The Project Gutenberg EBook of High Noon, by Anonymous

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Title: High Noon
       A New Sequel to 'Three Weeks' by Elinor Glyn

Author: Anonymous

Release Date: May 20, 2007 [EBook #21540]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIGH NOON ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sankar Viswanathan, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                  [Illustration: NATALIE VSESLAVITCH

           _From a miniature in the Verdayne collection._]



                              HIGH NOON

                           A NEW SEQUEL TO

                            "THREE WEEKS"


                             _ANONYMOUS_




                               NEW YORK

                         THE MACAULAY COMPANY

                                 1911



                         COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY

                         THE MACAULAY COMPANY

       *       *       *       *       *




_FOREWORD_


I must make a confession.

It will not be needed by the many thousands who have lived with me the
wonderful sunrise of Paul's love, and the sad gray morning of his
bereavement. To these friends who, with Paul, loved and mourned his
beautiful Queen and their dear son, the calm peace and serenity of the
high noon of Paul's life will seem but well-deserved happiness.

It is to the others I speak.

In life it is rarely given us to learn the end as well as the
beginning. To tell the whole story is only an author's privilege.

Of the events which made Paul's love-idyl possible, but a mere hint
has been given. If at some future time it seems best, I may tell you
more of them. As far as Paul himself is concerned, you have had but
the first two chapters of his story. Here is the third of the trilogy,
his high noon. And with the sun once more breaking through the clouds
in Paul's heart, we will leave him.

You need not read any more of this book than you wish, since I claim
the privilege of not writing any more than I choose. But if you do
read it through, you will feel with me that the great law of
compensation is once more justified. As sorrow is the fruit of our
mistakes, so everlasting peace should be the reward of our heart's
best endeavor.

Sadness is past; joy comes with High Noon.

"The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen!"

THE AUTHOR.




HIGH NOON

CHAPTER I


It was Springtime in Switzerland! Once more the snow-capped mountains
mirrored their proud heads in sapphire lakes; and on the beeches by
the banks of Lake Lucerne green buds were bursting into leaves.
Everywhere were bright signs of the earth's awakening. _Springtime in
Switzerland!_ And _that_, you know--you young hearts to whom the gods
are kind--is only another way of saying _Paradise_!

Towards Paradise, then, thundered the afternoon express from Paris,
bearing the advance guard of the summer seekers after happiness. But
if the cumbrous coaches carried swiftly onward some gay hearts, some
young lovers to never-to-be-forgotten scenes, one there was among the
throng to whom the world was gray--an English gentleman this, who
gazed indifferently upon the bright vistas flitting past his window.
The _London Times_ reposed unopened by his side; _Punch_, _Le Figaro_,
_Jugend_ had pleased him not and tumbled to the floor unnoticed.

There seemed scant reason for such deep abstraction in one who bore
the outward signs of so vigorous a manhood. Tall, well-formed,
muscular as his faultless clothes half revealed, half hid, his bronzed
face bearing the clear eyes and steady lips of a man much out of
doors, this thoughtful Englishman was indeed a man to catch and hold
attention. No callow youth, was he, but in the prime of life--strong,
clean, distinguished in appearance, with hair slightly silvered at
the temples; a man who had lived fully, women would have said, but who
was now a bit weary of the world.

Small wonder that the smart American girl sitting opposite in the
compartment stared at him with frank interest, or an elegantly gowned
Parisienne _demi-mondaine_ (travelling _incognito_ as the Comtesse de
Boistelle) eyed him tentatively through her lorgnette.

So Sir Paul Verdayne sat that afternoon in a compartment of the
through express, all unconscious of the scrutiny of his fellow
travellers; his heart filled with the dogged determination to face the
future and make the best of it like a true Englishman; somewhat
saddened--yes--but still unbroken in spirit by the sorrows that had
been his.

Many years ago it was, since he had vowed to revisit the Springplace
of his youth, Lucerne, a spot so replete with tender memories, and
each succeeding year had found him making anew his pilgrimage, though
a sombre warp of sorrow was now interwoven in the golden woof of his
young happiness.

This year he had decided should be the last. Not that his devotion to
his beloved Queen had lessened--far from that--but the latent spirit
of action, so innate to true British blood was slowly reasserting
itself. For Paul romance might still remain, but as a thing now past.
He was frank with himself in this respect, and he would be frank with
Isabella Waring too.

One more visit he would pay to the scenes of his love-idyl, to the
place where his beloved _Imperatorskoye_ had come into his life, there
to commune again with her in spirit, there to feel her regal presence,
to seek from her that final supreme consolation which his wounded
heart craved--this was Paul's quest. And then he would return to
England--and Isabella.

It was the consideration of this resolution which shut the flying
scenery from his gaze, which drew fine lines about the corners of his
firm lips, and set his face to such a look of dominant strength as
made the high spirited American girl muse thoughtfully and brought a
touch of colour to the face of the pseudo Countess which was not due
to the artifice of her maid.

Such men are masters of their own.

Paul Verdayne was not a man to shirk responsibilities. It is true,
dark days had come to him, when a crushing burden had well-nigh
smothered him, and a bullet to still his fevered brain had seemed far
sweeter to Paul than all else life might hold for him. But Paul was
strong and young. He learned his lesson well--that Time cures all and
that the scars of sorrow, though they form but slowly, still will heal
with the passing of the years.

Paul was still young and he had much to live for, as the world
reckons. He was rich (a thing not to be lightly held), one of the most
popular M. P.'s in England, and the possessor of a fine old name. It
would be a coward's part, surely, to spend the rest of his life in
bemoaning the dead past. He would take up the duties that lay near at
hand, become the true successor of his respected father, old Sir
Charles, and delight the heart of his fond mother, the Lady Henrietta,
by marrying Isabella Waring, the sweetheart of his boyhood days.

So Paul sat communing with himself as the train rushed noisily on,
sat and settled, as men will, the future which they know not of. Alas
for resolves! Alas for the Lady Henrietta! Alas for Isabella! For
Paul, as for all of us, the mutability of human affairs still existed.
Were it not so, this record never would have been written.




CHAPTER II


With much grinding of brakes and hiss of escaping steam, the express
at last stopped slowly in the little station and the door of Paul's
compartment was swung open by the officious guard with a "Lucerne,
your Lordship," which effectually aroused him from his reverie.

Paul quietly stepped out of the car, and waited with the air of one
among familiar scenes, while his man Baxter collected the luggage and
dexterously convoyed it through the hostile army of customs men to a
_fiacre_. In the midst of the bustle and confusion, as Paul stood
there on the platform, his straight manly form was the cynosure of all
eyes. A fond mamma with a marriageable daughter half unconsciously
sighed aloud at the thought of such a son-in-law. A pair of slender
French dandies outwardly scorned, but inwardly admired his athletic
figure, so visibly powerful, even in repose.

But all oblivious to the attention he was attracting, Paul waited with
passive patience for the survey of his luggage. For was not all this
an old, old story to him, a trifling disturbance on the path of his
pilgrimage? When one travels to travel, each station is an incident;
not so to him who journeys to an end.

But Paul was not destined to remain wholly uninterrupted. As the other
travellers descended from the carriage and formed a little knot upon
the platform, the Comtesse de Boistelle, now occupied with a betufted
poodle frisking at the end of a leash, strolled by him. As she passed
Paul she dropped a jewelled reticule, which he promptly recovered for
her, offering it with a grave face and a murmured "_Permettez moi,
Madame_."

The Comtesse gently breathed a thousand thanks, allowing her carefully
gloved hand to brush Paul's arm.

"Monsieur is wearied with the journey, perhaps?" she said in a low
voice. And her eyes added more than solicitude.

Paul did not deny it. Instead, he raised his green Alpine hat formally
and turned impassively to meet his man, who had by then stowed away
the boxes in the Waiting _fiacre_.

In the group of Paul's late companions stood the American girl who had
sat facing him all the way from Paris. He was no sooner out of earshot
than--

"Did you see, Mamma?" she whispered to the matron beside her.

"See what, Daisy?"

"That French creature--she tried to talk to my big Englishman, but he
snubbed her. What a fine chap he must be! I knew he had a title, and
I'm just dying to meet him. Do you suppose he'll stay at our hotel? If
he does, I'll find somebody who knows all about him. Now I understand
why so many American girls marry titled Englishmen. If they're all as
nice as this one, I don't blame them, do you?"

"Hush, child, hush!" her mother reproved. "How can you run on so about
a total stranger?"

But the girl merely smiled softly to herself in answer, as she watched
Paul's straight back receding down the platform.

Overwhelmed with a rush of memories, Paul climbed into the carriage.
It was a fine afternoon, but he did not see the giant mountains
rearing their heads for him as proudly in the sunshine as ever they
had held them since the world was new.

For Paul just now was lost in the infinite stretches of the past,
those immeasurable fields through which the young wander blithely, all
unconscious of aught but the beautiful flowers so ruthlessly trampled
on, the luscious fruits so wantonly plucked, the limpid streams drunk
from so greedily, and the cool shades in which to sink into untroubled
sleep.

Ah! if there were no awakening! If one were always young!

The _fiacre_ stopped; and soon Paul found himself in the hall of the
hotel, surrounded by officious porters. The _maître d'hôtel_ himself,
a white-haired Swiss, pushed through them and greeted him, for was not
Sir Paul an old and distinguished guest, who never failed to honour
him with his patronage each year? Himself, he showed Paul to the same
suite he always occupied, and with zealous care conferred with milord
over the momentous question of dinner, a matter not to be lightly
discussed.

"And the wine? Ah! the _Tokayi Imperial_, of a certainty. Absolutely,
Monsieur, we refuse to serve it to anyone but yourself. Only last week
it was, when a waiter who would have set it before some rich
Americans--but that is over, he is here no longer."

Paul smiled indulgently at the solicitous little man. It was good to
be here again, talking with Monsieur Jacques as in the old days.

"One moment, more, Monsieur, before I go. Is it that Monsieur desires
the same arrangements to be made again this year--the visit to the
little village on the lake, the climb up the Bürgenstock, the
pilgrimage to the Swiss farmhouse? Yes? Assuredly, Monsieur, it shall
be done, _tout de suite_."

And then with a confident air as of complete and perfect understanding
on the part of an old and trusted friend, the bustling little _maître
d'hôtel_ bowed himself out.

Paul proceeded, with his usual care, to dress for dinner, pausing
first to stand in the window of his dressing-room and gaze wistfully
upon the lake he loved so well, now dimming slowly in the Spring
twilight.

The last time! Ah, well, so be it, then. There must come an end to all
things. And Paul turned away with a sigh, drawing the draperies gently
together, as if to shut out the memories of the past.

How well he succeeded, we shall soon know.

He was the last to enter the restaurant, which was well filled that
evening. On his way to his accustomed place he passed the table at
which sat Miss Daisy Livingstone, his American fellow-traveller,
dining with her mother; and another where the Comtesse, by courtesy,
sat toying with a _pâté_. To Paul's annoyance, he was greeted further
down the room by a member of his club; Graham Barclay was not a
particular favourite of his, at any time, and furthermore Paul had no
desire, just now, to be reminded of London. As civilly as he could,
he declined an invitation to join the party, pleading fatigue from his
long journey, and moved on to the end of the room, where his old
waiter, Henri, stood, with hand on chair-back, ready to help him to a
seat.

"Deuced fine fellow, Verdayne," explained Barclay in parentheses to
his friends. "A bit abstracted sometimes, as you see. But he'll be all
right after tiffin. We'll gather him in for billiards later."

The eyes of more than one guest followed Paul as he walked the length
of the restaurant, for Verdayne possessed that peculiar quality--that
spiritual attraction--magnetism--(call it what you will, a few elect
mortals have it) that stamps a man indelibly. But of all those who
marked him as he moved among the tables, none regarded him more
closely than a lady who sat alone in a small recess, screened from
prying eyes by a bank of greenery.

A marvellous lady she was, with hair as black as the sweep of a
raven's wing, crowning a face as finely chiselled as any Florentine
cameo. And if the diamonds about her smooth white throat had wondrous
sheen they were not more lustrous nor more full of sparkling fire than
her opalescent eyes.

Unseen by the preoccupied Paul, she leaned across the cloth, scarcely
whiter than her pale face, and gazed at him with wonder--was it more
than that? With a slight movement of her tapering hand she dismissed
the liveried servant stationed behind her, and stayed on, with food
and wine untouched. And Paul knew it not.

So near to us can lie the hidden path of our strange destinies until
the appointed hour.




CHAPTER III


The next morning Paul breakfasted on the terrace. The gay greetings of
old friends, the pleasant babble in the breakfast room ill suited his
reflective mood.

And as he sat alone under the fragrant pergola enjoying his cigarette
and dividing his attention between his coffee and the Paris Edition of
the _Herald_, a pale, dark-haired lady passed by as she sought the
terrace for an early stroll. Paul's eyes were on his paper at that
moment--and if the lady's well-bred glance lingered on him for a brief
instant as he turned the pages of the daily, he was all unconscious of
her presence.

