"Why, what's the matter, old chap?" inquired Cargill, bending forward
quickly to glance at the journal. "You look as if you've got an acute
attack of the jim-jams."
"See!" I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my
strained eyes had riveted themselves.
"Deucedly pretty woman," declared the attache, who was nothing if not a
ladies' man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.
"Yes, yes, I know," I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded,
the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of
fire.
The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of
a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable.
With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I
recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas!
for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I
had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her
wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not
gaze upon.
The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was
printed in French the words,--
"Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of
Russia."
"Look!" I cried, my eye still upon the page. "Surely there's some
mistake! That can't be the Grand Duchess!"
Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both
declared that there was no mistake.
"She's very well-known here," exclaimed the attache. "I've seen her
driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one
never forgets such a face as hers."
"Does she live here?" I inquired breathlessly.
"Sometimes," he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke,
he added, "She's been away a long time now. I suppose you want an
introduction to her--eh? Well, I don't expect you'll be successful, as
her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the
`corps diplomatique.'"
"No," I answered huskily, "I desire no introduction." A sudden
giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter,
the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this
sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took
up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down.
"Do you know her?" inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent,
at the same time regarding me curiously.
"Yes," I answered, not without hesitation. "She is--I mean we have
already met."
"Well, you're to be congratulated," he answered, smiling. "I reckon
she's the finest looking woman in Paris, and that's a solid fact."
Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief
article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait.
Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one
of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken
Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I
eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows,--
"Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand
Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on
another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des
Champs Elysees, the scene of so many brilliant _fetes_ during her last
residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten
days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until
the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial
Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present
Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly,
in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoie-Selo, but
her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to
either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her
entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost
as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is
incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her
munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the
highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest
slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there
distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy
and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return."
I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at
it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified.
This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become
my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the
cousin of an Emperor.
The astounding truth seemed incredible.
"Well," asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, "have
you been reading all about her?"
"Yes," I answered, drawing a long breath.
"Come, don't sigh like that, old fellow," he cried, and glancing across
to the bar, shouted, "Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend."
To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with
eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the
high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her
personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of
perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream.
"Her beauty is simply marvellous," Allender acknowledged, smoking on in
his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by
sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen
to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years,
formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among
the English-speaking colonies in the French capital.
"I entirely agree with m'sieur," observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken
English. "Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah--cold as an icicle."
"Is there no scandal regarding her?" I inquired eagerly, well knowing
that in Paris no woman is considered really _chic_ without some story
being whispered about her.
"None," replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. "I
have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a
most estimable young lady. There is, however," he added, "some curious
romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life."
"A romance?" cried Cargill. "Do tell us all about it."
"Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details," answered the old
Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. "It was alleged once by
somebody I met officially--who it was, I really forget. She lived for
years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of
the richest women in Paris."
"Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city
and gives money to the poor?" I asked him, for this love of midnight
adventure accounted for Ella's strange penchant for rambling alone at
night that had once caused me so much perturbation.
"Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on
several occasions last year," he replied. "She attired herself in an
old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most
effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs
with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters
that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However,
when she is going we always know at the Prefecture, and take
precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an
Imperial Highness," he added.
"Of course not," observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct,
"Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance," an observation
at which we all three laughed merrily.
"Has she a lover?" inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron.
"I think not," the other replied. "I never heard of one. Indeed, I
have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody."
"Tell me, m'sieur," I asked, "are you acquainted with a Russian named
Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service."
"Renouf!" he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes.
"Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he
is in the actual service of the Tzar's Government I don't know, but one
thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel," he
added frankly.
"What offence has he committed?" I asked, eager to learn some fact to
his detriment.
"He keeps well within the bounds of the law," my companion answered.
"Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his
methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police
attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies,
always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a
few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their
places being taken by a fresh batch."
"Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?"
"None, m'sieur," Monsieur Goron answered. "He has been absent fully six
months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala."
