"No," I answered, "nothing of any grave importance. I sit here to deal
with a strange variety of public business, ranging from despatches from
home down to vice-consul's worries."
"We are not at war yet," he laughed, "and we trust to you diplomatists
to keep us out of it."
I smiled, rather sadly I think. Little did my friend dream how near we
actually were to hostilities with France. But in the school of
diplomacy the first lesson taught is that of absolute secrecy; hence I
told him nothing. To be patient, to preserve silence, to be able to
give to an untruth the exact appearance of the truth, and to act a lie
so as to deceive those with the most acute intelligence on earth, are
qualifications absolutely necessary--together, of course, with the
stipulated private income of four hundred a year--for the success of the
rising diplomatist.
"We are trying to keep England out of war," I said. "Indeed, that is
the principal object of our existence. Were it not for the efforts of
Lord Barmouth, we should have been at war with the Republic long ago.
Why, scarcely a week passes but the political situation changes, and we
find ourselves, just as the French also find themselves, sitting on the
edge of the proverbial volcano. Then, by careful adjustment and
marvellous tact and finesse, matters are arranged, and once more the
ships of State sail together again into smooth waters. Only ourselves,
in this Embassy, are really alive to the heavy responsibilities resting
on the shoulders of our trusted Chief. Many a sleepless night he passes
in his own room opposite, I can assure you."
"And yet he is always merry and good-humoured, as though he hadn't a
single care in the world."
"Ah, that is owing to his long training as a diplomatist. He shows no
outward sign of anxiety, for that would betray weakness or vacillation
of policy. An ambassador's face should never be an index to his
thoughts."
He tossed his cigar-end away and rose, asking: "Where are you feeding
to-night? Can you dine with me at Ledoyen's--or at the Cafe de Paris,
if you prefer it?"
"Sorry I can't, old chap," I responded. "The Chief and I have a dinner
engagement at the Austrian Embassy. I'd much rather be with you; for,
as you know, I'm tired to death of official functions."
"You're bound to attend them, I suppose?"
"Yes, worse luck," I replied. "To be a diplomatist one must, like a
Lord Mayor, possess an ostrich's digestion."
"Well, good-bye, old chap. Sorry, you can't come," he said, smiling.
"But do buck up! I don't want to have you as a patient, you know. Take
my advice, and just forget your pretty charmer. She's leaving
to-morrow, and there's no reason on earth why you should meet again."
"But about that letter?" I suggested. "We surely ought to clear up the
mystery?"
"Let it pass," he urged. "Don't call there again, but simply forget
her. Remember, you have Edith."
His words recalled to me the fact that I had received a letter from her
that morning, and that it was still in my pocket unopened.
"Yes, I know," I exclaimed rather impatiently. "I shall, of course, try
to forget. But I fear that I shall never succeed--never!"
"Take my advice and forget it all," he cried cheerfully, clapping me on
the back. "Good-bye."
We clasped hands in a firm grip of friendship. Then he walked out, and
I was left alone.
I went to the window, and looked down into the roadway. It was a
blazing afternoon, and the streets seemed deserted. All Paris was at
Trouville, Dieppe, or Arcachon, or drinking the more or less palatable
waters in Auvergne. Paris in July is always more empty than is London
in that month, and it is certainly many degrees hotter, even though the
plashing fountains of the Place de la Concorde may give one a pleasant
feeling of refreshment in passing, and the trees of the boulevards shed
a welcome shade not found in the dusty streets of dear old grimy London.
As I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, it suddenly occurred to
me that I had still in my pocket the letter which I had found on
Yolande's little writing-table--the letter making an appointment for
five o'clock that day. I glanced at my watch, and found it was already
half-past four.
Then, taking out the note, I carefully read it through, and, after a few
moments' debate within myself, determined to stroll round and ascertain
who it was who wished so particularly to speak with her.
I do not think, now that I reflect calmly, that this determination was
prompted by any feeling of jealousy, but rather by a strong desire to
discover the truth regarding her connection with the Quai d'Orsay.
Anyhow, I brushed my hair, settled my cravat, replaced the decipher-book
in the safe, and, taking my hat, strolled out into the blazing
afternoon.
Would she herself keep the appointment, I wondered? Surely not! She
was too busy making preparations for a hasty departure. Nevertheless,
she might have sent a message to her mysterious correspondent regretting
her inability to be present. Anyhow, I was determined to watch and
ascertain for myself.
