Plunged in deep despair, I turned into the courtyard of the hotel, and
sat down to think. As I did so a servant handed me a telegram. It was
from Lord Warnham at Osborne, requesting my return on the morrow.
The one thought that possessed me was that Ella--or the woman I had
known and adored under that name--was in Paris. Could I leave without
seeing her? She had deserted me, it was true, yet my passion was at
that moment as intense even as it had been in those calm autumn days
when we had wandered together along the peaceful lanes around old-world
Chateauroux, hand-in-hand, in sweet contentment. In those
never-to-be-forgotten hours we both possessed the delights of love and
fever of happiness. To us everything was passion, ecstasy and delirium.
We both felt as if we were living in a rose-coloured atmosphere; the
heights of sentimentality glistened in our imaginations, and common
everyday existence appeared to us to be far down below in the distance--
in the shade between the gaps in these heights. I still felt the
softness of that tiny hand I had so often pressed to my lips; I still
felt the clasp of her arms about my neck; I still saw her deep blue eyes
gazing into mine as we interchanged vows of eternal fidelity.
The cry of a man selling the _Soir_ aroused me. I rose suddenly. Yes,
I must see her again. I must see her, if for the last time.
Stepping into a cab, I directed the man to drive to her house, then,
seating myself, glanced at my watch. It was already near midnight.
Soon, with the clip-clap of the horse's hoofs sounding upon the
asphalte, we were crossing the Place de la Concorde, rendered bright by
its myriad lights, then entering the broad avenue we passed the lines of
illuminated cafes half-hidden by the trees surrounding them, and,
driving on for some ten minutes, at last pulled up among a number of
private carriages that were setting down guests before a great mansion,
where I alighted.
One of those brilliant _fetes_ that were the talk of Paris was
apparently about to commence, for many notabilities were arriving, and
as I went forward to the spacious portico I was preceded by two pretty
laughing girls attended by a tall and distinguished-looking man of
military appearance. I drew back while they entered the great,
brilliantly-lit hall with its fine marble staircase and profusion of
exotics; then, when they had passed on, I inquired in French of the
gigantic Russian concierge whether Her Highness was at home.
"Yes, m'sieur," answered the man, gruffly, scanning me closely, noticing
that I was attired in a suit of dark tweed, for so suddenly had I left
England that I had had no time to take with me a claw-hammer coat. "Her
Highness is at home, m'sieur, but she is engaged," he said, when he had
thoroughly inspected me.
I half drew my card-case from my pocket, but fearing lest she might not
see me if she knew my name, I said,--
"Go to her, and say that a friend craves one moment of her time upon an
important matter."
"M'sieur gives no card?" he inquired, with a quick, interrogative look
of suspicion.
"No," I answered.
He led me across the hall wherein hung an elaborate Russian ikon, down
one long well-carpeted corridor and then along another, at last ushering
me into a great apartment resplendent with mirrors, statuary and gilt
furniture, the latter bearing embroidered upon the crimson backs of the
chairs her monogram, "E.N," surmounted by a Russian coronet. In the
costly inlaid cabinets were arranged many pieces of priceless china, the
carpet was of rich turquoise blue, the tables of ebony were inlaid with
silver, and over all electric lamps, dotted here and there, shaded by
coral silk, shed a warm, subdued light. Near the four long windows that
occupied one end of the great room was a grand piano, upon which two
photographs in ormolu frames stood conspicuously. I crossed to look at
them and discovered that one was my own, that she had evidently taken
with her when she had so suddenly left my house, and the other a
portrait of the man who had betrayed me--Dudley Ogle.
Slowly my eyes wandered around the elegant apartment, unable to realise
that this handsome, luxurious abode could actually be my wife's home.
How mean and paltry indeed must our small drawing-room in Phillimore
Gardens have appeared to her after all this stately magnificence and
rigid etiquette. As I passed through the great mansion, one of the
largest private residences in Paris, my nostrils had been greeted by the
subtle odours of exotics, and upon my ears there had fallen the strains
of an orchestra somewhere in the opposite wing of the building. Guests
were evidently not shown to the side of the house where I had been
conducted, for not a sound penetrated there. All was quiet, peaceful
and stately.
Suddenly, just as I bent to more closely examine Dudley's portrait, and
had distinguished that it was a copy similar to the one I had seen in
Sonia's possession, the door was thrown wide-open by a tall, liveried
servant, who entered, and, bowing low, announced in stentorian
tones,--"Her Imperial Highness Elizaveta Nicolayevna."
The rapid frou-frou of silk sounded outside, and next second my wife and
I stood face to face.
In an instant the colour left her cheeks. She staggered as if she had
been dealt a blow, but managing to regain her self-possession, she
turned quickly to the servant, and in a frigid tone said,--
"Go, Anton. And see that I am not disturbed."
The man, glancing at me for a moment in unfeigned surprise, bowed, and
withdrew in silence.
I stood motionless, gazing upon her, noting the beauty of her costume,
the brilliance of her diamonds, and the deathly pallor of her adorable
face.
"Geoffrey!" she gasped at last. In a half-fearful whisper she repeated
my name, adding, "So you have found me!"