Perhaps the lady may have seen something about the strong, wholesome,
well-groomed Englishman that pleased her, perhaps she was simply glad
to be alive upon that glorious morning, with the bracing breeze
blowing fresh from the lake, and the sun sending his welcome rays down
upon the mountainside. At all events, her lips parted in the merest
shadow of a smile as she walked along the gravelled path with the
veriest air of a princess.

Alas! the smile and the dainty picture which the dark-haired lady made
as she moved down the flower bordered path in the sunshine, her
morning gown clinging gracefully about her slender figure, were alike
lost on the engrossed Paul. With his eyes glued to the criticism of a
sharpened writer on the last measure before Parliament, he read on,
all oblivious to his surroundings. Even here, at his beloved Lucerne,
the man of affairs could not escape the thrall of the life into which
he had thrown the whole effort of his fine mind.

Sir Paul had not quite finished the breezy article when, with an all
pervading blast of a sweet-toned, but unnecessarily loud Gabriel horn,
a big green touring car came dashing up to the gate of the little
hotel, and with a final roar and sputter, and agonized shriek of
rudely applied brakes, came to a sudden stop. From it there emerged,
like a monster crab crawling from a mossy shell, a huge form in a
bright green coat--a heavy man with a fat, colourless face and puffy
eyes, and Paul, glancing up at the ostentatious approach, recognized
in him a _nouveau riche_ whom a political friend had insisted on
introducing in London a few days before.

Schwartzberger, his name was (Paul had a peculiar trick of remembering
names)--the fellow was said to have made a fortune in old rags--no, it
was tinned meats--in Chicago. It was his proud boast that he started
in the business as a butcher's errand boy but a few years ago, and
now, no supper bill at the _Moulin Rouge_, no evening's play at Monte
Carlo, had ever made a material depletion in the supply of gold that
always jingled in the pockets of his loud clothes. His was the fastest
car and the gayest coloured on all the Continent, and he was alike the
hero and the easy dupe of every servant.

As the stout American came waddling uncertainly up the walk, with a
certain elephantine effort at jauntiness, he nearly collided with the
foreign lady who had crossed his path to reach the further limits of
the terrace. Not having a cautioning horn attached to his anatomy to
warn heedless trespassers from his way, the large person was forced to
give ground, but had some difficulty in veering from his course
sufficiently to avoid an accident. However, the _grande dame_ slipped
past him quickly and disappeared amid the shrubbery--but not before
her extraordinary beauty had dazzled the pork-packer's beady eyes.

He turned and stared at her.

"Gee! What a peach!" he murmured aloud, in words which came wheezing
from between thick lips. "I wonder if that's the Countess's lady
friend she spoke of."

Then, catching sight of Verdayne, and knowing him at once for the
swell English guy he had met at the Savoy, he panted up and slapped
Paul's shrinking back with his fat, white hand.

"Hullo, Verdayne! Just the man I'm looking for! I didn't know you were
in this part of the world. Hurry up with your breakfast and join me
and my friend, the Countess de Boistelle, in a spin around the lake.
Perhaps you know her already. No? That's easy arranged--she's a
particular friend of mine, and she's got a chum of her's staying here
too, I guess. Make up a foursome with us and I'll promise you this old
place won't be half slow. When it comes to making things hum, nobody's
got anything on the Countess."

"Damned bounder!" growled Paul under his breath; and aloud: "Thanks, I
have an engagement. Awfully sorry, and all that, you know." And he
rose, as if to end the interview.

"I'll bet you've got a date with that queen you were just talking to.
Verdayne, you're the foxy one. Well, I can't say you haven't got good
taste, anyhow, though she's a little too quiet for me."

"Talking with whom?" inquired Paul, in a cold voice.

"Why, that lady that just left here. She nearly ran into me getting
away."

"Schwartzberger," answered Paul, with great deliberation, as he folded
his newspaper, "I believe that a lively imagination is as necessary to
the ideal management of the pork-packing industry as to all other
business activities. Permit me to observe that I can predict for you
no cessation of the remarkable results you have achieved in your
chosen profession." And with a short nod he started down the path.

Schwartzberger's beady eyes blinked after Paul a moment.

"These Englishmen always do get up in the air over nothing," thought
the pork-packer, as he gazed after Paul with a puzzled look on the
wide expanse of his countenance. Then he turned his great bulk and
waddled ponderously into the hotel, in search of his particular
friend, the Comtesse de Boistelle.

Toward the landing on the lake Paul descended, with his heels biting
viciously into the gravel at every step.

"Confound these beastly people!" he growled. "Why are they allowed to
roam about the earth, making hideous the beautiful places." His soul
revolted at even the suggestion that he could have thought for any but
his beloved Lady--his Queen whom he had not seen for more than a
score of years, and would never, on this fair planet, behold again.

On a coign of vantage overlooking the steep slope the pale lady stood
with her face turned toward the Bürgenstock. She watched Paul as he
stalked angrily down the hillside, and in her mind compared him with
the monster she had just avoided. She gazed after him till he reached
the slip, where a small boat was ready for him; and she lingered on
while he stepped lightly into the skiff, picked up the oars, and rowed
away in the style an Eton man never forgets. Motionless she remained,
until he disappeared behind a fringe of larches that crept close to
the shelving shore. Then slowly, as with regret, she turned to resume
her stroll.

A faint colour had stolen into her cheeks; the wonderful eyes had
grown very bright and wistfully tender and deep. The rare old lace on
her bosom fluttered with her quickened breath, as softly she murmured:

"Ah! My entrancing one, now I have seen thee--and I understand!" And
the larches by the shore trembled as if in sympathetic emotion as the
gentle breeze echoed her sigh.

       *       *       *       *       *

A half-hour later the big green touring-car spluttered on its noisy
way again; but its tonneau contained no _partie carrée_. A smartly
clipped poodle perched in the centre of the wide seat--on one side of
him lounged the shapeless green form of the pork-packer, on the other
side gracefully reposed the Comtesse de Boistelle.

And if the complacent admiring glances which Schwartzberger heavily
bestowed on the lady of his choice were perhaps too redolent of the
proprietorship in which a successful pork-packer might indulge, they
were at least small coins in the mart of love, which is Springtime in
Lucerne.

       *       *       *       *       *

Up the lake Paul rowed briskly, working off his ill-humour in the
sheer exertion of his favorite sport. The splendid play of his
powerful muscles carried his light craft rapidly over the blue water,
until he reached a secluded little bay where he had often gone to
escape from troublesome travellers at the hotel. Beaching his skiff,
he threw himself at full length on the rocky shore, where he lay quite
still, drinking in the beauty of the prospect.

Occasionally the wind bore to him from some distant ridge or hidden
glen the tinkling of a cow-bell, as the herd wandered here and there
grazing upon the green uplands. Once--for an instant only--a mirage
appeared upon the southern sky, as if in mute testimony to the
transitory character of all earthy things, the fleeting phases of
human life. It seemed to Paul, with a score of years dimming the vista
of his young manhood, not more shadowy and unreal than the wonderful
scenes in which years before he had played all too brief a part.

Little by little, as he lay motionless, the sun stole toward the
zenith. But to Paul, alone with his memories, the earth seemed bathed
in a luminous pall--a mysterious golden shroud.

"Oh! God," he cried, out of the anguish of his soul, "what a hideous
world! Beneath all this painted surface, this bedizened face of earth,
lies naught but the yawning maw of the insatiable universe. This very
lake, with its countenance covered with rippling smiles, is only a
cruel monster waiting to devour. Everything, even the most beautiful,
typifies the inexorable laws of Fate and the futility of man's
struggle with the forces he knows not."

He looked far off, wistfully, to the great pile of the Bürgenstock,
the one place in the whole world that for him was most rich in tender
memories. And yet he knew that its undulating blueness hid hard,
relentless rock, as unyielding as the very hand of death itself.

"Love," he said slowly, his heart swelling with the deep sense of his
loss, "love should lead to happiness and peace--not to conflict,
murder, and sudden death."

And he lay there pondering, until at last, as always in the end, his
better genius triumphed. And when the evening sunshine turned the
windows of the distant hamlets into tongues of flame and set the
waters in the little bay a-dancing, he rowed slowly back to the hotel,
his own resourceful English self again.

Far up on the side of the Bürgenstock a dim light shone--a faint glow,
until a cloud bank, stealing ever nearer, nearer, crept between like
some soft curtain, and the silent mystery of the evening fell upon the
lake, and wrapped the mountains in a velvet pall.




CHAPTER IV


Nearly a week had passed since Paul reached the Mecca of his
pilgrimage. Other guests at the hotel had seen little of him, except
as they glimpsed him of a morning as he made an early start to some
favourite haunt; or again as he returned at night-fall, to pass
quickly through the chattering groups upon the terrace or about the
hall and retire to his suite, where usually his dinner was served in
solitary state.

His resolutely maintained seclusion was so marked that even his
English friends, accustomed as they were to the exclusiveness of their
kind, commented on it. Barclay openly lamented, for, as he said, "Was
not Sir Paul the best of company when he chose, and why come here to
this gay garden spot to mope?"

Daisy Livingstone, the American girl, from that meeting in the train
had found a peculiar attraction in her big Englishman, as she called
Verdayne playfully when speaking of him to her friends. She knew now,
of course, that he was the famous Sir Paul Verdayne, the personage so
prominent in British public affairs. And she remembered, too, with a
woman's quick intuition for a heart forlorn, Paul's sad, almost
melancholy face.

One balmy evening, as she was slowly strolling back and forth beside
her mother on the terrace, "Mother," she said in a low voice, "why
should Sir Paul look so _triste_? He has everything, apparently, that
a man could wish to make him happy--health, wealth, and a success that
can be the result only of his own efforts. And yet he is not happy.
What hidden sorrow can he have--some grief, I am sure--that should
keep him away from all companions? Every day he goes away alone. And I
have seen him almost every night, coming back to the hotel, only to
disappear in his rooms, where he must spend many lonely hours."

"Really, Daisy, you are much too interested in this Verdayne. When I
was a girl, I never should have paid such close attention to the
humour of a strange man. Don't you think that you are becoming
altogether too attracted by this Englishman?"

Mrs. Livingstone was an old-fashioned mother who was little in
sympathy with the free and easy point of view of radical latter-day
Americans.

"Not at all, mother. I find something to interest me in all the people
here. Sir Paul is merely a distinct type, just as that awful fat
American with the automobile is another in his own way, and that
horrid French creature who goes motoring with him every day."

"Then there is the beautiful dark-haired foreign lady, too--she is
more fascinating to study than all the rest. She must be a Russian
from her colouring, and, besides, she wears those wonderful
embroideries. And her servants, too, talk some outlandish gibberish
among themselves. Of course she belongs to the nobility, you can see
that, even in the way she walks."

"Really, mother, while I'm a true enough American not to be dazzled by
the glamour of a coronet, there is something in a long line of
well-bred ancestry. You know the old saying, 'Blood will tell.' I've
woven quite a fairy story about those wonderful eyes of hers. She is
the princess in the fairy story whom some fine prince will find and
wake up with a kiss. I wonder--perhaps my Englishman--"

She paused, quite carried away by her own fancy.

"Ah! there she is--my fairy princess--now, down there!" and the girl
indicated a rustic seat beneath a spreading cedar some distance below
them. As Daisy chattered on, she and her mother had drawn close to the
edge of the terrace. And there in the gathering dusk, looking out over
the lake, sat the pale-faced lady with the dark hair and the glorious
eyes.

As the two Americans stood gazing down the declivity, a small boat cut
across their line of vision and came up to the slip with a sweep which
only the expert oarsman can achieve.

"The Englishman--Sir Paul!" exclaimed the girl. "You'll see him soon
coming up the path that passes close to the big cedar."

And even as she spoke, the figure that jumped from the skiff started
up the narrow trail. The lady, too, must have been watching him, for
she rose suddenly from her seat and quickly gained the terrace, which
she crossed immediately to enter the hotel.

"Why did she leave when she saw him coming?" the girl asked, quick to
divine the hidden impulse. "Why did she run away like that? I'd rather
have stayed and had a good look at him! I wonder if she doesn't want
him to see her. Now that I think about it, she never stays where he
can meet her."

"Come, child! Don't be absurd!" said Mrs. Livingstone, and locking her
arm within that of her daughter's, she drew gently away.

With lagging steps Paul climbed the hill. The natural quieting effect
of the day spent in tender cherishing of old-time memories had not
been dispelled by his recent violent exercise, and the rustic bench
invited him more than the bustling hotel and the prospect of a dreary
dinner. But he forced himself to his tub and evening clothes, and once
more dined alone. The fixed habits of a lifetime are not to be lightly
set aside for some passing whim.

That night would be Paul's last at Lucerne. The week had been one of
strain, and there had come over him a fatigue scarcely less intense
than he could have felt had he actually experienced anew the scenes he
had been living over in imagination. But with weariness had come a
resignation which at last seemed final--a renunciation of his
dream-life. Now must he put away forever the haunting memories that
seemed always outlined, however, dimly, on the tablets of his brain.
To-morrow he would be speeding on his way westward, to London and
duty. Can we blame Paul if he shrank a bit from defining the latter
too precisely.

