Sixty kilometres from Paris, just off that straight and noble highway
that runs through the heart of the magnificent forest, and passes
through the old-world town of Fontainebleau--where Napoleon signed his
abdication--through the mediaeval, crumbling gates of Moret, and away
far south to Lyons, rises the fine old Chateau of Chantoiseau. Half-way
between the clean little village of By, standing in the midst of its
well-kept vineyards, and the river-hamlet of Thomery, it occupies a
commanding position on the summit of a cliff, where far below winds the
Seine, on past Valvins and Samois, until it becomes lost like a silver
thread among the dark woodlands in the direction of Paris.
The position of the splendid old place is superb. From its windows can
be obtained a view of the great forest stretching away to the horizon on
the left, while to the right is the valley of the Seine, and across the
river spread the smiling vineyards with their white walls--the vineyards
of Champagne. The house, a long, rambling place with circular towers,
has been historical for many centuries. Once the property of Madame La
Pompadour, in the days when the splendours of the Palace of
Fontainebleau were world-renowned, a latter-day interest also attaches
to it, inasmuch as it was the headquarters of the German Crown Prince
during the advance of the Prussians upon Paris. Its grounds, sloping
down, enclose part of the forest itself; therefore, during the blazing
days of August one lives actually in the woods. The forest is an
enormous one, and even to-day there still remain many parts unexplored,
where the wolf and wild boar retreat in summer, and where even that most
ubiquitous forester, the viper-hunter--the man whose profession it is to
kill vipers and sell them at the local mairie--has never penetrated. In
the whole of the great forest, however, no spot is more charming or more
picturesque than that in which the chateau is situated. It is not a
show-place, like Barbison or the Gorges de Franchard, but entirely rural
and secluded--on the one side the open valley, on the other the dark
forest, where in the tunnel-like alleys the trees meet overhead, and
where the shady highroads to the painter colony at Marlotte and to
Bois-le-Roi are perfect paradises for the cyclist.
Chantoiseau itself is not a village, not even a hamlet, only a big
old-fashioned cottage in which the forest-guards live. Above it, on the
high ground beyond, stands the fine old chateau. Many of those who read
my story have driven or cycled in the forest, and many have no doubt
given the great old place a passing glance before plunging deep into
those leafy glades that lead to Fontainebleau. If when you have driven
past you have inquired of your cocher, "Who lives there?" he has
probably only shrugged his shoulders and replied: "Servants only.
Madame la Princesse, alas! seldom comes," and you have gone on your way,
as many others have done, wondering why such a beautiful old place
should be neglected by its owner.
One hot evening at sundown, about three weeks after the President's
ball, I strolled slowly beside the Princess down the hill, entering the
forest by that well-kept cross-road which leads by the Carrefour de la
Croix de Montmorin straight to the pretty village of Montigny on the
Loing.
Contrary to expectation, no immediate result had accrued from the
mysterious theft of the secret instructions to Lord Barmouth; hence I
had obtained leave and accepted my hostess's invitation, although I was
compelled to spend two days each week at the Embassy, going up to Paris
in the morning and returning by the six o'clock express from the Gare de
Lyon. That some result of the exposure of our policy must certainly
make itself felt we knew quite well, but at present the political
atmosphere seemed clearer, and by the fact that several of the
ambassadors had left Paris considerable confidence had been established.
Yet in those sultry August days the war-cloud still hung over Europe
and the representative of Her Majesty was compelled, as he ever is, to
exercise the greatest tact and the utmost finesse in order to preserve
peace with honour. Truly, the office of British Ambassador in Paris is
no sinecure, for upon him rests much of the responsibility of England's
position in Europe and her prestige among nations, while to him is
entrusted the difficult duty of negotiating amicably with a nation
openly and avowedly hostile to British interests and British prosperity.
Those summer days, so sunny, happy, and pleasant, in the forest depths
at Chantoiseau, were, nevertheless, perplexing ones for the rulers of
Europe. The stifling air was the oppression before the storm. I had
more than once chatted in the billiard-room with my fellow guests, the
German and Austrian Ambassadors, and both had agreed that the outlook
was serious, and that the storm-cloud was upon the political horizon.
But life at the chateau was full of enjoyment. The Princess, a born
hostess, knew exactly whom to invite, and her house-parties were always
congenial gatherings. There was riding, cycling, tennis, boating,
billiards; indeed, something to suit all tastes, while she contented
herself with looking on and seeing that all her guests enjoyed
themselves.
