Late that night, after the Princess and most of her guests had retired,
I entered the billiard-room to get my cigarette-case, which I had left
there while playing pool earlier in the evening, and on opening the door
found the two Ambassadors Wolkenstein and Hindenburg seated together in
the long lounge-chairs in earnest conversation. They were speaking in
German, and as I entered I overheard the words "in such a manner as to
crush the English power on the sea." They were uttered by the German
representative, and were certainly ominous. It was apparent that both
men were aware of the gigantic conspiracy of which the Princess had told
me--the plot which aimed at the downfall of our nation. I could see,
too, that my sudden entry had disconcerted them, for they both moved
uneasily and glanced quickly at each other as though fearing I had
overheard some part of what had passed between them. Then Wolkenstein
with skilful tact cried in French:
"Ah, my dear Ingram! we thought we alone were the late birds to-night.
Come here and chat;" and at the same time he pulled forward one of the
long cane chairs, into which, thus bidden, I sank.
What, I wondered, had been the exchange of view's between these two
noted diplomatists? The faces of both were sphinx-like. Our talk at
first dealt with nothing more important than the journey across the
forest to Barbison which our hostess had arranged for the morrow. I
knew, however, that the conversation held before my entrance had been
about the European situation. Those men were England's enemies. My
impulse was to rise abruptly and leave them; but it is always the
diplomatist's duty to remain cool, and watch, even though he may be
compelled to hobnob with the bitterest opponents of his native land.
Therefore I remained, and, concealing my antipathy, lit a cigar and lay
back in my chair, carelessly gossiping about the usual trivialities
which form the subject of house-party chatter.
"The Princess looked rather pale to-night, I thought," exclaimed Count
de Hindenburg suddenly. "She seemed quite worried."
"With a chateau full of guests the life of a hostess is not always
devoid of care," I remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the
ceiling.
I alone knew the reason of her paleness and anxiety, and was eager to
ascertain what deductions these two shrewd men had made.
"To me," observed the representative of the Emperor Francis Joseph, "it
seemed as though the Princess had been shedding tears. Didn't you
notice that her eyes were just a trifle swollen?" and, turning to me, he
added: "She scarcely spoke to you at dinner. Are you the culprit,
Ingram?"
Both men laughed.
"Certainly not," I denied. "Madame has a touch of nerves, I suppose--
that's all. Such a malady is common among women."
"She looked quite worn out by fatigue," declared Wolkenstein.
"Because she is never still a single moment in the day. Her thoughts
are always for her guests--how to amuse them and to give them a pleasant
time. It was the same two years ago," I said.
"Remarkable woman--quite remarkable!" exclaimed de Hindenburg. "She had
sufficient trouble with the rheumatic old Prince to turn any woman's
hair grey; but, on the contrary, she seems now to become younger every
day. She's still one of the prettiest women in Europe."
"Everyone admits that, of course," I said.
They exchanged glances, and I fancied that these looks were unusually
significant. A flood of recollections of the sunset hour in the forest
surged within my mind--how I had striven with firmness to release
myself, and how I had been forced to turn away and leave the Princess.
In that deep gloom, when the rosy afterglow was fading and the light
within the leafy glade so dim that all objects were indistinct, I had
seen her wild passion in all its magnificence. Her eyes had burned with
the fierce, all-consuming fire of love, her cheeks were white and cold,
and her words as reckless as they were passionate. She had charged me
with entertaining affection for some other woman--a woman unworthy of my
love, she had said with distinct meaning, as though she knew the
duplicity of Yolande; and she had sworn an oath with clenched hands to
compel me to reciprocate her passion.
The scene between us was one of unreason and of folly. She had been
overwhelmed by the impulse of the moment, and I had bowed and left her,
my heart full of conflicting emotions, my head reeling. She had
suddenly twisted her soft arms about my neck and clung to me, whispering
her love and declaring that I was cruel, cold, with a heart like
adamant. But I had flung her off, and we had not met until two hours
later, when I sat at her right hand at dinner, during which she had
scarcely addressed a single word to me.
My companions had, of course, noticed this, and appeared to have
cleverly guessed my refusal to accept the offer of the Princess. They
little knew the terms upon which she had attempted to make a compact
with me--that she was ready to betray them in return for my love.
I smoked on in silence and in wonder. The situation certainly presented
a problem which I was utterly unable to solve. That the affections of
such a woman as the Princess von Leutenberg were not to be trifled with
I knew well, for women of her temperament are capable of anything when
once they love with a fierce, uncontrollable, reckless passion such as
she had seen fit to display that evening in the deep silence of the
forest. Her proposition had, indeed, been a startling one. She had
offered me the secret of the plot in return for my love!
