THE LOST AMBASSADOR
OR,
THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING DELORA
BY
E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
AUTHOR OF "THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE," "THE MISSIONER,"
"JEANNE OF THE MARSHES," ETC.
With Illustrations in Color by
HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
BOSTON LITTLE,
BROWN, AND COMPANY
1910
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A RENCONTRE
II. A CAFE IN PARIS
III. DELORA
IV. DANGEROUS PLAY
V. SATISFACTION
VI. AN INFORMAL TRIBUNAL
VII. A DOUBLE ASSIGNATION
VIII. LOUIS INSISTS
IX. A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE
X. DELORA DISAPPEARS
XI. THROUGH THE TELEPHONE
XII. FELICIA DELORA
XIII. LOUIS, MAITRE D'HOTEL
XIV. LOUIS EXPLAINS
XV. A DANGEROUS IMPERSONATION
XVI. TWO OF A TRADE
XVII. A VERY SPECIAL DINNER
XVIII. CONTRASTS
XIX. WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
XX. A TERRIBLE NIGHT
XXI. A CHANGE OF PLANS
XXII. FORMAL CALL
XXIII. FELICIA
XXIV. A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE
XXV. PRIVATE AND DIPLOMATIC
XXVI. NEARLY
XXVII. WAR
XXVIII. CHECK
XXIX. AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW
XXX. TO NEWCASTLE BY ROAD
XXXI. AN INTERESTING DAY
XXXII. A PROPOSAL
XXXIII. FELICIA HESITATES
XXXIV. AN APPOINTMENT WITH DELORA
XXXV. A NARROW ESCAPE
XXXVI. AN ABORTIVE ATTEMPT
XXXVII. DELORA RETURNS
XXXVIII. AT BAY
XXXIX. THE UNEXPECTED
ILLUSTRATIONS
"If monsieur is ready," he suggested, "perhaps
we had better go" Frontispiece
She took up a magazine and turned away
with a shrug of the shoulders Page 66
"By Jove, it's Bartot!" I exclaimed " 135
I raised her fingers to my lips, and I smiled
into her face " 275
THE LOST AMBASSADOR
CHAPTER I
A RENCONTRE
There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House,
I should have retraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst
the throng of people who stood about in the _entresol_, exchanging
greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backward glance as I had
been about to turn into the Place de l'Opera had arrested my somewhat
hurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a
sight to be seen? Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this
that the end of my search might come?
I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with
an unlit cigarette still in my mouth, watched the flying
_chausseurs_, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow of
women in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts
came streaming down the stairs and out of the great building, to enter
the waiting carriages and motor-cars drawn up in the privileged space
within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I
stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little
nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most
cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their
womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their
destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in
most capitals, and the cafes of Paris are never so full as after a
great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful
performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable.
Young women and old,--sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type,
whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate,
partly of pride; women of the truer French type,--brilliant, smiling,
vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few
Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion
still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole
company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching,
this endless stream of varying types.
Towards the end there came out two people who were becoming almost
familiar figures to me. The man was one of those whose nationality was
not so easily surmised. He was tall and thin, with iron-gray hair,
complexion so sallow as to be almost yellow, black moustache and
imperial, handsome in his way, distinguished, indescribable. By his
side was a girl who had the air of wearing her first long skirt, whose
hair was arranged in somewhat juvenile fashion, and whose dark eyes
were still glowing with the joy of the music. Her figure, though very
slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the
clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only
a few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me,
or whom I had come across during my fortnight's stay in Paris, there
was no one half so attractive. The girl was absolutely charming; the
man, remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of
repressed emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity
of repose, was still, in a way, fascinating. They entered a waiting
motor-car splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall,
liveried footman to drive to the Ritz. I leaned forward a little
eagerly as they went. I watched the car glide off and disappear,
watched it until it was out of sight, and afterwards, even, watched
the spot where it had vanished. Then, with a little sigh, I turned
back once more into the great hall. There seemed to be no one left
now of any interest. The women had become ordinary, the men
impossible. With a little sigh I too aimlessly descended the steps,
and stood for a moment uncertain which way to turn.
"Monsieur is looking for a light?" a quiet voice said in my ear.
I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also
just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette. He
was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost
olive. He had soft, curious-looking eyes. He was of medium height,
dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country,
although his tie was black and his studs of unusual size. Something
about his face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the
moment I could not recall having seen him before.
"Thank you very much," I answered, accepting the match which he
offered.
The night was clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was
shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match--an English wax
one, by the way--burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and
turning around found my companion still standing by my side.
"Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me," he remarked, with
a faint smile.
I looked at him steadfastly.
"I am sorry," I said. "Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and
yet--No, by Jove, I have it!" I broke off, with a little laugh. "It's
Louis, isn't it, from the Milan?"