He dined very late, and after an hour spent with his cigar, a
newspaper, and letters that demanded attention, he felt the oppression
of the room and stepped out into the night, where myriads of stars
dotted the sky with their bright points. On the bench beneath the
great cedar, a little distance down from the terrace, Paul seated
himself to enjoy a final cigar. The cool air put new life into him; he
felt calmer--more at peace with the world--than had been the case for
many years.

All was settled now. He was sure of his ability to return to England,
to go straight to Isabella and tell her all. That she would marry him,
he had no doubt. Too much of the old fondness still persisted between
them for any other outcome to be possible. Indeed, he could see no
reason why they should not make each other contented.

Paul no longer used the word happy, even in his solitary thoughts.
Happiness, that priceless elusive treasure, can come only to a heart
at peace in the warm sunshine of love. Material things can make for
contentment, but ah! how uncertain is that will-o'-the-wisp happiness.

As he sat pondering over the future, which now lay before him more
definitely almost than he had dared to think, a faint sound caught his
ear--the merest stir as of something moving above him. The stairway
leading from the terrace to the path below formed a partial shelter
for the bench. He turned instinctively, gazing at the landing, but saw
nothing.

He had just decided that his nerves were playing him a trick, when the
sound was repeated. This time he felt sure that some one, some thing,
was stirring close back of him. Again he turned and scanned the flight
of steps, gray in the bright starlight, until suddenly his eyes stood
still. They rested as if stopped by some mysterious compelling
power--some living magnet that seemed to hold them against his will.
And then in the luminous light the delicate outlines of a face seemed
to establish themselves, like a shadowy canvas painted by some fairy
brush.

It was a face Paul knew right well, for it had scarcely left him,
waking or sleeping, for many, many years. Framed in the dark foliage,
it leaned toward him over the parapet, half visible, half obscured.

In a twinkling the weight of a score of years slipped like a cloak
from Paul's shoulders. With a wild, choking cry he leaped to his feet,
and stretching both his arms above him, "My Queen! my Queen!" he
called.

But as he moved the vision vanished. And Paul knew that it was only a
cruel jest of Fate, and himself to be as ever but the plaything of his
evil genius, which never ceased to torture him. Relentlessly the load
of years crept back upon him and like an Old Man of the Sea wound
themselves about his shoulders and clutched him in a viselike grip,
and he sank with a convulsive gasp upon the bench again.

Soon the spasm passed. But for Paul the night was no longer beautiful.
Only unutterable sadness seemed to pervade the place. The very air
seemed heavy with oppressive grief. And rising, he tottered like an
old man around to the foot of the steps and dragged himself slowly up.

He had reached the landing immediately above the bench he had just
quitted when he saw a blur of white--an indistinct patch in the
half-light. He reached forward, and his trembling fingers closed upon
a lady's handkerchief. And then--he caught the faintest breath of a
perfume, strange yet hauntingly familiar, as if the doors of the dead
past had opened for an instant.

Heavens! Her perfume! His brain reeled. He rushed up to his
sitting-room, and there, under the bright light, he examined the
trophy. It was real--there was no doubt about that. Paul had half
fancied that after all it was only another trick of his imagination.
But there lay the scrap of filmy stuff upon his table, as tangible as
the solid oak on which it rested.

He folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket. For some moments
he pondered over the strange coincidence, and as he thought, the
clouds lifted from his brain again. If this were chance, surely there
was some consistency in it all. Fortune always sets mile-posts on the
road to her, and with a thrill Paul realized that he was still a young
man and that this tiny suggestion from the destiny which directs poor
mortals' affairs was not to be disregarded. The time for action had
come.

He descended briskly to the hall and scanned the visitors' list. The
names--most of them--meant nothing. Except for Barclay and his party
Paul knew no one in the place. Indeed, he had held himself aloof from
chance acquaintances.

By this time no guests remained about the lounge. In the doorway stood
Monsieur Jacques. Paul went up to him.

"I found a handkerchief outside just now," he said, forcing a careless
voice. "Perhaps the lady to whom it belongs has just come in?"

"No one has entered for a _quart d'heure_, Sir Paul. _Hélas!_ It was
not so in the old days. It was always gay then at this time of the
night, with the band playing and all the guests chattering like mad."
The _maître d'hôtel_ breathed a gentle sigh for the halcyon days of
long ago.

Momentarily baffled, to his rooms Paul turned again, and threw himself
into a big armchair, where he sat wondering till in the gray light of
morning the formless shadows around him took the shape of the
luxurious furnishings of his suite.

What face had peered at him through the branches? In spite of the
token he had found on the steps, Paul could scarcely believe that the
vision had been one of flesh and blood. The handkerchief with the
familiar scent?--merely an odd coincidence. But still--well, the
puzzle might be worth the solving.

At last he rose, and drawing the heavy hangings close to keep out the
insistent light, he lay down upon his bed, to fall into a troubled
sleep.




CHAPTER V


When he awoke it was almost noon, and too late to catch the Paris
train. Fate again! And yet there arose no feeling of rebellion in Sir
Paul. If he were in the hands of a great will, let that same will
direct. There would be another train in the evening, but Paul would
have none of it. His mood had changed. He could not leave the place
quite yet. So he dressed leisurely; and it was not till mid-afternoon
that his flannel-clad figure appeared upon the lawn. He had no energy
for a walk or row, and spent the time till dinner reading and smoking.

That night he did not wish to dine alone. The approach of darkness,
with its eerie suggestion of his strange experience of the night
before, made him crave the society of his kind. As he passed through
the lounge, carefully groomed as ever, his friend Barclay called to
him.

"I say, Verdayne! Join us to-night, won't you, old chap? We will be
dining early."

The cheery English voice was what Paul needed, and though he had all
the week avoided the party--there were three men--now he gladly
greeted them. Barclay, totally unable to account for Paul's sudden
recension from his aloofness, nevertheless secretly rejoiced. He
greatly admired Verdayne, and had felt rather hurt at his keeping
quite so much to himself. With a wisdom beyond his usual capabilities,
however, he refrained from making any comment and only showed the
pleasant eagerness of a cordial host.

They were the first to enter the restaurant, and as they sat there
with talk of familiar things in Paul's ears he began to feel himself
again.

After dinner Paul played billiards, and then took a hand at bridge,
and when at length the game broke up he was sure of himself; the
amusement of the evening had been sane enough to convince Paul that
there would be no visions for him that night. He took a few turns back
and forth before the hotel, and then, rounding a corner of one of the
wings, he came upon a little rustic tea-house hidden away among a
wealth of shrubbery and young trees.

A fancy to explore it seized him, and he followed the path that led
toward it. The heavy vines clustering completely over the structure
made the interior of an inky blackness. Paul halted on the threshold
and struck a match. At first, as the phosphorus flared, the darkness
beyond seemed intensified. Then, as the flame subsided, Paul saw--the
face again, looking straight into his--the same beautiful face, it
seemed, that had gazed at him on that memorable night years before,
the same red lips, the same wonderful eyes.

The blazing match fell from his fingers, and in another moment he
clasped a warm and clinging figure in his arms. Without a word their
lips met in one long kiss. To Paul it was as if he had been
transported to some distant sphere, and in some mystic fashion
transcending time and space, he held his lady in his arms again.

But it was no dream; that kiss was a reality.

       *       *       *       *       *

A low cry suddenly broke the silence--a quick exclamation of alarm. It
was a language Paul remembered well, for his Queen had often talked to
him caressingly in her own strange tongue. He started and turned his
head, to see a tongue of flame leaping shoulder-high behind him. The
match had fallen on some inflammable drapery and set the place afire.
He seized a rug and tried to smother the blaze, but the little house
was a tinder box.

The lady had not moved meanwhile. But as the sound of running feet and
a loud call of "_Au feu! Au feu!_" shattered the quiet, she sprang
like a frightened fawn out into the darkness. An instant later,
blinded by the glare of the conflagration, Paul followed. He was too
late. The darkness had swallowed her completely, and with the blaze
still dazzling his eyes Paul could scarcely see even the hurrying
forms that came racing up the path.

In a few moments the tea-house was a ruin. Paul hurried to the hotel,
where several startled guests had gathered in somewhat scanty attire,
alarmed by the cry of fire ringing out into the still night. But the
lady of the midnight kiss was not there.




CHAPTER VI


Too stirred within his heart to sleep, Paul paced the lawn, in the
vain hope of seeing her again.

He was walking lightly over the wet grass with almost silent feet, so
occupied with his thoughts that he came near to walking into a couple
talking beneath a tree.

When, however, he beheld them, he came to a sudden standstill, all his
senses alive, his quick intuition telling him he was in the presence
of some matter of moment.

A little portly man with an evident air of authority was talking to a
woman in a flowing cloak. Emphasizing his remarks with true Gallic
gestures, but with all his excitement making an evident effort to be
guarded in his tone, he was all oblivious to Paul's presence.

The girl Paul could not see plainly, but it was with some
unaccountable notion of doing her a service, and not with the remotest
idea of eavesdropping, that he stepped softly and silently to the
further side of a tree trunk.

Then he heard the girl's voice saying in low, quiet, earnest accents:

"Why will you not let me rest? Why do you pursue me in this way?
Surely it is inhuman to adopt these methods. Is it fair to follow me
to a place like this and insult me in this way?"

The man mumbled something which Paul could not catch.

Then he heard the girl utter a little cry.

"Look!" she exclaimed eagerly. "Look! I will make you an offer. Free
me from this horrible nightmare, give me your word that you will not
persecute me further, and I will give you these."

Paul heard the rustle of draperies, and was conscious that the girl
reached out her hands.

The man greedily took something from her. His head was bent over the
object, whatever it might be, long and earnestly.

Then he heard a thick voice say in French: "They are beautiful, very
beautiful. But what are they to us? You think they are worth a hundred
thousand roubles, eh? Suppose they are--what of that? Do you think a
hundred thousand roubles will save you? Bah!"

The man chuckled thickly.

"But they are very pretty baubles," he went on, "and since you offer
them to me, I see no reason why I should not keep them."

"Ah!" cried the girl. "Then Boris will be satisfied?"

"Satisfied!" exclaimed the man, "satisfied, for this much! Not he!
Why, it's ridiculous."

"Then give them back to me," said the girl, quietly, with a quaver in
her voice. "Give them back to me. Would you rob me?"

"I am not robbing you," answered the man, sullenly. "I am taking what
you offered me. I shall not give them back. It is impossible for you
to make me. You would cry out, would you? What good would that do? Cry
out, call for help--do what you like--but think first what will it
mean for you. Give them back? Not I! I--"

But his speech ended suddenly at this point, for Paul, always quick
to action, took quick action now.

Moving round the trunk of the tree, he caught the man deftly by the
collar of his coat, kicked his heels from under him, and brought him
with a heavy crash to the ground.

The man lay still.

In a second Paul was on his knees beside the prostrate figure. With
swift fingers he searched the man's clothing and found a mass of
jewels in the breast-pocket of his outer coat.

In a twinkling he had them out, and, rising to his feet, he held a
heavy string of diamonds towards the girl.

"Madam," he cried, "permit me to befriend you. I do not know who you
are, but--"

His voice trailed away into a little gasp, for the frightened face
that stared at him in the moonlight with starting eyes was the face
of the lady he was seeking.

Paul stood still gazing mutely at the girl and holding out the jewels
towards her.

When he had recovered from his great surprise he moved a step nearer
to her.

"Madam," he said, "permit me to insist that you shall take these
things back."

Without a word she stretched out her hand and took the jewels from
him. She hid them quickly in the folds of her cloak, and all the while
the expression of amaze and fear on her face did not abate.

At last she pointed to the man lying beneath the tree.

"You have not killed him?" she asked, in a low voice.

For answer, Paul turned again and knelt at the fat man's side. He
inserted his hand skilfully over the unconscious man's heart, and
then rose to his feet again.

"No," he said, almost with a laugh. "Just knocked him out; that is
all. He will be all right directly, and I fancy he will be glad to
walk away without assistance. I imagine he is not a character who
would care for much fuss and attention at this time of the night."

Again Paul drew near to the girl and peered gravely and keenly, but at
the same time with all deference, into her face.

"I think," he said quietly, "that it will be better for you to walk
away while we are still undisturbed. If you will allow me, I will
accompany you toward the hotel. If I may be permitted to say so, it is
hardly fitting that a lady carrying so much property about with her
should be strolling here unattended."

His tones were so kind and cheering that the lady smiled back at him.

"At least," she said, "you are a very sturdy escort."

She walked beside him without saying anything more, apparently
satisfied to be in his charge.

Paul said not another word except, "This is the way," and then,
guiding the girl through the trees, he reached the main path and
helped her to step over the low iron railing; thence he piloted her in
silence until the hotel was in sight.

As the building loomed up in the darkness, Paul stopped, and said
earnestly:

"I trust you will permit me to wait and see you safely on your road.
Apparently one never knows what may happen, and, believe me, I have no
wish you should suffer a second adventure such as the one through
which you have just passed."

