The Countess, a handsome, well-preserved woman of middle age, slightly
inclined to embonpoint, met me on the threshold, and in silence grasped
my hand. From the window she had apparently watched me alight from the
fiacre, and had rushed forth to meet me.
That something unusual had occurred was plain from the paleness of her
countenance and the look of despair in her eyes. We had been excellent
friends in Brussels in bygone days, for she had favoured my suit and had
constantly invited me to her pretty home in the Boulevard de Waterloo or
to the great old chateau in the Ardennes. A glance was sufficient to
show me that she had grown considerably older, and that her face,
although it still bore distinct traces of a faded beauty, was now worn
and haggard. She was essentially a grande dame of the old regime, now
fast disappearing from our ken, but at no time could she be considered a
great hostess. She was somewhat intransigent, a woman of strong
prejudices, usually well justified, and incapable of pretence or shams.
But the law of kindliness was ever on her tongue, and she contented
herself with giving those of whom she disapproved a wide berth. She was
dressed plainly in black, with a single wisp of lace at the throat--a
costume unusual for her. In Brussels her handsome toilettes, obtained
from Paris, had always been admired. Although matronly, like the
majority of Belgian women, she was extremely chic, with an almost
girlish waist, and at whatever hour one called one always found her
dressed with extreme taste and elegance. I must, however, admit that
her appearance surprised me. Her hair had grown greyer, and she seemed
as though utterly negligent of her personal appearance.
"Madame!" I exclaimed in alarm as our hands met, "tell me what has
occurred."
"Ah, m'sieur," she cried in French, "I am in despair, and have sent for
you! You can help me--if you will."
"In what manner?" I inquired breathlessly.
"Yolande!" she gasped, in a choking voice.
"Yolande!" I echoed. "What has happened to her? Your man will tell me
nothing."
"He has orders to say nothing," she explained, leading the way into the
elegant salon. "Now tell me," she said, looking at me very earnestly,
"I am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or I would not presume to
question you. Will you forgive me if I do?"
"Most certainly," I responded.
"Then before we go further I will put my question to you," she said in a
strange voice. "Do you love Yolande?"
Such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise. I stood
looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed.
"Why ask me that?" I inquired, puzzled. "Tell me what has happened to
her."
"I can tell you nothing until you have answered my question," she
replied quite calmly. I saw from her countenance that she was
desperate.
"I think, madame, that when we were together in Brussels my actions must
have betrayed to you--a woman--the state of my heart towards your
daughter," I said. "I do not seek to deny that at that time I loved her
more fondly than I could ever love again, and--"
"Then you do not love her still?" she cried, interrupting me.
"Allow me to conclude," I went on, speaking quite calmly, for I saw in
this curious question of hers some mysterious motive. "I loved her
while in Brussels, and for two years hoped to make her my wife."
"And then you grew tired of her?" the Countess asked, in a tone that was
almost a sneer in itself. "It is always the same with you diplomatists.
The women of every capital amuse you, but on your promotion you bow
your adieux and seek fresh fields to conquer."
"I think you misjudge me," I protested, rather annoyed at her words. "I
loved Yolande. When I admit this, I also admit that, like other men
whose calling it is to lounge in the principal salons of Europe, I had
not escaped the fascination exercised by other eyes than hers. But to
me she was all the world. Surely, madame, you remember the days at
Houffalize? You cannot disguise from yourself that I really loved her
then?"
"But all that is of the past," she said seriously, her white hands
clasped before her. "Briefly, you no longer entertain any love for her.
Is not that so?"
I hesitated. My position was a difficult one. I was a diplomatist, and
could speak untruths artistically when occasion required, but she had
cornered me.
"Madame has guessed the truth," I answered at last.
"Ah!" she cried hoarsely, "I thought as much. You have found some other
woman whom you prefer?"
I nodded assent. It was useless to lead her to believe what was not the
truth. Yolande was of course charming in many ways; but when I thought
of Edith I saw that comparison was impossible.
"And you have no further thought of her?" she asked.
"As far as marriage is concerned, no," I responded. "Nevertheless, I
still regard her as an intimate friend. I was here only two or three
hours ago chatting with her."
"You!" she cried, glaring at me strangely. "You were here--to-day?"
"Yes," I replied. "I thought she would certainly tell you of my visit."
"She told me nothing. I was quite unaware of it. I was out, and the
servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence."
"I gave a card," I replied. "It is no doubt in the hall."
"No, it is not. It has been destroyed."
"Why?" I asked.
"For some mysterious reason known to Yolande." Then, turning quickly
again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness,
saying: "Tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead--so
dead that you would not care to perform her a service?"
Anderson's strange and startling story flashed through my mind. I made
no reply.
"Remember the affection you once bore her," she urged. "I am a woman,
m'sieur, and I presume to remind you of it."
I needed no reminder. The recollection of those sweet idyllic days was
still fresh as ever in my memory. Ah! in those brief sunny hours I had
fondly believed that our love would last always. It is ever the same.
Youth is ever foolish.
"I should have loved her now," I answered at last, "were it not for one
fact."
There was a mystery which had ended our love, and I saw now an
opportunity of clearing it up. "To what fact do you refer?"
"To the reason of our parting."
"The reason!" echoed the Countess. "I have no idea whatever of the
reason. What was it?"
I held my breath. Would it be just to tell her the truth? I wondered.
I reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered:
"Because I discovered that her heart was not wholly mine."
She regarded me with undisguised amazement.
"Do you mean that Yolande had another lover?"
"No!" I cried with sudden resolve. "This conversation is not fair to
her. It is all finished. She has forgotten, and we are both happy."
"Happy!" cried the Countess hoarsely. "You are, alas! mistaken. Poor
Yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world. She has never
ceased to think of you."
"Then I regret, madame," I responded.
"If you really regret," she answered, "then your love for her is not
altogether dead."
She spoke the truth. At this point I may as well confide to you, my
reader, the fact that I still regarded my charming little friend of
those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to
love. I recollected the painful circumstances which led to our parting.
My memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer's
evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her
home, I charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in
Brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my
all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting.
After that I had applied to the Foreign Office to be transferred, and a
month later found myself in Rome.
Perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded.
Sometimes I had thought I had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, I
had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere
acquaintance. Indeed, I think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge
of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love I once bore her
to remain within me. It was not just to Edith--that I knew; yet
notwithstanding the denunciations of both Kaye and Anderson, I could not
altogether crush her from my heart. To wholly forget the woman for whom
one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult,
sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. Visions of some sweet
face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the
past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. Thus it
was with me--just as it has been with thousands of others.
"No," I admitted truthfully and honestly at last, "my love for Yolande
is perhaps not altogether dead."
"Then you will render me a service?" she cried quickly. "Say that you
will--for her sake!--for the sake of the great love you once bore her!"
"Of what nature is this service you desire?" I asked, determined to act
with caution, for the startling stories I had heard had aroused within
me considerable suspicion.
"I desire your silence regarding an absolute secret," she answered in a
hoarse half-whisper.
"What secret?"
"A secret concerning Yolande," she responded. "Will you, for her sake,
render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as
to what you may see or learn here to-day?"
"I will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips," I
said. "But as to assistance, I cannot promise until I am aware of the
nature of the service demanded of me."
"Of course," she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile. My words
had apparently reassured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though
relying upon me for help. "Then as you give me your promise upon your
honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth. Come with me."
She led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly
opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden
sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the
sunset. The room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining
toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk
hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and
motionless. In the dim half-light I could just distinguish the features
as those of Yolande.
"What has occurred?" I cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the
bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in
fascination.
"We do not know," answered the trembling woman at my side. "It is all a
mystery."