An hour later I was seated in my room at the Embassy staring blankly at
the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. I loved
Yolande--nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to
allow me to resume my place at her side. At one moment it seemed to me
as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another
I could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct
suspicion. My love's strange words were in themselves a sufficient
self-condemnation. Her service as a political agent had been secured by
one or other of the Powers--France, I suspected; and, to put it plainly,
she was a spy!
This knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. Of all the women I
had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of
our diplomacy, Yolande was certainly the chief. The events which had
culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery.
Why had she done this? Who had tempted her or forced her to it?
Those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a
woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and I, loving her so
fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. There was
an affinity between us that I knew might some day prove fatal.
But we had parted. She had announced her intention of leaving Paris,
accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored
that I would never seek her again.
"I shall take care to evade you," she had said. "To-day we meet for the
last time. We must each go our own way and strive our hardest to
forget."
Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible. When a man has loved as
ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are
carried to the grave. You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten
days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance,
with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair
one who in youth's golden days was your all in all. The sound of a
song, the momentary perfume from a woman's chiffons as she passes, the
sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those
hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and
seemed to have been made for you alone. You recollect her sweet smile,
her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her
kisses. The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged
with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has
fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is
already dead. The most charming reflection permitted to man is the
memory of a half-forgotten love.
I had been a fool. This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there
ruminating. I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a
diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated
marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent.
My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to
wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control.
True, indeed, it is that love is blind.
I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent
letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and
declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. What mad words
I wrote I almost forget. All I know is that even then I could not hold
back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she
hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. I tried to put the letter
aside for calmer reflection, but could not. My pen ran on, recording
the eloquence of my heart. Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for
the messenger of the Embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to
her.
"There is no answer, m'sieur?" the man inquired.
"None," I answered.
Then the door closed again, and I was alone.
Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman
who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. Fate
had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my
life.
Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: "Doctor Deane has
called, and wishes to see you, sir."
I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came
across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.
"Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!" he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise,
"what's the matter? You don't look yourself."
"Oh, nothing," I answered with ill-feigned carelessness. "A bit
worried, that's all."
"Worried over mademoiselle--eh?" he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.