With my two companions I chatted on until nearly two o'clock; then we
separated, and I passed through the long oak corridors to my room. Upon
the dressing-table I found a note lying. It was sealed with black wax,
with the Leutenberg arms. I tore it open. It gave out an odour of
fresh violets, and I saw instantly that the handwriting was Leonie's.
"_I have been foolish in my confession to you, Gerald_," she wrote in
French. "_But my heart was so full that I could conceal the truth no
longer. I saw from your manner at dinner to-night that you despise me,
and intend to hold me at a distance as an unwelcome woman who has flung
herself into your arms. But I cannot help it. The misfortune--nay, the
curse upon me--is that I love you. Would to Heaven that I did not!
Because of you I have forgotten eatery thing--my duty to myself as a
woman, my duty to my family as one of a noble house, my duty to my
country, my duty to my Creator. When I left Paris long ago, I crossed
the Atlantic, resolved to forget you; but all was in vain. I returned
to Rudolstadt and shut myself up in retirement, striving to wean myself
from the mad passion which had arisen within me. All, however, was
futile, and at last I broke the bonds and returned to Paris. A month
has gone by, and now I have told you the truth; I have confessed.
To-morrow morning at eleven I shall walk alone through the forest, along
the road that leads to By. My offer to you--an offer made, I admit, in
desperation--still stands. If you accept it you will be enabled to save
your country from her enemies, and we shall both find peace and
happiness; if not, then the plot will be carried out, and at least one
woman's life will be wrecked--the solitary and unhappy woman who writes
these lines and whose name is Leonie_."
She had written that letter calmly and coolly, for the handwriting
showed no haste. Evidently she had penned it in the seclusion of her
chamber, and Suzanne, her maid, had placed it upon my dressing-table.
I stood with the letter in my hand. My eyes caught my own reflection in
the long silver-framed mirror, and I was struck by the haggard, anxious
expression upon my own countenance. My personal appearance startled me.
Well I knew the character of this pale and beautiful woman whom all
Paris had admired. The impression she gave everyone was that of
perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. I had long ago recognised her
high mental accomplishments, her unequalled grace, her woman's wit and
woman's wiles, her almost irresistible allurements, her moments of
classic grandeur, her storms of temper, her vivacity of imagination, her
petulant caprice, her tenderness and her truth, her childish
susceptibility to flattery, her magnificent spirit, and her princely
pride. She had dazzled my faculties, perplexed my judgment, bewildered
and bewitched my fancy. I was conscious of a kind of fascination
against which my moral sense rebelled.
With all her perverseness, egotism, and caprice, she, nevertheless, I
knew, mingled a capacity for warm affection and kindly feeling, or,
rather, what one might call a constitutional good-nature, and was
lavishly generous to her favourites and dependants. She was a Princess
in every sense of the word, her right royal wilfulness and impatience
often fathering the strangest caprice. There were actually moments when
she seemed desirous of picking a quarrel with such immensities as time
and space, and, with the air of a lioness at bay, regarded those who
dared to remember what she chose to forget.
She had given me but little time to decide. To-morrow at eleven she
would slip away from her guests and await me in that long, tunnel-like
passage leading through the forest to the ancient town of Moret, at the
confluence of the willow-lined Loing with the broad Seine. Its walls
and gates, dating from the time of Charlemagne, still remain, and right
in the heart of the little town stands the square old donjon keep, now
ivy-grown and with its moat full of a profusion of sweet-smelling
tea-roses.
I could save England if, in return for her secret, I gave her my love.
Has any man ever found himself in similar perplexity?
Calmly I reasoned with myself, turning again to her letter, and feeling
convinced that this sudden passion of hers was but a momentary caprice.
No woman, if she were cool and reasonable, would have acted as she had
done, for she must have recognised that the difference in our stations
rendered marriage impossible.
My duty to my country was to learn the truth about this gigantic
conspiracy; yet, at the same time, my duty towards myself and towards
the Princess was to leave Chantoiseau at once and forget all that had
occurred. Signs had not been wanting in Paris during the past few days
to corroborate what she had told me regarding the conspiracy of certain
Powers against the prestige of their hated rival England. There was a
lull in diplomatic affairs that was ominous; a distinctly oppressive
atmosphere which foreboded a storm.
Far into the night I sat thinking, trying to devise some plan by which I
could obtain knowledge of her secret without committing myself. But I
could find none--absolutely none.