A riding-party had gone over to Montigny, and after tea the Princess had
suggested that I should accompany her for a stroll down into the forest
to meet them. She was dressed simply in a washing-dress of pale blue
linen, and wore a sailor-hat, so that with her fair hair bound tightly
she presented quite an English appearance, save perhaps for her figure
and gait, both of which were eminently foreign. The feet that all Paris
had admired two years ago were encased in stout walking-boots, and she
carried a light cane, walking with all the suppleness of youth.
Soon we left the full glory of the mellow sunset flooding the Seine
valley, and entered the forest road where the high trees met and
interlaced above, and where the golden light, filtering through the
screen of foliage, illuminated here and there the deeper shadows, struck
straight upon the brilliant green of the bracken, married with the
greyness on the lichen-covered trunks, and kissed the leaves with golden
lips. Birds were twittering farewells to the day, and here and there a
red-brown squirrel, startled by our presence, darted from bough to bough
with tail erect, while on each side of the road was a carpet of moss and
wild-flowers. The sweet odour of the woods greeted our nostrils, and we
inhaled it in a deep draught, for that gloomy shade was delightfully
cool and refreshing after the blazing heat of the stifling day. As I
had been compelled to attend to some official correspondence, I had not
joined the riding-party. The Princess had given some half-dozen of us
tea in the hall, and, while the others had gone off to play tennis, she
and I had been left alone.
Suddenly, as we walked along in the coolness, she turned to me, saying
in a tone of reproach:
"Gerald, you have hidden from me the true seriousness of the situation
at your Embassy. Why?"
"Well," I answered, facing her in surprise, "we do not generally discuss
our fears, you know. Others might profit by the knowledge."
"But surely you might have confided in me?" she said gravely.
"Then de Wolkenstein has told you?"
"He has told me nothing," she answered. "But I am, nevertheless, aware
of all that has come to pass. I know, too, that since my absence at
Rudolstadt you have fallen in love."
"Well?" I inquired.
She shrugged her well-formed shoulders as if to indicate that such a
thing was beyond her comprehension.
"Is it a disaster, do you think?" I asked.
"You yourself should know that," she replied in a strained tone. "It
seems, however, that you do not exercise your usual discretion in your
love-affairs."
"What do you mean, Leonie?" I demanded quickly, halting and looking at
her. Who, I wondered, had told her the truth? To which of my loves did
she refer--the spy or the traitress?
"I mean exactly what I have said," she answered quite calmly. "If you
had confided in me I might perhaps have used my influence in preventing
the inevitable."
"The inevitable!" I echoed. "What is that?"
"A combination of the Powers against England," she replied quickly. "As
you know well enough, Gerald, I have facilities for learning much that
is hidden from even your accredited representatives. Therefore, I tell
you this, that at this moment there is a plan arranged to upset British
diplomacy in all four capitals and to ruin British prestige. It is a
bold plan, and I alone outside the conspirators am aware of it. If
carried out, England must either declare war or lose her place as the
first nation in the world. Recollect these words of mine, for I am not
joking at this moment. To-day is the blackest that Europe has ever
known."
She had halted in the path, and spoke with an earnestness that held me
bewildered.
"A conspiracy against us!" I gasped. "What is it? Tell me of it?"
"No," she answered. "At present I cannot. Suffice it for you to know
that I alone am aware of the truth, and that I alone, if I so desire,
can thwart their plans and turn their own weapons against them."
"You can?" I cried. "You will do it! Tell me the truth--for my sake.
I have been foolish, I know, Leonie; but tell me. If it is really
serious, no time must be lost."
"Serious?" she echoed. "It is so serious that I doubt whether the
present month will pass before war is declared."
"By England?"
"Yes. Your country will be forced into a conflict which must prove
disastrous. The plan is the most clever and most dastardly ever
conceived by your enemies, and this time no diplomatic efforts will
succeed in staving off the tragedy, depend upon it."
"Are both Wolkenstein and de Hindenburg aware of the plot?"
"I presume so. I have watched carefully, but have, however, discovered
nothing to lead me to believe that they understand how near Europe is to
an armed conflict."
"Then your information is not from Wolkenstein?"
"No, from a higher source."
"From your Emperor?"
She nodded.
"Then this accounts for your sudden reappearance among us?" I said.
"You may put my presence down to that, if you wish," she replied. "But
promise me, on your word of honour, that you will not breathe a single
word to a soul--not even to Lord Barmouth."