With a quick, impetuous movement she walked unevenly towards me, with
rustling skirts and outstretched hands. It seemed to me, as I looked at
her, as if my soul flew towards her, spreading at first like a wave
around the outline of her head, and then, attracted by the whiteness of
her breast, descended into her.
"Yes," I said, slowly and gravely. "I have found you, Ella."
"Ah, no!" she cried, advancing so close to me that the well-remembered
odour of sampaguita intoxicated me. I felt her warm, passionate breath
upon my cheek. "Do not call me longer by that false name. Forget it--
forget it all, and call me by my right name--Elizaveta."
"It is impossible," I answered.
"No, do not say that," she cried hoarsely. "I--I know I have deceived
you, Geoffrey. I lied to you. But forgive me. Tell me that you will
some day forget."
"Think," I said, in a low, reproachful tone, my heart filled with grief
to overflowing--"think how you have wrecked my life," I urged. "You
masqueraded before me as a plain English girl; you married me and
allowed me to adore you--ah! better than all the world besides--until
you grew tired and left our poor, matter-of-fact home to reassume your
true station--that of a Grand Duchess. You never loved me; but it
amused you, I suppose, to become the wife of a man who was compelled to
earn his livelihood. The economy you practised while with me was a new
sensation to you, and your--"
"Stop!" she cried vehemently, putting up her tiny hand to my mouth, as
had been her habit long ago when she wished to arrest the flow of my
words. "Stop! I cannot bear it! I tell you I did love you, Geoffrey.
I love you now, dearer than life."
"Then why did you practise such base deception?" I demanded. "Why did
you leave me and cast aside my wedding-ring?"
"I--I was compelled," she faltered.
"Compelled!" I echoed, in a voice full of bitter sarcasm. "I do not--
indeed I cannot blame you for regretting the false step you took when
you consented to become my wife, yet why you should have done this is to
me utterly incomprehensible."
"It will all be plain ere long," she assured me, in a low, intense
voice. "If I had not loved you, I should never have become your wife."
"But you were cruel to deceive me thus," I retorted.
"It is my misfortune, Geoffrey, that I was born a Grand Duchess," she
answered, looking straight at me with her deep blue eyes full of intense
anxiety and sorrow. "It is not my fault. I swear I still love you with
a love as honest and pure as ever a woman entertained towards a man."
"But after deceiving me in every particular regarding both the past and
the present, you thought fit to leave me," I went on ruthlessly.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, as if reflecting, "I admit that I wronged you
cruelly; yes, I admit it all, everything. Nevertheless, since we have
parted, Geoffrey, I have recollected daily, with a thousand heartfelt
regrets, the supreme joy of our married life. Ah! it was happiness,
indeed, with you, the man I so dearly loved. But now," and she shrugged
her shoulders, half-hidden in their pale blue chiffon, the movement
causing her diamonds to gleam with fiery iridescence. "Now, without
your love, I have happiness no longer. All is despair."
"I have not forgotten. Every detail of our brief, joyous life together
is still fresh in my memory," I declared sorrowfully.
"Forgotten! How can either of us forget?" she cried impetuously,
pushing back from her white brow her gold-brown hair, with its
scintillating star. "Only in those few months spent by your side,
Geoffrey, have I known what it is to really live and to love. Although
I have been absent from you I have, nevertheless, known from time to
time how you have fared, yet I dared not give you any sign as to my
whereabouts, fearing that you would brand me as base and heartless. To
you I must appear so, I know; yet, although we are separated, I am still
your wife and you my husband. I still love you. Forgive me."
And she stood before me with bent head in penitent attitude, her slight
frame shaken by tremulous emotion.
A lump rose in my throat. I felt choked by the intoxication of her
love, for I idolised her. Yet I knew that, although my wife, she could
never be the same to me as in those blissful days in Kensington before
the shadow of suspicion fell between us.
"You are silent, Geoffrey," she whispered hoarsely at last, starting at
the sound of her own voice. Then, throwing her soft arms about my neck,
she clung to me passionately, as she was wont to do in those bygone days
of happiness, saying, "You cannot deny that you still care for me--that
I am yours. Yet you are thinking of the past; of what you regard as my
base faithlessness! My actions were, I admit, full of apparent
ingratitude. Yes, I cast your great love beneath my feet and trampled
it in the mire, not because I am what I am, I swear, but because such
action was imperative--because I was striving for my emancipation."
"Your emancipation?" I exclaimed, with a touch of anger. "From your
marriage vows, it seems."
"Ah, no!" cried the Grand Duchess, throwing back her white neck, which
rose with her hot, panting breath. "No, no, not that! I struggled to
free myself from a tie so hateful that I believe I should have killed
myself were it not that I loved you so fondly, and hoped that some day
happiness would again be ours. But, alas! I strove in vain; for, when
within an ace of success, you became filled with suspicion and accused
me of unfaithfulness, while it became imperative, almost at the same
moment, that I should return to the position I had sought to relinquish.
Since I fled from you I have lived on from day to day full of bitter
regrets and in constant fear lest you should discover that I was not
what I represented myself to be, and come here to demand an explanation.
Well, at last you have come, and--and all I can now do is to assure you
that I acted in our mutual interests, and to implore your forgiveness."