"Did you speak?"
"Yes. He did not, however, recognise me," smiled the Chief of Police.
"I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and
was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I
refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself
inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight
to the Prefecture," added the man of a thousand disguises with a
chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp.
"Where does the Grand Duchess live?" I inquired, after a slight pause.
"Deedes is simply gone on her," cried Cargill, with good-humoured
banter. "He evidently wants to take her out to dinner."
"No," I protested, smiling grimly. "Nothing of the kind. I only want
to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysees she lives."
"It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side,
just beyond the Avenue de l'Alma," explained the Chief of Police,
laughing at Cargill's suggestion.
"But how did you become acquainted with her?" inquired the attache,
presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling
her virtues.
"We met in London," I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential
mood.
"And she captivated you, eh?" my friend exclaimed. "Well, I'm not
surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she's here."
"It is said, and I believe there's a good deal of truth in it,"
exclaimed Goron, confidentially, "that young Max Duchanel, the
well-known writer on the _Figaro_, committed suicide last year by
shooting himself over at Le Pre St Gervais because she disregarded his
attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell
was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the
position of the personage therein mentioned."
At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to
her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia's
disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain
how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had
masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador,
Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet
feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and
forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both
with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had,
while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had
refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred
a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known;
and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room,
pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of
her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress.
"Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?" Goron asked me
presently, appearing much interested.
"Yes," I replied.
"Ah!" he ejaculated. "She is perfectly charming, and so fond of
concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To
me, she is always so affable and so nice."
"Goron is sweet on her also, I believe," observed Allender, whereat we
all laughed in chorus.
I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word
these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the
whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive
there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and
unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions,
endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London,
New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to
pursue.
"Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several
occasions a year ago, but she declined each," I heard the attache
saying. "She's a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut
above us. But, after all, I don't blame her," he added, reflectively.
"Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to
struggle for a foothold in society."
"Correct," observed Allender. "The women who flutter around at our
Embassy are the gayest crowd I've ever struck. I reckon they're not of
her set. But she's a very fine woman, even though she may be a
Highness. She's simply beautiful. I've seen some fine women in my day,
but for thrilling a man's soul and driving him to distraction, I never
saw anyone to compare with her."
"That's so," Cargill acquiesced. "Yet her refusal to come to us has
often been remarked by our chief, especially as we've entertained a
crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another."
"She has a reason, I suppose," observed Goron, slowly twisting his
eternal caporal.
"Goron appears to know all her secrets," said Cargill, winking at me
knowingly. "He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him
all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement."
The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in
effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both
his hands in protest, crying,--
"No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women
confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly."
"But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta
Nicolayevna," observed Cargill, "therefore, when you next see her, tell
her how her portrait in _Le Monde_ has been admired by an impressionable
young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and
profound admiration of all three of us."
"Don't do anything of the kind, Goron," I cried, rather angrily.
"Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult."
"Very well, if you're really going to call on her, you might convey our
message," exclaimed the attache, nonchalantly. "You're not jealous, are
you?"
"I don't think there's any need for jealousy," I responded.
Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the
others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness
and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the
others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with
buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one
of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and "dead
beats" make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going
crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more
popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would
have been difficult.
As we still sat together smoking and drinking, the pair directed their
chaff continually in my direction. Evidently believing that the
incomparable beauty of Her Highness had fascinated me, they urged me to
go to her and suggest a drive in the Bois, a quiet little dinner
somewhere, or a box at the opera. Little did they dream how every
jesting word they uttered pained me, how each laugh at my expense caused
me excruciating anguish, or how any detrimental allegation, spoken
unthinkingly, sank deeply into my mind. But I had never worn my heart
on my sleeve, therefore I treated their banter with good humour,
determined that, at least for the present, they should remain in
ignorance of the fact that I was the husband of the woman whose adorable
face and charming manner had excited universal admiration in the gayest
capital of the world.