"If you impose silence upon me, Leonie, it shall be as you wish. But
you have just said that you can assist me. How?"
"I can do so--if I choose," she responded thoughtfully, drawing the
profile of a man's face in the dust with the ferrule of her
walking-stick.
"You speak strangely," I said--"almost as though you do not intend to do
me this service. Surely you will not withhold from me intelligence
which might enable me to rescue my country from the machination of its
enemies?"
"And why, pray, should I betray my own country in order to save yours?"
she asked in a cold tone.
I was nonplussed. For a moment I could not reply. At last, however, I
answered in a low, earnest tone:
"Because we are friends, Leonie."
"Mere friendship does not warrant one turning traitor," she replied.
"But Austria is not the prime mover of this conspiracy," I said. "The
rulers of another nation have formed the plot. Tell me which of the
Powers is responsible?"
"No," she answered with a slight hauteur. "As you have thought fit to
preserve certain secrets from me, I shall keep this knowledge to
myself."
"What secrets have I withheld from you?" I inquired, dismayed.
"Secrets concerning your private affairs."
I knew well that she referred to my passion for Yolande. For a moment I
hesitated, until words rose to my lips and I answered:
"Surely my private affairs are of little interest to you! Why should I
trouble you with them?"
"Because we are friends, are we not?" she said, looking straight into my
face with those fine eyes which half Europe had admired when le pied de
la Princesse had been the catchword of Paris.
"Most certainly, Leonie," I agreed. "And I hope that our friendship
will last always."
"It cannot if you refuse to confide in me and sometimes to seek my
advice."
"But you, in your position, going hither and thither, with hosts of
friends around you, can feel no real interest in my doings?" I
protested.
"Friends!" she echoed in a voice of sarcasm. "Do you call these people
friends? My guests at this moment are not friends. Because of my
position--because I am popular, and it is considered chic to stay at
Chantoiseau--because I have money, and am able to amuse them, they come
to me, the men to bow over my hand, and the women to call me their `dear
Princess.' Bah! they are not friends. The diplomatic set come because
it is a pleasant mode of passing a few weeks of summer, while still
within hail of Paris; and the others--well, they are merely the
entourage which every fashionable woman unconsciously gathers about
her."
"Then among them all you have no friend?" Again she turned her fine
eyes upon me, and in a low but distinct tone declared:
"Only yourself, Gerald."
"I hope, Leonie, that I shall always prove myself worthy of your
friendship," I answered, impressed by her sudden seriousness.
Her face had grown pale, and she had uttered those words with all
possible earnestness.
Then we walked on together in the silence of the darkening gloom of the
forest. The ruddy light of the dying day struggled through the foliage,
the birds had ceased their song, and the stillness of night had already
fallen. We were each full of our own thoughts, and neither uttered a
word.
Suddenly she halted again, and, gripping my arm, looked up into my face.
I started, for upon her pale countenance I saw a look of desperation
such as I had never before seen there.
"Gerald!" she cried hoarsely, "why do you treat me like this? You
cannot tell how I suffer, or you would have pity upon me! Surely you
cannot disguise from yourself the truth, even though your coldness
forces me to tell you with my own lips. You know well my position--that
of a woman drifting here and there, open to the calumnies of my enemies
and the scandalous tales invented by so-called friends; a woman who has
borne great trials and who is still, alas! unhappy! Of my honesty you
yourself shall judge. You have heard whispers regarding my doings--
escapades they have been called--and possibly you have given them
credence. If you have, I cannot help it. There are persons around us
always who delight in besmirching a woman's reputation, especially if
she has the misfortune to be born of princely family. But I tell you
that all the tales you have heard are false. I--"
Suddenly she covered her face with her hands; the words seemed to choke
her, and she burst into tears.
"No, no, Leonie!" I said with deep sympathy, bending down to whisper in
her ear and taking her hand in mine. "No one believes in those foul
calumnies. Your honour is too well known."
"You do not believe them--you will never believe them, will you?" she
asked quickly through her tears.
"Of course not. I have denied them many times when they have been
repeated to me."
"Ah!" she cried, "I know you are always generous to a woman, Gerald."
Then again a long silence fell between us. Presently, with a sudden
impulse, she raised her tear-stained face to mine, and with a look of
fierce desperation in her eyes implored:
"Gerald, will you not give me one single word? Will you still remain
cold and indifferent?" As she said this, her breast rose and fell in
agitation.