"Monsieur's memory has soon returned," he answered, smiling. "I have
been chief _maitre d'hotel_ in the cafe there for some years. The
last time I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few
weeks ago."
I remembered him perfectly now. I remembered, even, the occasion of my
last visit to the cafe. Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he
would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to
continue the conversation. I had not as yet admitted the fact even to
myself; but I was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own
company and the company of my own acquaintances. I was reluctant to
let this little man go.
"You visit Paris often?" I asked.
"But naturally, monsieur," Louis answered, accepting my unspoken
invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the
Boulevard. "Once every six weeks I come over here. I go to the Ritz,
Paillard's, the Cafe de Paris,--to the others also. It is an affair of
business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he
eats, that one may teach the art."
"But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis," I remarked.
"But, monsieur," he answered, "I live in London. _Voila
tout._ One cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One
needs inspiration."
"And you find it here?" I asked.
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Paris, monsieur," he answered, "is my home. It is always a pleasure
to me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though
every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never
noticed, monsieur," he continued, "the difference? They do not plod
here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their
footsteps, a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they
look around, as though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand
it, but one feels it directly one sets foot in Paris."
I nodded--a little bitterly, perhaps.
"It is temperament," I answered. "We may envy, but we cannot acquire
it."
"It seems strange to see monsieur alone here," Louis remarked. "In
London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many
acquaintances."
I was silent for a moment.
"I am here in search of some one," I told Louis. "It isn't a very
pleasant mission, and the memory of it is always with me."
"A search!" Louis repeated thoughtfully. "Paris is a large place,
monsieur."
"On the contrary," I answered, "it is small enough if a man will but
play the game. A man, who knows his Paris, must be in one of
half-a-dozen places some time during the day."
"It is true," Louis admitted. "Yet monsieur has not been successful."
"It has been because some one has warned the man of whom I am in
search!" I declared.
"There are worse places," he remarked, "in which one might be forced
to spend one's time."
"In theory, excellent, Louis," I said. "In practice, I am afraid I
cannot agree with you. So far," I declared, gloomily, "my pilgrimage
has been an utter failure. I cannot meet, I cannot hear of, the man
who I know was flaunting it before the world three weeks ago."
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Monsieur can do no more than seek," he remarked. "For the rest, one
may leave many burdens behind in the train at the Gare du Nord."
I shook my head.
"One cannot acquire gayety by only watching other people who are gay,"
I declared. "Paris is not for those who have anxieties, Louis. If ever
I were suffering from melancholia, for instance, I should choose some
other place for a visit."
Louis laughed softly.
"Ah! Monsieur," he answered, "you could not choose better. There is no
place so gay as this, no place so full of distractions."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"It is your native city," I reminded him.
"That goes for nothing," Louis answered. "Where I live, there always I
make my native city. I have lived in Vienna and Berlin, Budapest and
Palermo, Florence and London. It is not an affair of the place. Yet of
all these, if one seeks it, there is most distraction to be found
here. Monsieur does not agree with me," he added, glancing into my
face. "There is one thing more which I would tell him. Perhaps it is
the explanation. Paris, the very home of happiness and gayety, is also
the loneliest and the saddest city in the world for those who go
alone."
"There is truth in what you say, Louis," I admitted.
"The very fact," he continued slowly, "that all the world amuses
itself, all the world is gay here, makes the solitude of the
unfortunate who has no companion a thing more _triste_, more
keenly to be felt. Monsieur is alone?"
"I am alone," I admitted, "except for the companions of chance whom
one meets everywhere."
We had been walking for some time slowly side by side, and we came now
to a standstill. Louis held up his hand and called a taximeter.
"Monsieur goes somewhere to sup, without a doubt," he remarked.
I remained upon the pavement.
"Really, I don't know," I answered undecidedly. "There is a great deal
of truth in what you have been saying. A man alone here, especially at
night, seems to be looked upon as a sort of pariah. Women laugh at
him, men pity him. It is only the Englishman, they think, who would do
so foolish a thing."
Louis hesitated. There was a peculiar smile at the corners of his lips
which I did not quite understand.
"If monsieur would honor me," he said apologetically, "I am going
to-night to visit one or perhaps two of the smallest restaurants up in
the Montmartre. They are by way of being fashionable now, and they
tell me that there is an _Homard Speciale_ with a new sauce which
must be tasted at the Abbaye."
All the apology in Louis' tone was wasted. It troubled me not in the
least that my companion should be a _maitre d'hotel_. I did not
hesitate for a second.
"I'll come with pleasure, Louis," I said, "on condition that I am
host. It is very good of you to take pity upon me. We will take this
taximeter, shall we?"
Louis bowed. Once more I fancied that there was something in his face
which I did not altogether understand.
"It is an honor, monsieur," he said. "We will start, then, with the
Abbaye."