"Thank you," said the girl in a scarcely audible voice. Then turning
towards him, she stretched out her hand impulsively.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you. I cannot tell you how much I thank
you. You are a gentleman. It is not necessary to ask you as a
gentleman not to mention to anyone in the world what you have seen or
heard to-night."

Paul bowed.

"You may trust me absolutely," he said. "I give you my word of honour
that not one single word of this shall pass my lips. But may I say
something else? May I be allowed to make an offer of help? I have
money, I have many resources at my command. I would willingly pledge
myself to serve you in any way. I should be only too proud, too glad
to help."

"No, no!" cried the girl, sharply, with a piteous little gesture and
a note almost of agony in her voice.

The distress in her tones was so real that Paul made no further effort
to persuade her. So, lifting his hat, he stood waiting for her to take
leave of him. Once more she stretched out her hand impulsively, and he
took it in his own.

"Thank you," she said, in the same low, earnest voice, "thank you
again and again." Then she turned and walked quickly away.

Paul strolled slowly back to the hotel, in a more perplexed state of
mind than before. Was it possible that he had stepped suddenly into
the midst of some tragic mystery? What sorrow, what terror had made
the eyes of the girl so wistful and so beckoning?

That she might be suffering some profound grief, or might be the
centre of some bit of distressing family history, might well be
conceived. But what extraordinary combination of inappropriate events
could possibly cause her to seek to buy quittance of such a man as he
had left insensible?

He sat far into the night, turning all these things over in his mind.

Obviously it was not some question of personal honour which involved
the necessity of maintaining some sordid and disgraceful secret, or
the lady would not be risking her personal safety, and to a great
extent her reputation, by being present at such a rendezvous.

Whatever it might be--the mystery which embraced her--Paul determined,
whether it pleased her or not, that he would range himself on her
side.

To do this, however, it would be necessary to discover what the
mystery was, and he proceeded to set up and then demolish a thousand
and one theories to account for her plight; and he was still far from
the solution when he fell asleep.




CHAPTER VII


Again the mid-day sun was gilding the canopy of his couch when Paul
awoke. He sprang up and dressed hurriedly. That day he must discover
who the lady was.

Renewed inquiries of Monsieur Jacques yielded no further information.
Rose-red lips and coils of raven hair no longer made on the _maître
d'hôtel_ the same impression as in the golden days when the band
played dreamy waltzes and dashing gentlemen leaned caressingly over
dazzling shoulders.

Of the man he had felled, Paul spoke never a word. Apparently he had
vanished as he had come--unknown.

"Truly, Sir Paul, there has been no lady here to answer your
description. But stop! A Russian lady perhaps, you say? _Il est
possible._" Monsieur Jacques laid a searching finger on his
speculative brow. "Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, _peut-être_. Yes--tall,
surely,--a brunette, too, like most of those Russians. She left this
morning, quite early."

Paul's heart leaped, only to stop again at the last sentence.

"Left? Where did she go, _mon ami_?" He and Monsieur Jacques were good
friends, and Paul knew that his interest, though perhaps unaccountable
to the old inn-keeper, was still in safe hands.

"That I do not know. But we shall see what we shall see. One moment,
Monsieur."

Calling a porter, the _maître d'hotel_ gesticulated with him for a
moment. Then he returned to where Paul waited impatiently.

"Emil here says that he purchased bookings to Langres for the lady,"
he said.

Langres! Isabella and London were a million miles from Langres at that
instant! The memory of that kiss alone remained.

Paul's mind was made up. He would start for Langres that very day. He
hurried to his rooms, where Baxter was soon packing his boxes. And
then Paul's eye fell on the table, on the picture of Isabella that he
had brought with him. She had given him an excellent likeness, in a
leather case, the day he came away. Her frank eyes seemed to smile at
him amusedly.

Paul pulled himself together.

"I am mad!" he told himself--"to be carried away by a momentary
impulse, to forget all for a fancied resemblance!... Paris! Baxter!"
he said curtly, turning to his valet.

And when Paul reached the station it was with the firmest of
resolutions to hurry home, stopping only one night in Paris to break
the tiresome journey.

"_En voiture!_" the guards sang out, and Paul climbed into his
carriage, once more the staid M. P. he thought--But was he? Could he
ever be again?

       *       *       *       *       *

Toward Paris, then, the fast mail bore him rapidly; and at the same
time toward Langres. When they reached Bâle, Baxter telegraphed to the
_Hôtel du Rhin_ in Paris for a suite. At Belfort Paul directed him to
send another message cancelling the reservation. And--alas for Paul's
good resolutions!--at the station of Langres-Marne, a mile from the
old cathedral town itself, he left the train, taking only a big
Gladstone bag with him, and sent Baxter on alone to Paris, to wait
until he should arrive.

Another short journey remained, so in company with the inevitable
soldier, priest, and old lady with a huge umbrella, Paul took a seat
in one of the open cars of the little rack-and-pinion railway that
runs up the steep hill through the apple orchards to the old cathedral
city. In a few minutes the train stopped at a miniature station.

It had begun to rain, and Paul was conscious that he was an object of
interest as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in
search of a _fiacre_.

No vehicle was in sight, so he set himself to tramp up the hill to the
_Hôtel de l'Europe_, at which he had stayed long years before, and of
which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and
its quaintness.

The _hôtel_ slept, and Verdayne heard the bell pealing through the
silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.

Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a
shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp evening
air.

The sight of Sir Paul's tall figure drew his immediate attention.

"What does Monsieur require?" he asked in accents which were at once
civil and surprised.

"Let me in," said Verdayne, "and I will do my best to explain."

The man led the way to a delightfully large and airy room, half
_salon_, half _chambre à coucher_, where Paul was glad to remove the
stains of travel.

First he took the precaution of drawing a couple of half-crowns from
his pocket and slipping them into the man's hand.

"You need not be alarmed at my appearance," he said. "I am not a
fugitive from justice. I am merely an English gentleman who has lost
his friends and who is in search of them.

"Tell me if you have staying in this hotel a tall young lady with dark
hair and brilliant eyes? It is possible that she is travelling
_incognito_, but if she has given her right name it will be
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch."

The man scratched his head and looked worried.

"I would help Monsieur if I could," he said, "but I can only assure
him that there is no lady staying in this hotel at all. Alas! the
season is very bad, and we have few visitors."

That this dark-haired lady was not at the _Hôtel de l'Europe_ did not
disconcert Verdayne very much. He had foreseen that she was hardly
likely to stay in the hotel with which English tourists would be
acquainted.

"It is many years," he said to the man, "since I stayed here. In fact,
I have practically no recollection of Langres except of this hotel and
the cathedral. I should therefore be very much obliged if you could
furnish me with a complete list of all the other hotels."

"Why now," said the man, "that is an exceedingly simple affair." And
he rattled off a list.

Paul repeated them after him.

"And you think," he asked, "that this is a complete list?"

"Quite complete, I should say," said the man, "for Monsieur's purpose.

"Permit me to help Monsieur," he went on. "Monsieur will pardon me,
but possibly this may be some romance."

He shrugged his shoulders, but with such an air of civility and
respect that Verdayne could not quarrel with him.

"At any rate, it is not my business to inquire. For the time it is
merely my end to serve Monsieur well. Be seated for a moment while I
make coffee and bring rolls and butter. It will fortify Monsieur
against the damp air."

Laughing a little, Paul suffered the man to bustle about. The fellow
was deft indeed, and soon Verdayne was glad that he had listened to
his counsel.

Midnight drew near and the porter turned the lights out, but Paul sat
until cockcrow, smoking and pondering on the strange paths into which
one's feet are sometimes led.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after eight, the man, who had been busy cleaning boots,
returned and made a gesture towards the sunlight, which was streaming
into the room.

"If Monsieur is in haste," he said, "I will not seek to detain him. By
this time the other hotels will be open. If Monsieur's mission is
urgent he should continue his search."

His air was so friendly and so charming that Paul resorted to the only
expression of appreciation of which he could conceive. He gave the man
another ten francs, and pledged him to silence. None the less, he had
little faith that the man would keep his tongue still. A Frenchman
must talk.

After a light breakfast Paul went out into the fresh morning air and
began his search. In turn he visited the _Hôtel de la Poste_, _le
Grand_, _de la Cloche_, and the rest of them, wandering around the
cobbled streets of the sleepy village, and strolling through the
market-place, gay with the green and red and russet of its vegetables,
the blue and crimson of the umbrellas over the stalls. Then, in the
unclouded sunshine, he walked around the ancient ramparts, from which
point of vantage he looked down upon wide stretches of sunlit country,
dotted here and there with vineyards.

It cost him a pretty sum to purchase the confidence of half-suspicious
porters, but by the time he had worked through the list with which the
friendly servitor had provided him he had come to the conclusion that
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch was, of a certainty, not in one of these
hostelries.

Was she still in Langres? The doubt troubled Paul greatly.

All the time, as he walked on through the narrow streets, Paul's eyes
sought the object of his quest in vain. Apparently he was the only
foreigner in the town. It was nearly twelve as he turned into the
_Promenade de la Blanche Fontaine_, a fine wide avenue of chestnut
trees which recalled to Paul the Broad Walk at Oxford, and being the
only pedestrian abroad at that hour, he said a few swear-words to
himself by way of consolation.

Clearly, this search for the lady might prove a case for Sherlock
Holmes, while Paul's own detective ability, he admitted, was more of
the Dr. Watson order.




CHAPTER VIII


It was after twelve when Paul sought the shade of the _Hôtel de
l'Europe_ again. There the few sounds that pierced the mid-day
stillness were chiefly those that penetrated from the kitchen, where
_Monsieur le Cusinier_ and his assistants were busily engaged in the
preparation of _déjeuner_. And it was not long before Paul sat down to
a delightful meal, served in a vine-framed window. He was alone in the
room, and feeling the need of encouragement he invited the genial
landlord to share a bottle of Burgundy with him.

The two men sat there, toasting each other more and more gaily as the
red nectar fell lower in the long bottle, until finally, perceiving
his host to be in a confidential mood, Paul questioned him about
tourist travel.

"Ah! Monsieur! May the _bon Dieu_ bless you! You are the first to
visit us this summer. It is early yet. But soon they will come to see
our wonderful cathedral, and stay a day or two with us."

Paul's spirits drooped again at this information, but for an hour
after finishing his demi-tasse he lingered at the table, hoping for
some clue, while _Monsieur le Propriétaire_ chattered on.

There was indeed but little to amuse the traveller in Langres, after
the cathedral, beyond the quaint streets and the beautiful old
timber-framed houses. Doubtless Monsieur Verdayne--he did not know
Paul's title--would wish to see the cathedral that very afternoon; it
would be pleasant to go to vespers. A little later for himself, he
would recommend another walk to the ramparts to see the sun-set.

Meanwhile, he knew of some truly marvellous Chartreuse in the cellar
below. Would not Monsieur compliment him by tasting it? Monsieur
would, with much pleasure; and accordingly a dusty bottle was soon
forthcoming.

So another slow hour wore away. And again, in the cool of the
afternoon, Paul ventured forth on another tour of inspection.

This time the search was successful. In a narrow street he discovered
a small hotel which went by the name of the _République_. Here his
question put to the plump Madame who opened the door, at once kindled
interest.

"Yes, there was most decidedly a Russian lady staying there--a young
Russian lady of most distinguished appearance. She had arrived about
noon on the day before, and said she intended to stay there for a
couple of days, as she expected friends."

"Had the friends arrived?"

"No, not as yet. Perhaps Monsieur was the friend for whom she waited?"

Verdayne was hardly prepared for this, and found the situation a
trifle awkward to explain.

"No," he said to the fat Madame, he was not the friend whom
Mademoiselle had come to meet. He was, however, an acquaintance, and
would call later in the day.

Contenting himself with this, he lifted his hat and strolled down the
street, followed by the shrewd, smiling eyes of the landlady.

He walked on until he felt sure he was no longer observed; then he
walked back again.

On the opposite side of the street to the _République_, a few doors
up, he discovered a _café_ of humble aspect, provided with tables
beneath an awning, at which the thirsty could sit and refresh
themselves.

At one of these tables Paul took a chair, and at the risk of violent
indigestion called for more coffee. He sat and sipped the sweet and
chicory-flavoured liquid and turned about in his mind the best means
of discovering the reason of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch's visit to
Langres.

He debated with himself whether it would not be better to go boldly
over to the hotel and made his presence known; but he reflected that
such a course might be unwise. Indeed, the very knowledge of his
presence might result in her abandoning the business which had called
her so suddenly from Lucerne.

As time went on he glanced up and down the street, watching everyone's
approach with interest. Towards half-past four his attention was
aroused by the appearance of a man whose aspect was out of keeping
with the little street.

The stranger was above middle height, and bore himself with a certain
air of quiet dignity. He was dressed in black, his clothes being well
cut, though of obviously foreign tailoring.

It was the man's face, however, which riveted Paul's attention. It was
very dark, and the nose was somewhat flat; not at all the prevailing
French type. Yet it was a face of great refinement and distinction,
accentuated in a strange way by a long, black, and well-trimmed
beard.

