Upon my table a letter was lying. The handwriting I recognised
instantly as Edith's, and not without a feeling of anger and impatience
I tore it open in expectation. Long and rambling, it upbraided me for
leaving her without a single reassuring word, and declared that my
refusal to kiss her at parting had filled her heart with a bitter and
uncontrollable grief. As I read, memories of those midnight hours, of
my walk to that distant village, and of my meeting with that shabby
lover crowded upon me, and the impassioned words she had written made no
impression upon me. I had steeled my heart against her. She had played
me false, and I could never forgive.
"_I know I have been foolish, Gerald_," she wrote, "_but you misjudge me
because of an indiscretion. You believe that the man with whom you saw
me last night was my lover; yet you left me without allowing me to make
any explanation. Is this right? Is it just? You know how well I love
you, and that without you my life is but a hopeless blank. Can you,
knowing that I love you thus, believe me capable of such duplicity as
you suspect? I feel that you cannot. I feel that when you come to
consider calmly all the circumstances you will find in your own honest
heart one grain of pity and sympathy for the one woman who loves you so
dearly. Write to me, for I cannot live without a word from you, because
I love no other man but you_?"
I crushed the letter in my hand, then slowly tore it into fragments. I
had no confidence in her protestations--none. My dream of love was
over.
We often hear it remarked that those who are themselves perfectly true
and artless are in this world the more easily and frequently deceived.
I have always held this to be a commonplace fallacy, for we shall ever
find that truth is as undeceived as it is undeceiving, and that those
who are true to themselves and others may now and then be mistaken, or,
in particular instances, duped by the intervention of some other
affection or quality of the mind; but that they are generally free from
illusion, and are seldom imposed upon in the long run by the show of
things and by the superficies of any character.
There was a curious contradiction in Edith's character, arising from the
contrast between her natural disposition and the situation in which she
was placed, which corroborated my doubts. Her simplicity of language,
her admission of an "indiscretion," the inflexible resolution with which
she asserted her right, her soft resignation to unkindness and wrong,
and her warmth of temper breaking through the meekness of a spirit
subdued by a deep sense of religion,--all these qualities, opposed yet
harmonising, helped to increase my distrust of her. To me that letter
seemed full of a dexterous sophistry exerted in order to ward off my
accusations. Her remorse was without repentance; it arose from the pang
of a wounded conscience, the recoil of the violated feelings of nature,
the torture of self-condemnation.
The fragments of the letter I tossed into the waste-paper basket, and,
putting on my hat, went down to the Grand Cafe to idle away an hour
among friends accustomed to make the place a rendezvous in the
afternoon.
On entering, I found Deane sitting at a table alone, his carriage
awaiting him at the door. He was having a hasty drink during his round
of visits, and hailed me lustily.
"Sit down a moment, Ingram," he cried. "I want to see you."
"What about?" I inquired, lighting the cigarette he handed me.
"About that curious incident in the Rue de Courcelles--Mademoiselle de
Foville's strange attack."
"Well, what of it?" I asked eagerly.
"Strangely enough a man, who proved to be an Englishman giving himself
the name of Payne, was brought to the Hotel Dieu three nights ago in
what appeared to be a cataleptic state. He had, it seemed, been found
by the police lying on the pavement in the Boulevard St. Germain, and
was at first believed to be dead. Some letters in English being found
upon him, I was called, and upon examination discovered exactly the same
symptoms as those which mademoiselle your friend had displayed. I was
enabled, therefore, to administer an antidote, and within twelve hours
the man had sufficiently recovered to take his discharge. The case has
excited the greatest possible interest at the hospital, for I had
previously submitted a portion of the solution obtained from the
envelope which mademoiselle had used to Professor Ferrari, of Florence,
the greatest authority on toxicology in the world, and he had declared
it to be an entirely unknown, but most potent, poison."
"Who was the Englishman? Did he tell you nothing?"
"No. Unfortunately the hospital authorities allowed him to leave before
I deemed it wise to question him. I read the letters found upon him,
however; but they conveyed nothing, except that he had been recently
living somewhere in the neighbourhood of Hackney."
"Then you have no idea of the manner in which the poison was
administered?" I said, disappointed.
"His right hand was rather swollen, from which I concluded that he had
accidentally touched some object impregnated with the fatal compound."
"You don't know its composition yet?"
"No. Ferrari is trying to discover it, but at present has failed. The
fact of a second person suffering from it is in itself very mysterious.
I intended to call upon you this evening and tell you all about it."
"The affair is extraordinary," I admitted. "I wonder whether the same
person who made the attempt upon Yolande's life is responsible for the
attempt upon the Englishman? What can be the motive?"