At early morning, before the others were astir, I took a stroll down the
hill to where the clear Seine wound beneath the chalk cliff. The larks
were soaring high, filling the air with their song. The boatmen going
down-stream shouted wittily to each other between their hands, and the
bronzed villagers on their way to work in the vineyards chanted merrily
the latest popular airs. Life is easy and prosperous among the
peasantry around the Fontainebleau forest. In those clean white
villages of the Department of Seine et Marne there is little, if any,
poverty. I wandered through the pretty, flower-embowered village of
Thomery, and, crossing the river by the long iron bridge, entered the
smiling little hamlet of Champagne--a quaint and comely group of small
cottages, where lived the vineyard-workers. This hamlet is famous for
miles round because of a particularly venomous breed of vipers which
infest the sun-kissed lands in its neighbourhood. Although only six
o'clock, the prosperous little place was already busy, and as I wandered
through the village, past the grey old church, and along the wide,
well-kept road beside the river, I smiled to think that the name of that
old-world place was known everywhere from Piccadilly to Peru, and was
synonymous with wealth, luxury, and riotous living.
Heedless as to where I went, so deeply engaged was I in conflicting
feelings and in trying to determine whether I should keep that
appointment on the footpath to Moret, at last I found myself in
Samoreau, where, crossing by the ferry, I returned to the forest, and at
eight o'clock was back again, idling with several of the guests on the
lawn in front of the chateau.
After drinking my coffee, I sat in the window of one of the petit salons
that overlooked the valley and took up a pen, meaning to write to my
hostess, for I had resolved to send her a note of regret, and return at
once to Paris. I could remain there no longer.
Scarcely had I taken the note-paper from the escritoire, when the
Baroness de Chalencon entered, fussy as usual and full of the excursion
to Barbison.
"Leonie tells me you are not accompanying us," she cried in French.
"I've been searching for you everywhere. Why, my dear Gerald, you must
come."
"I regret, Baronne, that I can't," I answered. "I have to go to Paris
by the midday train."
"How horribly unsociable you are!" she exclaimed. "Surely you can
postpone your journey to Paris! Wolkenstein and the others have
declared that we can't do without you."
"Express to them my regrets," I said. "But to-day it is utterly
impossible. I must be at the Embassy this afternoon. I have important
business there."
"Well, I suppose if you failed to put in an appearance, a crisis in
Europe would not result, would it?" she observed with a touch of grim
irony. "At the Rue de Lille or the Rue de Varenne," she added, meaning
the German and Austrian Embassies, "they take things far more easily
than you do. That's the worst of you English--you are always so very
enthusiastic and so painfully businesslike."
"I am compelled to do my duty," I answered briefly.
"Most certainly," answered the Baroness. "But you might surely be
sociable as well! This is not like you, M'sieur Ingram."
"I must apologise, Baronne," I said. "But, believe me, it is impossible
for me to go to Barbison to-day. I have urgent correspondence here to
attend to, and afterwards I must run up to Paris."
When she saw that I was firm, she reluctantly left me, saying as she
disappeared through the door:
"I really don't know what is coming to you. You are not at all the
light and soul of the summer picnics, as you once used to be."
"I'm growing old," I shouted with a laugh.
She halted, turned back, and, putting her head inside the room again,
retorted in a low, distinct voice:
"Or have fallen in love--which is it?"
I treated her suggestion with ridicule, and in the end she retired,
laughing merrily, for at heart she was a pleasant woman, with whom I was
always on excellent terms of friendship.
Then I sat down again to write, hoping to remain undisturbed. But
although I held the pen poised in my hand I could think of no excuse.
Three carriages drew up before the chateau, the coachmen wearing those
handsome scarlet vests, conical hats, and many gold buttons, which
together represent the mode in Fontainebleau and at Monte Carlo; and the
guests, a merry, laughing, chattering crowd, mounted into the vehicles.
Big picnic baskets, with the gilt tops of champagne bottles peeping out,
were placed in a light cart to follow the excursionists, and two of the
guests--men from Vienna--mounted the horses held by the grooms. Then,
when all was ready, the whips cracked, there was a loud shouting of
farewells to the hostess, who stood directing her servants, and the
whole party moved off and away to the leafy forest lying below.
I looked down from the window, and saw the Princess standing on the
drive--a sweet, girlish figure in her white dress, her slim waist
girdled with blue, and her fair hair bound tightly beneath her
sailor-hat. She scarcely looked more than nineteen as she stood there
in the morning sunlight, smiling and waving her little hand to her
departing guests.
She glanced up suddenly, and I drew back from the window to escape
observation. So gentle so tender, so fair was she. And yet I feared
her--just as I feared myself.