The man, plainly, was not a Frenchman, nor, Paul decided, was he a
German; certainly he was not an Italian nor an Austrian. A subtle
something about the man's whole appearance, indeed, brought Verdayne
to the conclusion that he was a Russian.

And then that rare gift of intuition which had always been Paul's
great aid in times of trouble told him that this dignified and
daintily-walking stranger was in some manner connected with
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch's presence at the _Hôtel de la République_.

So certain of this was he that at once he took the precaution of
drawing further back into the _café_, where he could sit in the
shadows and watch the passage of the stranger without arousing any
interest himself.

Twice the black-bearded man walked up the street, glancing sharply at
the _République_, and twice he walked back with the same meditative
and dilatory air. Then he turned the corner and disappeared.

The proprietor of the inn busied himself about the _café_, and,
seeming curious about the visitor's long sojourn, Paul ordered a
further supply of the chicory-like coffee.

It was not long before his patience was rewarded. There was some
bustle about the door of the inn, and then he saw the fat landlady
bowing and scraping on the white doorstep, and out of the shadows into
the sunshine stepped the girl he had come to find.

Dressed all in black and thickly veiled, Mademoiselle Vseslavitch
came quickly out of the doorway and walked down the street.

Paul, who had previously taken the precaution to settle his score,
immediately rose and walked after her.

The street was so narrow and there were so many people about that he
had to follow pretty closely in order to avoid losing her. He noted
with some surprise that she walked straight ahead, as though with
studied purpose, never faltering and never so much as glancing to the
right or to the left.

Down the hill they went and so into the space about the cathedral,
where busy women had set out their wares--poultry, pottery, vegetables
and the like.

More than one head was turned to note the quick, silent passage of
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch. Hers, indeed, was a physique which could
not have escaped notice, no matter what its surroundings.

On the market-square, having a clearer view before him, Paul slackened
his pace and allowed the distance to increase between them.

Still the beautiful Russian lady walked straight ahead, as one who
follows an oft-trodden path and knows full well whither that path
leads.

She moved up the cathedral steps, and as she did so Paul saw
approaching the sombre figure of the black-bearded man whose presence
in the little street by the _Hôtel de la République_ had aroused his
interest earlier in the morning.

But though their steps were evidently leading them to the same spot,
neither the black-bearded man nor Mademoiselle Vseslavitch made the
least sign that either was aware of the other's presence. The girl
passed into the cathedral, the man following closely on her heels.

In fear of losing sight of them Paul almost ran across the square and
darted up the cathedral steps. But for all his speed his feet fell
silently, so that neither the girl nor the man who followed her,
heard.




CHAPTER IX


Once in the cathedral, Paul paused in his pursuit.

The picturesque interior was aglow with the declining rays of the sun,
which streamed through a large window behind the organ upon a great
silver Calvary surmounting the high altar, and gilded the white caps
of a handful of old _bourgeoises_ sprinkled here and there in the
straight-backed pews.

The bell tolled and a low murmuring began. They were reciting the
Office of the Rosary. Paul was stirred by the scene as never before by
any devotional services and in spite of his eager desire to learn more
about the dark-eyed lady, all through the prayers and responses he
was rapt as in some mystic spell. With the _bénédicité_ by the young
abbe, a column of incense rose before the Calvary, a moving
pearl-coloured shaft in the soft light, for the sun had set. And as
the cantors and the pious folk at worship sang _Tantum ergo_ the Host
was borne out through the gate at the east end of the choir to the
Lady altar.

To Paul it seemed as if the full meaning of the Roman Catholic faith
was borne upon him for the first time. With a tremendous influence
upon his emotions, its intimate relation with the soul and the
sentiment of the human hearts gathered there quickened the utmost
depths of his nature. Having thus witnessed that impressive service,
it was impossible for him to feel that he was not one with it, and of
it; and all differences of religious creeds escaped his mind.

Surely, he thought, this is a communion of the spirit--the fruit of
simple feeling and natural impulse. For the moment he had forgotten
that he was the descendant of a long line of staunch supporters of the
Church of England.

The singing ceased, and still Paul stood with head uncovered. In his
exaltation the thought came to him that this vision so like his Queen,
which he was seeking here in this byway of the earth, had been sent to
him by his dear Lady. Had she not told him that although parted from
him in the flesh, she would always be with him in the spirit? And now
that her beautiful being had been borne away from this world of
strife, was it not possible that by some intercession she had been
able to send another, almost as divine as herself, to comfort and
strengthen him?

From that time the impulse which had sent Paul on his search was fired
by some mysterious, guiding hand. His quest became a sacred duty.
Filled with the new mission, seized by a sudden fervour as were the
knights in olden days, crusaders who had made their vows on the cross
in that very sanctuary, Paul moved quietly towards the chancel, there
to bespeak a blessing.

With outstretched hand the priest murmured the words Paul craved. Then
he rose, and was walking slowly toward the door of the transept, when
he came to an image of the Virgin, before which a single candle
burned. And there, before the sacred figure, knelt the lovely object
of his pilgrimage. Impressed by a reverence of the scene, Paul passed
on, filled with a holy joy. At last he felt a strange exalting peace.

Paul little dreamed the nature of the lady's prayers. Conscious of the
suddenly awakened love, which that feverish kiss had stirred to life
within her, she had come to the cathedral to seek for spiritual help.
She had felt the need of some higher will than her own to strengthen
her resolve to steel her heart against this fiery wooer. She was
filled with an almost irresistible longing to throw herself into his
arms and confess her quickening love. And that she knew too well she
must not do.

At last she lifted her bowed head, and rising slowly to her feet, she
genuflected before the altar. Then she turned and slipped through a
door of a small side chapel, into which the black-bearded man closely
followed. Paul's instinct was to follow, too, and, in the calm
security of a mind made up, he retraced his steps down the aisle.

He saw that it would be impossible for him to approach the side chapel
by the same way as the black-bearded stranger had, if he wished to
remain unobserved. So he turned aside and drew near to the chapel by
another way, sheltering himself behind the pillars, which cast deep
shadows on the floor.

Paul was following his old stalking habit, which he had acquired when
in pursuit of big game among the Rockies. Yet with all his care he
almost blundered into his quarry. For, as he moved silently round a
pillar, he became conscious that he was so near to the lady that he
could have stretched out his hand and touched her.

In an instant he drew back and stood still behind a massive column. He
could see nothing, but he could hear the voices of the girl and her
companion in low and earnest conversation.

At first it was the man who did most of the talking, and from what few
of his words he could catch Paul judged him to be speaking in French.
He droned on for some minutes, and then his voice died away.

Mademoiselle Vseslavitch now asked several questions in quiet, low
tones. The man answered sharply and incisively, and it seemed to Paul
that there was command in his voice.

For a while there was a complete silence, which at last was broken by
long, choking sobs. Edging a little farther round the pillar, Paul saw
the lady kneeling upon a _prie-dieu_ as though in an abandonment of
grief. She was crying as though her heart would break, her face
buried in her hands. The sombre man stood by like some tall shadow,
silent and unmoving.

A quick and great desire to go to her aid, to gather her into his arms
and comfort her, took possession of Verdayne. But great as his desire
was, he forced it down, recognizing that the moment had not come for
him to intervene.

Presently the sombre man moved closer to Mademoiselle Vseslavitch's
side, and, putting out a gloved hand, touched her lightly, and with
the air of one offering silent sympathy, on the shoulder.

Paul heard him murmuring what must have been words of comfort, and
before long she lifted her face and resolutely wiped away her tears.
Then she rose and went forward to the altar, on the steps of which she
knelt and prayed. Finally she came back to the black-bearded man and
held out her hand, and Paul saw with still growing wonder that the man
bent over it as though with great respect and brushed her fingers with
his lips. Without any further word she walked quickly and quietly
away, making for the door through which she had entered the cathedral.

The man, with a little sigh, picked up his hat and followed her, Paul
hard upon his heels.

Outside in the sunshine, Verdayne watched the fair Russian make across
the square by the way which she had come. Her companion turned
abruptly to the right and walked rapidly away.

Paul followed her till she came to the _Hôtel de la République_, when
she disappeared through the doorway.

       *       *       *       *       *

Darkness fell and Paul saw no more of his beautiful Russian. In spite
of all his efforts she still remained as great a mystery as ever.
Almost beside himself with impatience, he returned to the hotel. Many
wild, almost boyish, schemes, by which he hoped he could meet the lady
entered his head. Most of them Paul rejected--and none of them could
be put into execution, for the one responsible for their conception
remained hid in the little _hôtel_.

Considerably at odds with the world, he went in to dinner, the
excellence of which did not dispel his gloom.

"Confounded silly, this!" he complained to himself. "Here I am, a
lonely knight, eating a marvelously good dinner in enforced solitude,
with a beautiful lady imprisoned in the upper rooms of the castle. In
the rare old days I could go up and knock the jailers' heads
together, break in the door, and bear the captive damsel away on my
charger. But in this unromantic age I can't even send in my card."




CHAPTER X


All unconscious of Paul's presence only a few short steps away
Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch, for so we will call her until she
herself chooses to reveal more, had rushed to her rooms, her heart
almost overwhelmed by a new and dreadful burden.

The tidings she had left Lucerne to know, whose bearer was the
black-bearded gentleman, which had so aroused Paul's curiosity, were
simply these. Her hand was sought in marriage.

Truly not such news as ought to make a maiden weep, you say, and yet
what base political ends have not been served through the holy offices
of the marriage service. And when a suit bears the approbation of
one's sovereign, is it not more nearly a command?

The cousin of our beautiful Natalie, one Prince Boris Ivanovitch, had
long been a persistent suitor. What booted it that she would have none
of his attentions? Was he not an heir apparent, and should a girl's
whim, her likes or dislikes, stand in the way of a powerful union? The
Tsar of all the Russias had given him official sanction; to Prince
Boris, and alas! to Natalie, the ceremony was as good as performed.

But what of the desires of her own tender girlish heart, her hopes,
her sacred mission? Were all to be sacrificed on the altar of a great
political alliance? Natalie cast herself on a divan in a paroxysm of
grief and rage, and the imperial note, heavy with a gold crest and
seals, fluttered in tiny pieces on the floor. In vain her maid
essayed to comfort her. This latest blow was too heavy. Why did Boris
not let her give him the vast estates, why must he insist upon
_her_?--her love he never had, never could have. Once more the couch
shook with her choking sobs.

After the first dreadful shock was over, Natalie calmed herself, and
the innate strength, the quiet determination which had carried her so
far on her mission asserted itself. She would obey--the thought of
disobedience cannot come to faithful subjects--but there was no haste.
Time can accomplish much.

Then, as the events of the past few days flitted before her mental
vision there crept into her cheeks a faint tinge of colour as she
thought of Paul. "Ah, my beloved--yes, beloved, though you know it
not. I must see you once more." And the sudden memory of the hour
when she last saw him so eager, so loving, all the fine lines of his
virile strength thrown on the black screen of darkness, by the light
of the burning summer house, mantled her cheek anew in crimson.

He of all the men she had ever seen was the one most worth loving. And
then in confusion again at this admission, deep though it was in her
thoughts, she dismissed her maid and curling up before the fire set
her woman's wit to match the machinations of her greedy relation.

And as she pondered, she smiled. If she _had_ acted on a sudden
impulse once, she felt that she could be deliberate now. Having been
somewhat indiscreet in the rustic tea-house, with a woman's
inconsistency she was determined to veer to a course of conduct
exactly opposite.

She felt too well her power to draw Paul to her--indeed, what woman
does not know her own capability to attract? And here was an
opportunity to gain a brief respite from the grim path on which her
destiny seemed to be leading her. She _would_ see him again.

Her bright eyes roved to the dainty table near at hand. She picked up
a perfumed note, and read it again, and as she read, a happier look
smoothed away the sharp lines of mental anguish which had marked the
beautiful face but a short time before. The crested sheet bore the
address of the Dalmatian Embassy in Paris, and was from the lovable
old Countess Oreshefski, whose husband was the honoured Ambassador.

"My dearest little Natalie," the cordial note of invitation began, and
concluded with a reassurance that the Countess expected her on the
ninth of May, without fail.

Yes--the ninth of May--that was to-morrow. The Comtesse was insistent,
and the Ambassador himself had charged his spouse to invite her. Very
well! She would be there.

And Mademoiselle Vseslavitch called her maid and gave her instructions
to be ready to leave for Paris by the morning train.

The next day the little _café_ across the street from the humble
_Hôtel de la République_ was the richer by a generous gold piece, and
the rubicund _propriétaire_ marvelled to his equally rubicund wife
over the peculiar habits of the Englishman, who preferred to drink
much black coffee and smoke many black cigars sitting at the little
table in the doorway, rather than see the beautiful cathedral, as did
all the other tourists.

Finally, Paul, impatient at his lengthy vigil, elicited the
information, so much desired and yet so disappointing, that a _grande
dame_, for surely she must be such to have so many servants, had
honoured the humble hotel across the way by her presence for a brief
twenty-four hours and only that morning had taken the train for Nice.