The English tea-shop in the Rue Royale is known, I daresay, to a good
many of my lady readers who go shopping in the Madeleine quarter,
bargain-hunting in the Louvre, or strolling about the grand boulevards
watching Parisian life in all its many phases. Tea such as that to
which English people are accustomed is difficult to obtain in Paris
hotels. It usually turns out to be slightly discoloured hot water,
served in a teapot upon the spout of which hangs a more or less useless
strainer. With the addition of sugar and milk, the beverage becomes
both weak to the eye and nauseous to the palate, while in the bill at a
first-class hotel the unfortunate visitor finds himself charged two
francs for "one tea simple." The English shop in the Rue Royale, known
to the Englishman in Paris as the "Bun-shop," is like Henry's, or the
American bar at the Chatham, where presides the ubiquitous Johnnie with
the small moustache, one of the institutions of the English colony. It
is a rendezvous for the ladies, just as the Chatham bar is crowded at
four o'clock by Englishmen resident in the gay capital, with a
sprinkling of those misguided and decadent Paris youths who term
themselves Orleanists and play at political conspiracy.
The "Bun-shop" is generally full from four to five, be it summer or
winter. In the season it is patronised largely by chic Parisiennes and
their male encumbrances, generally laden with small parcels; while in
summer the British tourists in their blouses and short tailor-made
skirts, which serve alike for the boulevards and the Alps, seem to scent
it out and make it their habitual house of call.
When I strolled in, the crowd at the little tables mostly hailed from
those essentially British hotels in the Rue Caumartin. Being a
Britisher, I naturally hesitate to criticise the get-up of the tourist
to Paris. But it is always a matter of speculation to those of us who
live abroad why our compatriot, who would not be seen in a golf-cap in
the Strand or Piccadilly, invariably sports one when he patronises the
boulevards, and conducts himself, when in what he calls "gay Paree," in
a fashion which often makes one think that he has left his manners
behind in England together with his silk hat. The fair-faced English
girl in cotton blouse and straw hat is always a common object in the
"Bun-shop," and on this afternoon she was predominant, and the chatter
in English was general.
I found one of the little tables free, and, discovering an illustrated
paper, sat with it before me, making an examination of each little group
visible from my seat. Not a single person, however, excited my
suspicion. Apparently no one was waiting, save a girl in black, a
Parisienne evidently, who, being joined presently by a gentleman,
finished her tea and went forth.
The clock showed it to be already five, and as I sat sipping my cup and
feigning to read the _Graphic_, I became more and more convinced that
Yolande, finding herself unable to keep the appointment, had sent an
excuse.
About me sounded the gossip which one always hears among the feminine
tourists in Paris: the criticisms of the Louvre museum, the eulogies of
the "lovely things" in the Rue de la Paix, and the delight at wonderful
bargains obtained at the Bon Marche. It is always the same. The tide
of tourists is never-ceasing; and the impression which Paris makes upon
the Englishman or Englishwoman is always exactly similar. Those who
spend a fortnight in the City of Pleasure always believe life there to
be a round of gaiety punctuated by fetes de nuit with Moulin Rouge
attractions. These idolaters should live a year in Paris, when they
would soon discover that the French capital quickly becomes far more
monotonous than their own much-abused London.
The hands of the clock moved very slowly, and by degrees I got through
the whole of the cup-marked illustrated literature of the establishment.
Many of the merry gossips had risen and departed, and at half-past five
only two little groups remained.
At length a smart victoria stopped before the door, and a dark, rather
handsome, middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman descended, and, entering,
took a seat. Her style was not English, that was certain; and by the
fact that she took lemon with her tea I judged her to be Russian,
although she addressed the waiter with an accent purely Parisian. Her
footman stood at the door with the carriage-rug over his arm. From the
inquisitive expression of her face I judged it to be the first time she
had visited the tea-shop.
Could she be waiting for Yolande? I made a close examination of her
face, and saw that although she was just a trifle made-up, as are most
Parisiennes, she was nevertheless good-looking. She sipped her tea
leisurely, nibbled a biscuit, and was readjusting her veil by twisting
it beneath her chin, when suddenly the silhouette of a figure appeared
in the open doorway.
I glanced up quickly over the top of my piper, and in an instant
recognised the new-comer, who looked very smart in his well-cut
frock-coat, silk hat, and light grey suede gloves. He hesitated for an
instant on the threshold and glanced swiftly around. No sooner had his
eyes fallen upon the woman sitting there than he turned instantly, went
out, and was next moment lost to sight.
The man who had stood in the doorway during that brief moment, and who
had apparently retreated owing to the presence of the woman whose
carriage was awaiting her, was none other than the individual whose
arrival in Paris was so inexplicable--the man known as Rodolphe Wolf.