"I well remember it," he went on. "I quite recollect how, on one
occasion, you came over to London, and while dining together at Jimmy's
you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. Do you
remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?"
"Perfectly."
"And as time went on you suddenly dropped her--for what reason I know
not. We are pals, but I have never attempted to pry into your affairs.
If she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she
heard that you had forsaken her for Edith Austin."
"You reproach me," I said. "But you do not know the whole truth, my
dear fellow. I discovered that Yolande possessed a second lover."
He nodded slowly, with pursed lips.
"And that was the reason of your parting?"
"Yes."
"The sole reason?"
"The sole reason."
"And you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because
of her love for you? Such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls
of a certain temperament."
"If she has committed suicide, it is not on my account," I responded in
a hard voice.
"I did not express that opinion," he hastened to protest. "Before we
discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her. Death may
have been due to natural causes, for aught we know."
I stood motionless. His suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days
had committed suicide because I had forsaken her was a startling one.
Surely that could not be so?
"Come," my friend said, "let us lose no time. Which is the room?"
I led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in
which she was lying so cold and still. The light of the afterglow fell
full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her
face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life.
But it was only for a few moments. The slanting ray was lost, and the
pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of
her wondrous hair.
In silence I stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was
now busy with his examination. He opened her eyes and closed them
again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering
no word. His serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely
puzzled.
One after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and
carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he
examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks. Upon her
neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after
time, as though not satisfied as to its cause. Upon her lower lip, too,
was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times,
comparing it with the mark upon the neck. He was unable to account for
either.
"Curious!" he ejaculated. "Very curious indeed!"
"What is curious?" I inquired eagerly.
"Those marks," he answered, indicating them with his finger. "They are
very puzzling. I've never seen such marks before."
"Do they point to foul play?" I inquired, feeling suspicious that she
had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin.
"Well, no," he responded, after some hesitation; "that is not my
opinion."
"Then what is your opinion?"
"At present I have none. I can have none until I make a thorough
examination. There are certainly no outward marks of violence."
"We need not inform the police, I suppose?"
"Not at present," he replied, his eyes still fixed upon the blanched
face of the woman who had once been all the world to me.
I raised her dead hand, and upon it imprinted a last fervent kiss. It
was cold and clammy to my lips. In that hour all my old love for her
had returned, and my heart had become filled with an intense bitterness
and desolation. I had thought that all my love for her was dead, and
that Edith Austin, the calm, sweet woman far away in an English county,
who wrote to me daily from her quiet home deep in the woodlands, had
taken her place. But our meeting and its tragic sequel had, I admit,
aroused within me a deep sympathy, which had, within an hour, developed
into that great and tender love of old. With men this return to the old
love is of no infrequent occurrence, but with women it seldom happens.
Perhaps this is because man is more fickle and more easily influenced by
woman's voice, woman's glances, and woman's tears.
The reader will probably accuse me of injustice and of fickleness of
heart. Well, I cannot deny it; indeed, I seek to deny nothing in this
narrative of strange facts and diplomatic wiles, but would only ask of
those who read to withhold their verdict until they have ascertained the
truth yet to be revealed, and have read to the conclusion, this strange
chapter of the secret history of a nation.
My friend the doctor was holding one hand, while I imprinted a last kiss
upon the other. A lump was in my throat, my eyes were filled with
tears, my thoughts were all of the past, my anguish of heart
unspeakable. That small chill hand with the cold, glittering ring--one
that I had given her in Brussels long ago--seemed to be the only reality
in all that hideous phantasmagoria of events.
"Do not despair," murmured the kind voice of my old friend, standing
opposite me on the other side of the bed. "You loved her once, but it
is all over--surely it is!"
"No, Dick!" I answered brokenly. "I thought I did not love her. I
have held her from me these three years--until now."
"Ah!" he sighed, "I understand. Man always longs for the unattainable."
"Yes, always," I responded.
