt to parch the
fount of expansiveness.
De Chauxville's attention was apparently caught by an illustration in a
weekly paper lying open on the table near to him. Your shifty man likes
something to look at. He did not speak for some moments. Then he threw
the paper aside.
"Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate?" he asked, with a careless
assumption of a slanginess which is affected by society in its decadent
periods.
"So far as I remember," answered Steinmetz, "he was something in the
Diplomatic Service."
"Yes, but what?"
"My dear friend, you had better ask his widow when next you sit beside
her at dinner."
"How do you know that I sat beside her at dinner?"
"I did not know it," replied Steinmetz, with a quiet smile which left De
Chauxville in doubt as to whether he was very stupid or exceedingly
clever.
"She seems to be very well off," said the Frenchman.
"I am glad, as she is going to marry my master."
De Chauxville laughed almost awkwardly, and for a fraction of a second
he changed countenance under Steinmetz's quiet eyes.
"One can never know whom a woman intends to marry," said he carelessly,
"even if they can themselves, which I doubt. But I do not understand how
it is that she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the death
of her husband."
"Ah, she is much better off, or appears to be, since the death of her
husband," said the stout man, in his slow Germanic way.
"Yes."
De Chauxville rose, stretched himself and yawned. Men are not always, be
it understood, on their best behavior at their club.
"Good-night," he said shortly.
"Good-night, my very dear friend."
After the Frenchman had left, Karl Steinmetz remained quite motionless
and expressionless in his chair, until such time as he concluded that De
Chauxville was tired of watching him through the glass door. Then he
slowly sat forward in his chair and looked back over his shoulder.
"Our friend," he muttered, "is afraid that Paul is going to marry this
woman. Now, I wonder why?"
These two had met before in a past which has little or nothing to do
with the present narrative. They had disliked each other with a
completeness partly bred of racial hatred, partly the outcome of diverse
interests. But of late years they had drifted apart. There was no reason
why the friendship, such as it was, should not have lapsed into a mere
bowing acquaintance. For these men were foreigners, understanding fully
the value of the bow as an interchange of masculine courtesy. Englishmen
bow badly.
Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognized him before entering the
room. It was to be presumed that he had deliberately chosen to cross the
threshold, knowing that a recognition was inevitable. Karl Steinmetz
went farther. He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the Talleyrand
Club, having heard that he was in England, with the purpose in view of
seeking him out and warning him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough.
"It would appear," murmured the stout philosopher, "that we are about to
work together for the first time. But if there is one thing that I
dislike more than the enmity of Claude de Chauxville it is his
friendship."