After this bit of information, mingled with much more voluble, mine
host had further occasion to remark on the strange actions of "these
English." For Paul's sudden departure cut short what the landlord
considered a really capable flight of oratory on his beloved
cathedral.




CHAPTER XI


Paul did not reach Nice in a particularly pleasant mood. He knew that
the task of finding the lady was much less simple than it had been at
Langres. But he made a thorough search through the visitors' lists of
all the hotels.

His persistence, however, found no reward. He could find no trace of
Mademoiselle Vseslavitch whatever.

He had been in Nice two days, and his unsuccessful search began to
tell upon his nerves. Realizing the need of relaxation of some
sort--some diversion which might for the time being, turn his mind
upon trivial things--he decided to spend an evening at Monte Carlo.

Paul was no great gambler--it was a sport in which he had never taken
more than a passing interest, but just then he thought it would serve
his purpose.

He found himself after dinner therefore in the Casino at Monte Carlo,
in a room flooded with light and with many people present--a quiet
room for all that, for there was little sound except the monotonous
cry of _croupiers_ and the sharp rattle of a ricochetting roulette
ball.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the light he stepped forward into the
room, only to stand still again and remain motionless, as though
turned to stone.

For there, at a long table in the centre of the room, with piles of
gold and notes before her, heavily veiled, sat--Mademoiselle
Vseslavitch.

A little cry which Paul could not prevent breaking from his lips drew
the eyes of all upon him. Mademoiselle herself glanced up and saw his
gaze upon her.

She started and instantly Paul turned away and endeavoured to hide
himself amid the odd jumble of men who stood round the table watching
the play.

"What was she doing here?" Paul thought. A thousand bewildering
conjectures flashed into his brain, only to prove inadequate.

Try as he might he could not reconcile the so obvious fact that she
was a lady with the peculiar incidents which trod hard upon each
other's heels. He recalled the meeting with the strange Frenchman,
which still remained a most baffling mystery.

Unconsciously, Paul took note of the men who hemmed the table in.
Every type of face presented itself--the fleshy cheeks of middle-aged
Jews, of pale clerks and salesmen, prosperous-looking men who might
have been commercial travellers, and here and there a more
refined-looking man in evening-dress.

A few were still playing, but the majority were watching the fortunes
of the veiled lady. She was, besides, the only woman in the room.

Paul stood for a few moments and watched her play. Nor was it
difficult, even to his unpracticed eye, to see that she had begun to
wage a losing fight against the bank.

Draped in a long opera cloak from which her bare arms were thrust, she
sat forward eagerly in her chair, her lips trembling, her eyes bright
as stars.

Her face and figure were in extraordinary contrast to her
surroundings.

Every man in the room, Paul thought, appeared to feel that he was in
the presence of one who not only had the right, but the power, to
command respect, and the coarse faces by which she was surrounded
surveyed her with a certain deference.

As the game went on and the _croupier_ monotonously raked in the
winnings of the bank, Paul suddenly divined the motive which had
induced the lady to come there. Undoubtedly it was the hope that she
might win enough to satisfy the cruel demands of those who persecuted
her.

Quite evidently disturbed by his entrance, for the next few minutes
she had apparently lost all track of the successful theory which she
had been following. And Paul knew well enough that if a good player
once becomes unnerved, his luck, for some strange reason, will change
with his mood, and no efforts, however bold or desperate, will avail
him anything.

It amazed Verdayne beyond measure that the lady could play such a game
with so consummate a skill and so much evidence of experience. He
judged that at some time or other she had had a little fling at Monte
Carlo, and that profiting by such knowledge as she had acquired
before, she had now been playing an inspired game for some
incalculable stake.

If she won against the bank it would release her from her torment; no
other theory was possible.

It made his heart grow cold with rage as he appreciated that he had
been made the innocent instrument of such a hard experience for her.

So convinced did he become of this fact that he shouldered his way
through the crowd, and leaning over her chair, whispered into her ear:

"Don't be alarmed. I see you have been greatly upset. Please allow me
to assist you."

The man at her right hand scowled angrily, but Paul turned to him with
an urbane smile. "As you do not seem to be playing," he said, "perhaps
you will allow me to have your chair?"

Nor had the man any alternative but to vacate his seat.

Paul's spirits rose as for the first time in his life he found himself
seated by the lady's side, playing on her behalf, to win a desperate
game.

But the girl's inspiration was gone, and Paul's knowledge of this form
of gambling availed him nothing. Time after time they lost until
practically nothing remained of the great pile of money which had been
stacked on the table before her when he had entered the room.

The girl watched the money dwindle with every evidence of
consternation.

Paul sought to console her.

"Don't despair," he whispered. "I think I have enough with me to see
us through."

When he had at first sat down to assist her she had stared at him with
considerable astonishment. Now she appeared utterly confused.

"I don't understand," she said in a low voice. "You have certainly
done your best to help me, but I cannot see why you wish me to win."

Paul turned and looked her full in the eyes.

"How long will it be," he asked in a low voice, "before you come to
trust me?"

Without further word he drew from his pocket the liberal supply of
bank-notes with which he had prepared himself for his evening's play,
and laid them on the table before his astonished companion.

As this little scene had attracted more attention from those about him
than pleased Verdayne, he indicated with a slight nod to the
_croupier_ to proceed, and calmly placed a pile of gold pieces of
large denomination on the green double nought.

The wheel spun. The ball clicked slower and slower. The gaming spirit
of the devotees once more claimed them and the veiled lady and her
chivalrous escort were forgotten in the interest centered on the
little ivory sphere.

Slower and slower and slower it ran, until it settled in place with a
last click.

The company drew a mingled long breath. The monotonous sing-song
voice of the _croupier_ chanted, "Twenty-six and the black wins," and
he raked away the stake from before the veiled lady.

Paul's face never changed, nor did the lady speak. Once more the gold
was piled, and once more raked away. The other players, forgetting the
strange entrance of the lady's champion, were now absorbed in
following his failing fortune.

Again and again Paul lost, until finally the last of the generous pile
was swept away. With a truly stoical British smile Paul reached for
his cheque book, and glanced about him for some one who possibly could
identify him. But the lady rose from the table with a little gasp and
steadied herself with her hands on the back of her chair.

At the same moment the door by which Paul had entered opened again,
and in there came two gentlemen in evening dress. A third man
followed closely behind them, and a flush of irritation crept up the
back of Paul's neck as he recognized Schwartzberger.

The room was quite hushed. The men about the table had been awed by
the vast sum of money which the mysterious lady had staked and lost.

As she moved a step forward as though to go, they drew aside to give
her free passage, so that now she found herself face to face with the
men who had just entered.

Looking over her head, Paul saw the pork-packer glance quickly at him,
his face a complete study in astonishment. He bowed to the lady, but
said nothing. It was Paul who spoke.

"This is most unfortunate," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked the lady.

"Your loss," said Paul hastily. "This is no fit place for you to
remain in. Allow me to show you the way out at once."

He thrust himself between her and the two men who had entered,
whereupon Schwartzberger burst forth in an angry voice that was
perfectly audible to all.

"You damned British hypocrite!" he roared. His face was purple and he
seemed suddenly to become inarticulate with rage.

Paul pushed the baize-covered door open and first bowed the lady out.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in a formal voice, "you will greatly oblige
me by stepping to the other end of the passage. I have something to
say to these gentlemen."

Making a little inclination with her head, the lady walked slowly
away, leaving Paul to confront Schwartzberger. And Paul by no means
minced matters.

"Pardon me," he said, facing about once more, "but your assistance is
not required. You will be kind enough to call on me at the _Hôtel
Métropole_ to-morrow morning, when I shall ask you for an explanation.
Till then I have no further need of you." And he turned and passed
through the door, leaving the man once more speechless.

With a few steps Paul reached the lady, who was waiting for him. As he
approached she turned to him, lifting the heavy veil which had hid her
features, and then, leaning toward her in the subdued light of the
passage-way, Paul gazed with amazement into the face of--the Comtesse
de Boistelle.




CHAPTER XII


There come times in every one's life when explanations, even if one
might give them, are useless. And Sir Paul Verdayne realized that fact
to its fullest when he faced the quasi Countess in the Casino
vestibule.

What unhappy inspiration had caused her to dress herself in a manner
almost identical with that in which Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had
appeared at Lucerne? Mentally, Paul roundly damned a score of times
the imitative instinct of the sex. He could not forgive himself for
having mistaken a person of the Comtesse's stamp for the lady whom he
had sought.

But there the Comtesse stood. And Paul was conscious that in the
glance she bent on him there was more than amazement at his Quixotic
replenishing of her vanished fortunes. In the excitement of the losing
play, she had no thought of the motive which might have prompted
Paul's act. Now that it was done, she had instantly decided, after the
manner of her kind, that it was a tremendous bid for her favour. And
the unconcern with which such a sum had been placed at her disposal
appealed to just such a temperament as hers.

The Comtesse de Boistelle was not one to place too low a value upon
her own attractiveness. The attentions lavished on her by her porcine
American admirer had lacked the artistic touch of this _coup_ of the
English nobleman, and she was willing to capitulate on the spot in
favour of the latter.

All this--and more--Paul read in the warm, admiring glance of the
Comtesse which met his astonished gaze. The horrible futility of any
attempt at explanation struck a chill to his heart, and started the
perspiration on his forehead. Flight, ignominious flight, seemed the
only escape, and yet at this, the sturdy British spirit of Sir Paul
rebelled. A flash of inspiration--a memory from his school-days, came
to mind, as he groped for a plan, in the line from Virgil, "In the
middle way lies safety."

With a bow whose courtesy was irreproachable, Paul spoke first:

"Permit me to send you to your hotel, fair partner of a losing
venture." He smiled grimly at the unconscious truth in his chance
phrase. "To-morrow may give me the great pleasure of a further
acquaintance--and under less depressing circumstances."

Then, before the Comtesse could quite marshal her vocabulary to reply
in a fitting manner, Paul had bowed her through the great entrance;
the door of the carriage shut, and she was driven away.

       *       *       *       *       *

The uncomfortable sense of having made a thorough-going ass of himself
was not conducive to sound slumber on the part of Sir Paul that night.
Nor did it aid in preserving his temper during the unpleasant scene
the following morning when Schwartzberger, still furious with rage,
called at the _hôtel._

It was a relief, however, to Paul to have some object on which to vent
his pent-up feelings, and if the pork-packer did not quite understand
all that he said, Paul at least left no mistake in Schwartzberger's
mind as to the total lack of grounds for the latter's jealousy, and
filled him with a proper awe of the wrath of an Englishman once
aroused.

Paul realized that by the time she met Schwartzberger, if not before,
the Comtesse would discover the veiled emphasis on mere probability in
his parting suggestion as to any future meeting. So he was not
surprised to see the tonneau of the big green motor car with its
customary occupants whirling past him as he drove to the station that
afternoon.

Well! the unbelievable _faux pas_ which he had committed--thanks to
chance and his own imbecility--had turned him from his search. He no
longer had the heart to linger about Nice peering into strange ladies'
faces. The Lord only knew what blunder he would make next if he
continued to look for her there!




CHAPTER XIII


When Paul stepped down from a railway-carriage in the _Gare de l'Est_
in Paris two days later, his language had improved slightly. But he
was still cursing himself for a consummate ass.

Baxter, who had received instructions to meet him, relieved him of his
travelling bag, and a taximeter cab, whisking him quickly to the
_Place Vendôme_, soon deposited him at the _Hôtel du Rhin._

As for the Russian lady, Paul was a bit discouraged over the
adventure. Langres and Paris were two entirely different places. What
chance had he of finding her here?

He confessed to himself that it was not a promising undertaking, yet
sooner or later everyone came to Paris. Here he was, and here would he
stay, for a time at least. Perhaps,--who knew?--he might find her more
easily than he dared hope. And from his apartments he looked out over
the tree-tops.

The sight of miles and miles of chimney pots were not at all
reassuring.

"Well! I'll never find her, mooning away up here," he thought. "I'll
go down to dinner--and then for a plan of action."

That night he went to the theatre, but his thoughts were not for the
elegantly gowned daughters of respectable _bourgeoises_ who disported
themselves for his amusement. What if they did play the parts of grand
duchesses better than those great ladies themselves know how? Only one
woman on earth interested Paul. And--confound his luck!--he did not
know where in this great town he could find her.

Our Paul was not in a particularly pleasant frame of mind when he
strolled out upon the pavement--not waiting even for the piece to end.

Another hour spent at a boulevard table impressed him as the height of
stupidity. He chafed under the enforced inaction of the situation.
"How many more wasted hours must he endure?" he asked himself.

He saw them slowly stretching out before him--days into months--months
into years--years into eternity. Ah! God! that must not be!

       *       *       *       *       *

And while Paul was wondering, speculating over what seemed well-nigh
impossible, the lights of the Dalmatian Embassy in the _Faubourg St.
Germain_ gleamed brightly out upon the asphalt pavement.

In a sitting room on one of the upper floors sat Natalie Vseslavitch
and the wife of the Ambassador. The guests of the evening had gone,
and they were having one of those little, intimate ante-retiring chats
so dear to the hearts of all women.