In that moment the memory of the day when we had parted arose gaunt and
ghost-like. I had wronged her; I felt confident that I had. All came
back to me now--that cruel, scandalous denunciation I had uttered in the
heat of my mad jealousy--the false tale which had struck her dumb by its
circumstantial accuracy. Ah! how bitter it all was, now that punishment
was upon me! I remembered how, in the hour of my worldly triumph and of
her highest hope--at the very moment when she had spoken words of
greater affection to me than she had ever used before--I had made the
charge against her, and she had fallen back with her young heart crushed
within her. My ring was there, still glittering mockingly upon her dead
hand. By the unfounded charge I had made against her I had sinned. My
sin at that moment arose from its grave, and barred the way for ever to
all hope--to all happiness.
The summer twilight was stealing on apace, and in the silence of the
room there sounded the roar of life from the boulevard below. Men were
crying _Le Soir_ with strident voices, and all Paris was on its way to
dine, and afterwards to enjoy itself in idleness upon the terraces of
the cafes or at those al-fresco variety performances in the Avenue des
Champs Elysees, where the entrance fee includes a consommation.
Deane still held my old love's hand, bending in the dim light until his
eyes were close to it, watching intently. But I took no notice, for my
eyes were fixed upon that face that had held me in such fascination, and
had been so admired at those brilliant receptions given by King Leopold
and the Countess of Flanders. The doctor stretched forth his hand, and
of a sudden switched on the electric light. The next instant I was
startled by his loud ejaculation of surprise.
"Thank God!" he cried. "She's not dead, after all!"
"Not dead!" I gasped, unable fully to realise his meaning.
"No," he answered breathlessly. "But we must not lose a single
instant." And I saw that with a lancet he had made an incision in her
delicate wrist, and there was blood there. "She is in a state of
catalepsy, and we must do all in our power to bring her round."
"But do you think you can?" I cried.
"I hope so."
"Do your best, Dick," I implored. "Save her, for my sake."
"Rely upon me," he answered calmly, adding: "Run along to Number 18 in
the boulevard--the corner house on the right--and bring Doctor Trepard
at once. He lives au troisieme. Tell him that I sent you, and that the
matter is one of life or death." He scribbled some words on a card,
and, giving it me, added: "Tell him to bring this. Meanwhile, I will
commence artificial respiration. Go!"
"But do you think she will really recover?" I demanded.
"I can't tell. We have already lost so much time. I had no idea of the
truth. It has surprised me just as it has surprised you. This moment
is not one for words, but for actions. Don't lose an instant."
Thus urged, I snatched up my hat and tore along the boulevard like a
madman. Without difficulty I found Trepard's appartement, and on being
admitted found him a grave-faced, rather stout old Frenchman, who, on
the instant I mentioned Dick's name and gave him the card with the words
upon it, naming some drugs he required, went into an adjoining room, and
fetched a phial of tiny red pillules, which he held up to the light.
Then he put on his hat, and descended with me to the street. A fiacre
was passing, which we took, and five minutes later we were standing
together in the room where Yolande was lying.
"This is a most curious case, my dear Trepard," began Dick, speaking in
French--"a case of coma, which I have mistaken for death;" and,
continuing, he briefly explained how the patient had been found in a
state so closely resembling death that he himself had been deceived.
The old Frenchman placed his hand upon her heart, and, withdrawing it,
said:
"She's breathing now."
"Breathing!" I echoed. "Then she is recovering!"
"Yes, old fellow," Dick replied, "she is recovering--at least we hope we
shall save her." Then, turning to his colleague, he raised her hand and
pointed to the finger-nails, asking: "Do you notice anything there?"
The other, adjusting his pince-nez, bent and examined, them one by one.
"Yes," he answered at last. "A slight purple discoloration at the base
of the nails."
"And upon the lower lip does anything strike you as peculiar?"
"A yellow mark," he answered, after carefully inspecting the spot
indicated.
"And there?" Deane asked, touching the mark upon the neck.
"Very strange!" ejaculated the elder man. "It is a most unusual case."
"Yes. Have you brought the hydrated peroxide of iron?"
For answer the Frenchman produced the tiny tube, saying:
"Then you suspect poison?"
"Most certainly," he replied; and, taking a glass, he placed a single
pillule in it, dissolving it in water, which he afterwards forced
between the grey lips of my unconscious love. Afterwards he glanced at
his watch, observing: "We must give another in fifteen minutes."
Then, drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, holding her
wrist and watching her countenance for any change that might take place
there.