"Ah! that's impossible to tell. All we know is that some unknown person
in Paris has in his or her possession a deadly compound capable of
producing catalepsy and subsequent death in a manner most swift and
secret. In order to ascertain whether any other person is attacked in
the same manner, I have sent letters to the Direction of all the
hospitals in Paris explaining the case, and asking that if any similar
cases are brought to them for treatment, I may be at once communicated
with."
"An excellent precaution," I said. "By that means we shall be able to
watch the progress of the mysterious criminal."
"You have heard nothing from Mademoiselle Yolande?"
"Nothing," I said.
"Hers was a curious case," he remarked. "But the man Payne's was
equally strange. It appears that he made no statement to either police
or hospital authorities before he left. He only said that he was
walking along the boulevard and suddenly fell to the ground insensible."
"You think he had some motive in preserving silence?" I inquired
quickly.
"Yes, I feel sure of it. I only wish I could rediscover him. They were
foolish to allow him to take his discharge before giving me an
opportunity of concluding my investigations. It was simply owing to
professional jealousy. English medical men are not liked in Paris
hospitals. But I must be off," he said, rising. "Good-bye."
Then he went out, and, entering his carriage, drove away.
Volkouski, the Russian attache, was sitting close by, and I crossed to
him, greeting him merrily. He was a good fellow--a thorough
cosmopolitan, who had been trained in the smartest school of diplomacy--
namely, the Embassy in London, which is presided over by that prince
among diplomatists, Monsieur de Staal. Whatever may be said regarding
the relations between Russia and England as nations, it cannot be denied
that in the European capitals the staffs of the embassies of both Powers
are always on terms of real friendship. I make no excuse for repeating
this. The mutual courtesy of the representatives of the two nations is
not, as in the case of those of France, Germany, and Austria, mere
diplomatic manoeuvring, but in most instances a sound understanding and
a deep personal regard. England, Russia, and Italy have interests in
common, hence their representatives fraternise, even though certain
journals may create all sorts of absurd scares regarding what they are
pleased to term the "aggressive policy of Russia." This is a stock
journalistic expression, as meaningless as it is absurd. We who are "in
the know" at the embassies smile when we read those alarmist articles,
purporting to give all sorts of wild plans, which exist only in the
imagination of the leader-writer. There is, indeed, one London journal
known in the Russian Embassies on the Continent as _The Daily Abuser_,
because of its intensely Russophobe tone. Fortunately nobody takes it
seriously.
I chatted with Volkouski, sipping a mazagran the while. He was, I
found, full of projects for his leave. His chief had already left
Paris, and he himself was going home to Moscow for a month. Every
diplomatist on service abroad gets homesick after a time, and looks
forward to his leave with the same pleasurable anticipation of the
schoolboy going for his summer holidays. To escape from the shadow of a
throne or the ceaseless chatter of an over-democratic Republic is always
a happy moment for the wearied attache or worried secretary of embassy.
One longs for a respite from the glare and glitter of the official world
of uniforms and Court etiquette, and looks forward to rambles in the
country in flannels and without a collar, to lazy afternoons upon the
river, or after-luncheon naps in a hammock beneath a tree. To the tired
diplomatist, sick of formalities, and with the stifling dust of the
ballroom over his heart, the expression "en campagne" conveys so very
much.
Shortly before midnight I stepped from a fiacre and ascended the broad
steps of the Elysee. Tired as I was of the ceaseless whirl of the City
of Pleasure, it nevertheless amused me to fix the physiognomy of the
great official fetes. They are inevitably banales, of course; but there
is always a piquancy of detail and of contrast that is interesting.
If one wishes to see what a mixed crowd is like, there is no better
illustration than the flocks of guests at the Elysee balls. Ah! what a
crowd it was that night! What dresses! What a public! I know, of
course, that it can never be otherwise under the present democratic
regime. One man, who came on foot and whose boots were muddy, forgot to
turn down the tucked-up ends of his trousers. People were walking about
with their hands in their pockets, jostling each other without a word of
excuse. Many were touching the furniture, and feeling the curtains and
tapestry with that sans-gene which so disgusted Gambetta with his former
friends. You could see that they were determined not to appear
astonished at anything, and that, after all, they were at home in the
Elysee. They were of the detestable breed of cafe politicians, of
loud-voiced orators at party meetings, of successful carpet-baggers, who
render the ideas of equality and fraternity at times insufferable.
Before the buffet these fellows displayed themselves as goujats--cads--
plain and simple. They grabbed for sandwiches, for biscuits, for
glasses of champagne across the shoulders of ladies in front of them, or
even elbowed them aside to get to the front row--and stop there. In the
smoking-room the boxes of cigars were gone in the twinkling of an eye.