"Now, my dear," the elder lady was saying, "I insist that it is high
time you were married. It is ridiculous for a charming girl like you
to take the stand you have. Let me see--you're thirty now--and not a
single man will you encourage--scarcely tolerate--except a few
grey-beards like my own good husband."

Natalie feigned gay laughter, though a bitter pang shot through her
heart at the unconscious stab of the good Countess.

"Just because you fell in love," she replied, "you expect me to do the
same at will. I repeat to you, as to all the rest, I would not give a
_kopeck_ for any man I have ever met. _Pouf_! they do not interest me.
Look! my adored one, I warn you that I shall prove a most intractable
guest if you attempt to inveigle me into any alliance. Ah! you look
guilty already! You see, I know you of old, you dear maker of
marriages!"

The Countess reddened slightly at the charge, but laughed away her
momentary embarrassment. It was true her interest in her young
companion had led her to manage _rencontres_ with various eligibles of
the Countess's acquaintance, and she had already in mind two or three
new possibilities--men prominent in the younger diplomatic set.

"Ah, well! you pretty little incorrigible!" the Countess sighed, "some
day you will thank your dear old friend for sheltering you under the
wings of her experience."

And thus they said good-night affectionately and parted--Madame to
plan some new way of entrapping her charming friend into matrimony;
Natalie to fall into a deep study as she prepared for the night.

The subject of her thoughts, she felt sure, could no longer be in
Langres. Fortunately, one can shift his thought-scenes around the
world in a twinkling. Paul, on the other hand, had spent some seven
dragging hours on his journey to Paris.

The next morning as she glanced over the columns of the _Matin_, the
Countess exclaimed:

"_Voila_! Sir Paul Verdayne is at the _Hôtel du Rhin._ You are too
young to have known him, my dear. Those sad years you were fortunately
away at the Convent." And the kind-hearted old lady's eyes filled at
the remembrance of Paul's sad story. "A charming man, truly. I shall
send him a note at once, asking him to dine with us to-night--we need
one more, and he is the very person. It is some years since I have
seen him, but in London he came often to the Embassy."

The elder lady did not perceive the somewhat startled look on the face
of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch.

"I shall have him take you in to dinner, my dear," she continued. "He
is most charming company when he wishes to be, I assure you."

"Oh, Countess, no!" the young woman cried. "Let some one else have
your wonderful Englishman. Good old Baron Lancret will amuse me
sufficiently, my dear."

"Ah, but no. The dear soul has grown quite deaf since you last saw
him. I can not think of allowing it. Be a good child now. This is no
plot. Sir Paul is an incurable misogynist--the only man I know who
would not fall in love with you. See! your old friend is doing her
best to provide you with an ideal dinner-partner. What more could you
wish? It is settled."

And a servant was promptly dispatched to the _Hôtel du Rhin_.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Do the Count and myself the favor to dine with us this evening,"
Paul read when he opened the note. "You will not have forgotten your
old friends of a half-dozen years ago? We shall be charmed to see you
again--and I shall expect you without fail."

Well, he had no engagement for that night--and Paul sent back a polite
note of acceptance. He remembered many pleasant functions that he had
attended in years past at the Dalmatian Embassy in London. After all,
he had to do something. He could not go about searching for the
vanished lady every moment of the day and night. That much
distraction, at least, he would allow himself.

It was now eleven o'clock. He would wait until _déjeuner_ was over,
and then he would go out somewhere--anywhere--so long as there were
moving crowds of people to furnish some chance of his meeting her
again. Next time, without fail, he would manage a conversation.

That afternoon then he stepped out of the _hôtel_ and engaged a
_fiacre_--a taximeter would be of no use, Paul thought. Tearing
through the streets at break-neck speed annihilated distance rather
than time. He told the driver to take him anywhere he pleased, and
leaned back listlessly as he was piloted slowly through the avenues.

Paris, beautiful Paris, always intoxicated Paul. He had not cared for
it when he was younger. But in those days he was less cosmopolitan
than now. Our insular John Bull sees nothing outside our own tight
little island. But to Paul an awakening had come. Since those
wonderful weeks he had known in Switzerland and Venice--now long years
ago--he had looked out upon the world with different eyes. The
pulsating life of the streets quickened his own blood.

"To the _Bois de Boulogne_!" he directed the _cocher_, finally, and
soon they swung into the gay stream that flowed down the _Avenue du
Bois de Boulogne_ toward the most wonderful pleasure ground in the
world.




CHAPTER XIV


Paul found the _Bois_ as beautiful as ever, with its lakes and
rippling streams hidden away in the forests. But he was conscious of a
feeling of solitude as he rode along among the hundreds upon hundreds
of jangling equipages.

All the world was there it seemed to Paul. _Grande dames_ there were,
with gorgeous footmen on the box; and elegant little victorias
containing wonderfully gowned _demoiselles_. Paul recognized one of
the latter as a lady who had caused the disruption of a kingdom. There
were less conspicuous carriages, too, whose occupants seemed to be
having the best time of all--whole families, there, with father and
mother and laughing children.

Suppose the lady were somewhere in that wonderful throng of
pleasure-seekers? In what fashion would she drive abroad?

"God knows," he muttered hoarsely to himself, "who or what she may be.
Princess or lady's maid, I must find her."

So he rode on through the limitless _Bois_, that wonderful wilderness
of green trees and country pleasures, of _fêtes_ and promenades.

At last they turned into the _Route de Suresnes_, which soon led them
to the _Lac Supérieur_. There Paul dismissed his _cocher_, for he had
a fancy to stroll along the borders of the lake.

The banks were alive with boys and girls running about like young
savages, to the distraction of their nurses. Paul threaded his way
among them contentedly, for he loved children and had all too little
opportunity to be with them. He stood for a time and watched with much
amusement a game of blind-man's-buff--_colin-maillard_ the little
beggars called it, but if the name was different, the play was the
same that Paul had known in his own boyhood at Verdayne Place.

Many fine ships were sailing along the lake's shore, navigated by
brave mariners of eight and ten. Paul had just turned away from
watching one spirited race when a scream arrested his attention. At
first he saw only an excited group gathered at the lake's edge, and
then his eye caught sight of a tell-tale hat, floating on the surface.
With a few bounds he was in the water, to emerge soon with a little
limp body in his arms. He laid his burden down gently on the pebbly
bank and then gave place to a man who pushed his way through the
crowd with the brisk professional air a doctor is wont to assume. In a
few moments the sturdy _enfant_ breathed again.

Paul felt anything but a hero. He had never been wetter--and moreover
he had lost his hat. It would be a wonder, too, if any _cocher_ would
let him get into his carriage with the water running off him in
rivulets.

He was standing by the road-side bargaining with one of that tribe and
had nearly exhausted his stock of dignified French when he happened to
glance over his shoulder as a carriage passed close by him. Beneath a
parasol a lady's face stood out clearly from the moving maze around
him--her face again.

The smile in her eyes made Paul mad.

He thrust a twenty-franc note into the hand of the astonished
_cocher_, and springing into the cab directed the man to hurry on.

And then the impossibility of the situation dawned upon him. A fine
sight he was! to go dashing off the Lord knew where after a lady he
did not know! Such an adventure attempted by as bedraggled a cavalier
as he, might easily land him in a police station. He had no relish for
being dragged off by a _gendarme_, he reflected, and even if that
should not occur, the best he could possibly manage would be to make
an ass of himself. And he had been far too successful in that line
once before.

With the thought, his customary sober judgment returned.

"_L'Hôtel du Rhin!_" he shouted savagely to his _cocher_, and with one
last glance at the back of the carriage ahead (if it were only an
automobile!--then there'd be a number on it! he thought) Paul was
turned sharply around and carried toward the main entrance to the
_Bois_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Even some hours later, when he was ready to start for the Dalmatian
Embassy, his rage had not cooled greatly; it was therefore in a tone
strangely at variance with his unruffled evening dress that he
directed his chauffeur. As for Baxter, he had never seen his master in
so villainous a humour. Indeed, had it not been for an uncommonly
pretty _femme de chambre_ in the hotel, whose acquaintance he had made
the evening before, he would have been tempted to give his employer
notice.

"His langwidge was somethink dreadful!" he confided to her after Paul
had gone.

The pleasant ride through the _Faubourg St. Germain_ served to mollify
Paul somewhat; and when he walked up to the brilliantly lighted
entrance, where a resplendent flunky opened the massive doors for him,
he was more himself again. He was soon greeting his host and hostess,
whose genuine pleasure at seeing him once more was so evident that the
last vestige of Paul's ill-humour vanished before their welcoming
smiles.

Presently the Countess turned to Paul and said:

"Come! I want to present you to a young Russian friend of mine whom
you are to take in to dinner," and taking his arm she led him into an
adjoining room.

And there Paul met his vision, face to face; the lady of his quest.




CHAPTER XV


At first Paul could hardly believe his senses. He was conscious, as he
gazed into the depths of two marvellous eyes, of a tall supple figure
all in black, a crimson rose in her dark hair lending a touch of
color--that, and her red lips.

This was the face that had burned its lineaments into the tablets of
his memory--the face so sweetly known at Lake Lucerne.

The babble of the arriving guests--the strains of the
orchestra--became as the faint murmurs of a far off sea.

For Paul, one fact, and only one, existed--it was she--his Lady of the
Beauteous Countenance; no vision, but a bewitching creature of flesh
and blood whose gloved hand rested for a moment in his own.

As in a dream Paul heard the lady's name--the same that he had learned
at Lucerne--and he felt himself murmuring something--what the words
were he scarcely knew.

Not by so much as the quiver of an eyelash did Mademoiselle give sign
of recognition, or memory of any previous meeting. She merely smiled
as she told Paul that her old friend the Countess had often spoken of
him.

His heart was athrob with curious emotions, when he heard the
Countess' voice:

"Come! we are going in. You two can become better acquainted at
table." And he felt his partner's arm rest lightly within his; its
merest touch electrified him.

"Damn the dinner!" Paul swore softly to himself, for he had no wish
to share his good fortune with a roomful of people.

To his great disgust, a silly ass of a young German _attaché_, who sat
on the other side of Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, began talking with her
as soon as they had reached their places.

When Paul did have her to himself occasionally, she talked to him of
England, the last subject he was interested in then. Not for a minute
did she allow him an opportunity to lead her in the direction of
Langres or Lucerne.

"I have never been across the Channel," she told him. "But I have long
wished to go. You English are such a remarkable people--you are all so
sane and sensible compared with my own countrymen. What Russian can
talk with a woman for five minutes without making violent love to
her?--but you cold-blooded Anglo-Saxons are so refreshingly
different."

Paul did not see the mischievous merriment in the lady's eyes. And his
gallant answer was interrupted by some inanity from Herr von Mark.

If ever the Anglo-German diplomatic relations were in danger, an
observer would have promptly decided that they were at that instant.
That the conceited young German did not immediately expire was only
due to the fact that dagger glances cannot cause a fatal wound.

Paul tried to learn more about the lady. Was she to be long in Paris?
Really, she could not say. She liked the country so much more than the
town that it was always hard for her to stay many days away from the
open. She never knew when the whim might seize her to go--to get
aboard a train and hurry to some distant spot which she felt impelled
to visit. Who knew? To-morrow, perhaps, might find her on her way to
the château of a friend who lived in the Bukowina, near the foothills
of the Carpathian Mountains.

"Ah!"--and she turned to Paul with a radiant face that made him long
to catch her in his arms--"do you know that wonderful country? Those
fissured peaks, with their precipitous and inaccessible crests--their
rock-cumbered valleys, concealing deep and lovely lakes? And the
beautiful pine-woods creeping down to the foot of the mountains? I
could spend all my life in that wonderful place, living in some
peasant's hut, if need be."

"Tell me more!" Paul leaned toward her, forgetful now of all else but
this divine and fascinating being.

"Ah!" she breathed, "you are a devotee of Nature, too, I know. You are
a great traveller,--the Countess has said it," she continued quaintly.
"You have been around the whole world. While as for me, I know Europe
only, and of course Russia best of all countries. I have seen much of
her--those wonderful rolling _steppes_, and rugged mountains. The
North Sea, too, for I love the sea as my own soul.

"Often do I feel as though the sea were really in my soul itself. And
as in the sea there are hidden water-plants, which only come to the
surface at the moment they bloom, and sink again as soon as they fade,
so at times do wondrous flower-pictures form in the depths of my soul,
and rise up, shed perfume around, and gleam and vanish.... Then the
ships that sail by! As you walk along the shore, is it not a pretty
sight to see them--their great white sails look like stately swans.
And still more beautiful is the sight when the setting sun throws
great rays of glory round a passing bark."

In silence Paul gazed at her. He hardly breathed, lest some banal word
should frighten this wonderful nymph away.

"And then at night,"--she went on dreamily--"what a strange and
mysterious sensation the meeting with strange ships at sea produces.
You fancy that perhaps your best friends, whom you have not seen for
years, are sailing silently by, and that you are losing them
forevermore."

Paul was strangely moved. He loved the sea himself, as well as the
mountains--his Queen had taught him its call years ago--and he often
wandered about the shore, pondering over the strange old legends with
which centuries have wreathed it.