"Have you no idea of the nature of the poison?" I inquired eagerly.
"None," he responded. "Ask me no questions now. When we have brought
her round will be time enough. It should be sufficient for you to know
that she is not dead. Why not leave us for the present? Go and break
the good news to the Countess."
"You wish to be alone?"
"Yes. This is a serious matter. Leave us undisturbed, and on no
pretext allow her mother to enter here."
Thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still
lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite
perceptible, I left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and
sought the Countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned
plunged in grief and dark despair.
She was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight
before her. The blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely
devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead. I well knew
how deep was her affection for Yolande, and how tender was her maternal
love.
The room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the
light. As I entered I did so with her permission, saying quietly:
"Madame, I come to you with a message."
"From whom?" she asked in a hard mechanical voice.
"From my friend Deane, the English doctor whom I have summoned. Yolande
still lives!"
"She lives!" she cried, springing to her feet in an instant. "You are
deceiving me!"
"I am not, madame," I reassured her, smiling. "Your daughter is still
breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly. The doctors say
that she will probably recover."
"Thank God!" she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her. "I
pray that He may give her back to me. I will go to her."
But I held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed
a wish to remain there alone.
"But what caused that appearance so akin to death?" she asked quickly.
"At present they cannot tell," I responded. "Some deleterious substance
is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give
us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing."
"But she will recover, m'sieur?" the Countess asked. "Are you certain?"
"The chances are in her favour, the doctors say. They have given her a
drug to counteract the effect of the poison."
"Poison! Was she poisoned?" gasped the Countess.
"Poison is suspected," I answered quietly. "But calm yourself, madame.
The truth will be discovered in due course."
"I care nothing so long as Yolande is given back to me!" the distressed
woman cried. "Was it your English friend who discovered the truth?"
"Yes," I replied. "He is one of the cleverest men in Paris."
"And to him my poor Yolande will owe her life?"
"Yes, to him."
"And to you also, m'sieur? You have done your utmost for us, and I
thank you warmly for it all."
"Madame," I said earnestly, "I have done only what a man should do. You
sought my assistance, and I have given it, because--"
"Because of what?" she inquired sharply the instant I paused.
"Because I once loved her," I responded with perfect frankness.
A sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm.
"I was young once, m'sieur," she said in that calm, refined voice which
had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead
mother. "I understand your feeling--I understand perfectly. It is only
my poor daughter who does not understand. She knows that you have
forsaken her--that is all."
It was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart's
longings, yet I hesitated. I remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced
woman on the other side of the English Channel, far from the glare and
glitter of life as I knew it--the fevered life which the diplomat in
Paris is forced to lead. I remembered my troth to Edith, and my
conscience pricked me.
"Could it be possible," I reflected, "that Yolande was really in the pay
of a Government hostile to England?" Kaye was already nearing Berlin
with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a
spy, while Anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to
an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from Berlin to
Downing Street.
With a mother's solicitude the Countess could for some time only speak
of Yolande's mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my
inquiries further, I observed, during a lull in the conversation:
"At the Baroness de Chalencon's last night a friend of yours inquired
about you, madame."
"A friend? Who?"
"A man named Wolf--Rodolphe Wolf."
The next instant I saw that the mention of that name affected the mother
no less markedly than it had affected the daughter. Her face blanched;
her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment
suspicious. With marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended
ignorance.
"Wolf?" she repeated. "I do not remember the name. Possibly he is some
person we have met while travelling."
"Yolande knew him, I believe, in Brussels," I remarked. "He appeared to
be acquainted with you."
"My daughter's friends are not always mine," she remarked coldly, with
that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once
returned to the discussion of Yolande and the probability of her
recovery.
This puzzled me. I felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. She
had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. What it was,
however, I could not determine.
She was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and
pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, Dick
opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying:
"Can I speak with you a moment, Ingram?" She dashed to the door in
eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her
that Yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed.
"Perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame," he urged. "Your
daughter, I am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept
absolutely quiet. I cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext
whatsoever."
"She will not die, will she?" the woman implored distractedly.
"No," he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, I thought, "she will not
die. Of that you may rest assured."
Then turning to me, he beckoned, and I followed him out of the room.