One man struck his match on the wall. With these odd guests about it is
not surprising that the Budget writes off a certain sum every year for
articles that have disappeared from the buffets.
Whew! the heat there was insufferable!
In my search for Sibyl I passed through the antechamber. The footmen
wore new livery. I saw none of those restaurant waiters who used, in
the time of ce pauvre Monsieur Faure, to be employed at twenty francs
the evening, supper included. Yes, things had slightly improved, but
the crush was terrific. I made my way to the Salon des Aides-de-Camp,
that historic chamber where, in the armchairs still furnishing the room,
on the night of the coup d'etat, sat, a prey to mortal anxiety, Morny,
Persigny, Saint Arnaud, Pietri, Rouher, King Jerome, and the Prince
President.
The Japanese military attache, walking before me, mixed himself up
somehow with his sabre, and fell. This contretemps was greeted, as at a
theatre, with laughter. Someone cried, "Oh, la la!" as if the stumble
were a very clever bit of clowning indeed. The unhappy Japanese looked
as if he wished the floor would swallow him.
I struggled up and paid my respects to the President, who was standing
in the centre of the salon. Smiling, affable, displaying a simplicity
that was real and unaffected, and yet devoid of mere familiarity, his
bow and hand-shake were perfect. He struck the right note. I was
impressed, moreover, by his sense of proportion. A little more
cordiality, and he would cease to be Chief of the State. A little more
solemnity, and he would be stilted. It is a little hard to convey the
distinction; but imagine, on the one hand, a host who wants to make you
forget his official position, and on the other a President of the
Republic who is determined to be a good host. For well-bred people
there is always a well-defined shade of difference between these two;
and the President was the latter.
While turning away I suddenly came face to face with Monsieur Mollard,
the chef-adjoint of the Protocol, who greeted me affably and commenced
to tell me the latest story of General de Galliffet, Minister of War.
"It is amusing," he laughed. "You must hear it, M'sieur Ingram. The
General arrived at his club, the Union, last night, and for some reason
or another his former friends were more than usually cold in their
treatment of him. After saying a bonjour to one and the other of them,
and receiving a curt reply here and a snub there, the Minister of War
realised this. But he took their coolness coolly. With his back to the
fireplace he said quietly, by way of bringing home to his friends the
absurdity of their attitude: `You may come near me. Je ne sens pas
mauvais--I don't smell bad. You see, there was no Cabinet to-day!' Is
it not excellent?"
I smiled. It was a purely French joke. Mollard was always full of
droll stories. Every diplomatist in Paris knew him as the keeper of the
Elysee traditions, as guardian of its unwritten law by inheritance, his
father having been, under other presidencies, the official known as
introducteur des ambassadeurs. When a question of precedence puzzled
the plebeian bigwigs at the Quai d'Orsay--the Foreign Office--it was
Monsieur Mollard who would run to the archives to look it up. Nature
had not, however, endowed him with a demeanour befitting his office, for
he wore his uniform as awkwardly as a middle-aged volunteer officer, and
looked more like a clerk than a chamberlain. But when he spoke he
dragged on the mute syllables as French actors are taught to do in
delivering Racine. He put three "l's" in "Excellence" and four "r's" in
"Protocol." For the rest, he was a good fellow, much liked in the
diplomatic circle, although many jokes had from time to time been played
at his expense. Presently, after we had been talking for a few moments,
I inquired whether he had seen Sibyl.
"Ah, no! I regret, m'sieur," he answered. "But a lady who is sitting
over in the Salon Diplomatique has just inquired of me whether you are
present."
"A lady? What is her name?"
"I know her by sight, but cannot recall her name," he responded. "She
is a grande dame, however."
"Young or old?"
"Young. You will find her in the salon talking with Count Tornelli, the
Italian Ambassador. You will easily recognise her. She is wearing a
costume of black, trimmed with silver. She told me that she desired to
speak with you particularly, and that I was to tell you of her
presence."
"But you don't know her?" I laughed.
"Go and see," he answered. "You probably know her;" and, smiling, he
turned away.
My curiosity being aroused, I struggled through the throng until I
reached the spot indicated. Only the diplomatic corps and distinguished
guests were allowed there, and the other guests, huddled together before
the open door, were pointing out well-known personages.
I looked in, and in a moment saw before me the striking figure in black
and silver. No second glance was needed to recognise who she was. For
a moment I stood in hesitation; then, with a sudden resolve, entered,
and, walking straight up, bowed low before her.