"You are wonderful!" he whispered to the lady. "You're like some
water-maiden--and I believe your eyes are a bit of the sea itself!"

"Ah! Now you are like all the rest--French and Russians and Germans!
Why spoil my rhapsody with personalities?"

"Forgive me!" Paul looked sufficiently penitent, and Mademoiselle with
a playful gesture of absolution spoke again.

"It puts me in a strange and curious mood when I ramble along the
shore in the twilight. Behind me are the flat dunes, before me the
vast, heaving, immeasurable ocean, and above me the sky like an
infinite crystal dome. Then I seem to be a very insect; and yet my
soul expands to the size of the world. The high simplicity of Nature
which surrounds me, elevates and oppresses me at the same time, more
so than any other scene, however sublime. There never was any
cathedral dome vast enough for me."

She stopped short, as if suddenly realizing she had stumbled upon
dangerous ground.

And at that moment the Countess picked up the ladies with her eyes and
they rose, to leave the men over their cigars. So Paul was left, to be
drawn, willy-nilly, into a discussion of an international alliance,
which did not interest him in the least.

Later when the men joined the ladies in the _salon_, Paul sought his
sprite, but she was careful, or so it seemed, not to be left alone
with him. And it was not until he said good-night that he could
express to her the wish to see her again.

"You are such an uncertain lady," he said to her, smiling, "so
restless within the confines of a town-house, that I hope you will let
me call to-morrow--before you suddenly go dashing off to climb some
peak, or to visit some foreign coast."

"Come for tea, to-morrow, if you wish." She looked up at him
quickly--searchingly, Paul thought--and his blood raced madly through
his veins.

Adieus were said, and Paul found himself again in his taximeter cab.
In a state of mind quite different from that which had obsessed him on
his way to the dinner, he arrived once more at the _hôtel_.

"Ah! these mad English!" Paul's chauffeur said to himself as he
pocketed an extravagant _pourboire_. "We see too few of them! Milord
Rosbif must have been having some famous old wine over in the
_Faubourg St. Germain_, is it not so?" he asked himself.

But it was the more exalted intoxication of the soul that sent Paul up
the steps with the elastic stride of youth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Who was she? Paul did not know, even now. Mademoiselle Vseslavitch had
said nothing of her family or her home. Beyond the fact that she was
Russian, and a friend of the Dalmatian Ambassador's wife--herself a
Slav--Paul was still ignorant. Indeed, for all he knew, she might be
some poor relation--lack of fortune was the only possible reason he
could ascribe for her being unmarried. Beautiful and attractive women,
of good family--if they were rich--did not wander over the Continent
long without husbands. Well--that mattered nothing. Thank heaven, he
was not bound by any necessity of fortune.

Before he switched off his light that night Paul took from one of his
boxes a small flat object of red morocco inlaid with gold. He lifted a
tiny lid and there, through wide-set and strangely fascinating eyes a
lady looked at him. It was the most amazing miniature Paul had ever
seen. And the face depicted there with some unknown master's
consummate skill--how often had it proved for him the only consolation
he could find in the whole world.

His eyes dimmed as they conveyed to him the image of his still beloved
_Imperatorskoye_--he pressed the bauble to his lips. Ah! God! the cold
glass! How different from her melting kiss!

Not easily did he control his emotions. Of late years he seldom opened
the portrait because of the almost overwhelming rush of memories it
always brought to him.

"There is a strange resemblance," he mused, after he had carried the
miniature where the light shone full upon it. Was it the strong
predominance of the Russian type which stamped alike the features of
his dead Queen and the living lady he had seen that evening? Paul
could not tell. He closed the case reluctantly. Never had he expected
to see another comparable to his long lost love. Well, he was
drifting, perhaps. Who knew?

And yet he felt again, as his hand rested upon the precious casket,
that _she_ in her wisdom must be cognizant of it all. Indeed, Paul had
gone through the years of his manhood with a feeling that her presence
was always near to him. The conviction that had come to him as he had
stood in the Cathedral at Langres was too strong to be shaken off.
Whatever happened--and Paul meant to win the woman he had that night
left in the _Faubourg St. Germain_--he felt sure his Queen had willed
it.

Such is the inexplicable influence that the dead sometimes exert. I
will not try to tell you more of that now. It would take too long. And
I should first have to tell you about many sad things that happened a
score of years ago, if you do not know them already. And then I might
become melancholy. It is my pleasure instead to tell another story
altogether, which is joyful and appropriate. And it is this very story
which I mean to tell in this book.




CHAPTER XVI


When Paul rang the bell at the Dalmatian Embassy the next afternoon it
was with a firm determination to learn more of the Countess's guest.
If she would not tell him about herself, then he would find out from
the wife of the Ambassador.

The Countess had always warmly welcomed Paul, when Count Oreshefski
presided over the legation house in London, and Paul had responded to
her motherly interest by opening his heart to a greater extent even
than to his own mother, the proud Lady Henrietta. For the Countess had
known and loved his Queen--a fact which formed an unalterable bond of
sympathy between them.

Paul wandered about the drawing-room, when the footman had departed
with his card, too restless--too eager--to be seated. In one of his
turns about the room his eyes alighted on an object which instantly
arrested his idle steps. It was a woman's photograph, lying on a small
table, as though placed there by a careless hand and then forgotten. A
tiny object to work such an effect, but it was enough to bring Paul to
a round halt.

There, looking up at him from the card, was the face of the woman he
had come to see--Mademoiselle Vseslavitch. There was a wistful,
touching expression to the pictured face, but it was a remarkably fine
likeness, and Paul glowed with secret joy as he hid it away in his
breast-pocket, murmuring inaudibly to be forgiven for the theft,
but--alas for the cause of honesty--gleefully unrepentant.

He scarcely had time to move from the table, as his ear caught the
rustle of approaching silk, when the fair original of the photograph
entered, alone, and greeted him cordially.

"I am so sorry!" she said, as she held out her hand toward Paul. "The
Countess has been suddenly called to Etampes, where her sister is ill.
I am left to do the honours at the tea-table. You won't mind, I hope?"

Paul expressed himself as sorry to learn of the illness of the
Countess's sister; he did not know the lady. And he spoke the usual
regrets over missing the charming society of the Ambassador's wife.
But there was a light in his eye which denied any great grief. As a
matter of fact, he was overjoyed that he would have the Countess's
guest to himself.

"Come into the library," said Mademoiselle Vseslavitch, "and we will
have the tea things brought in there. It's not too early for you, is
it?"

Paul laughed at the idea of its ever being too early for an
Englishman's tea. Under pressure of work, when Parliament was sitting,
he drank innumerable cups. And even when he was spending his time at
Verdayne Place he always had tea ready to drink between sets of
tennis.

The Verdayne tea was famous all over the countryside. It was a Russian
variety. Paul always steadfastly refused to divulge to anyone--ever
the Vicar's wife--the place where he bought it, and he always had it
prepared in a Russian _samovar_.

Once in the library, a great sombre room to which an open coal fire
lent a cheerful touch, Paul's companion seated herself at a low
tea-table and busied herself with the _samovar_.

"This is Russian tea," she said, smiling. "You may not care for it."

"On the contrary," Paul replied, sipping the steaming amber fluid--"I
always use this same kind at home. One can't fail to detect the
peculiar aromatic flavour which tea retains when it has travelled
overland, but which most of the leaves sold in England lose in coming
by sea."

"This is my own--which I always carry with me," Mademoiselle
Vseslavitch remarked. "We have used no other in our family for many
years."

"And where, Mademoiselle, if I may ask, does this highly
discriminating family reside? Perhaps, in the course of my wanderings
there might come a time when it would be a most important matter for
me to obtain a cup of this truly remarkable brew."

Mademoiselle Vseslavitch laughed mischievously at Paul. She had
motioned him to a chair where the firelight reached his face, whereas
her own was more in shadow. He did not see the amusement in her eyes
when she replied:

"Oh! You can find tea like that in many houses east of the Balkans. It
is really not wonderful at all."

Paul saw that the lady did not care to tell him much of herself, and
he did not venture to press her further just then. But now that the
Countess was not there to question, he felt that he must make some
effort later.

As they sat there the lady talked to him of things in Paris, of the
Luxembourg, the Louvre, Nôtre Dame, the boulevards, and then she
wickedly mentioned the _Bois de Boulogne_. But Paul did not prove very
responsive on that subject. The remembrance of the spectacle he had
presented the afternoon before did not please him.

He knew right well that she was teasing him, though she did not
mention the incident. He almost wished she would--it might give him an
opportunity to say to her the words that he longed to say.

As for Lucerne--or Langres--Mademoiselle nimbly avoided those
spots--it was as if they had no place on her map of Europe. And try as
he could, Paul could not bring himself to mention them.

At last the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him. Suppose he
should boldly recall to Mademoiselle the _rencontre_ in the rustic
tea-house at Lucerne? Clearly, he might commit an unfortunate _faux
pas_ by such a move. No, he dared not speak to her of an incident so
unconventional. He must ignore the fact that he had ever seen her
before, unless she herself mentioned it. It was clear that she would
demand careful wooing. This was a time when he must keep himself well
in hand.

And just as Paul had reached this conclusion something happened--it
was but a little thing--that upset all his well-laid plans.

As the lady held out more tea for Paul and he drew near to take it, he
caught once more, as at Lucerne, the faintest breath of that strange
perfume so dear to his memory. His hand shook with such sudden
agitation that he set the cup upon the table, lest it fall.

The lady looked up quickly at Paul, and as he stood there over her
their eyes met fairly. All skillful fencing was over. The time had
come when the truth must be told.

"Let us drop the mask, Mademoiselle," he said with a slight choke in
his voice. Without warning the thrill of youth had fired his blood and
he cast prudence to the four winds. What mattered conventionality?
What mattered anything? He only knew that he cared more for her than
for all else in the whole world, and he took her hand in his with a
tumultuous heart.

"I love you, dear," he said simply. "You yourself are the beautiful
lady I have sought constantly since that time I first saw you, as I
looked up into the starry skies. At first I thought your eyes also
were stars."

She gazed up at him for a moment, her hand motionless in his, while
neither stirred.

"My heart misgives me!" she said then. "Words are so easily said--they
are often spoken idly--_pour passer le temps_--and soon forgotten. Ah!
Sir Paul! forgive me, I beg of you--if I was mad once. I promise
myself it shall never happen again. It was unfortunate--but there are
things one cannot explain."

"But I love you," Paul repeated.

"Are you sure it is love?" she asked him.

Ah! how well Paul knew now, and he bent toward the face of his dreams.

"No! no! not that!" she said, and rose from her place. "You don't know
what you do. Please go! go! quickly, for I must be alone."

And then as Paul hesitated for an instant, she fled through the heavy
draperies into the room beyond, leaving but a breath of the faint,
sweet perfume to hallow the air.

With heart bowed down Paul passed out through the great doorway, the
words from an old play ringing through his brain:

"She was lovable, and he loved her; but he was not lovable, and she
loved him not."




CHAPTER XVII


With the many details of the evening that Paul spent, I will not weary
you, dear reader. Wandering about the boulevards he went, like one
walking in a dream, at times stopping to rest at some quiet table
apart from the throng of merry-makers, entirely disregardful of the
laughing faces, the friendly glances that now and then searched him
out. Like a canker worm misery gnawed at his heart.

He stopped at a cable office and despatched to his mother, the Lady
Henrietta, a message which, though she knew it not, was pregnant with
meaning.

     "Delayed indefinitely in Paris."

Paul wondered afterward, as he sat quietly sipping his coffee in a
small _café_, that in the little breast of one mortal there could be
such room for infinite wretchedness. Within his heart that night was
nothing but darkness and pain. He felt as though his very heart was
breaking and bleeding. The sweat lay cold upon his brow and he sighed
deeply.

Alas it was all true. He loved her, though she loved him not; he gave
her all, and she gave him nothing; and yet he could not part from her.
He could not help his unlucky passion.

Contrary to his wont, he did not, as he sat alone, dream his way back
into the past. He looked rather into the mystic haze of the future,
and heard not the confused sound of the voices of men and women, nor
the gay music which filled the place.

Paul, after all, was no seer. As to what the outcome would be, all the
dreaming he might do would tell him nothing. He rose and proceeded to
his _hôtel_.

       *       *       *       *       *

But to return for a moment to the source of Paul's unhappiness. He
might not have been so wretched as he sat in the little _café_ could
he have seen her in her boudoir, now weeping with wild uncontrollable
sobs, now smiling radiantly through her tears.

For Mademoiselle Natalie Vseslavitch was at once the happiest and the
most miserable of women. She had taken advantage of the privilege of
her sex when she feigned to doubt Paul's fervent declaration that
afternoon. She _did_ believe him. Her keen feminine instinct told her
that his simple "I love you" were not the idle words she pretended to
think them.

And yet with the joy of being loved by the one who was the dearest to
her own heart came also the crushing remembrance of the dreadful
barrier by which she was forever shut from happiness. However, the
indomitable will of her proud ancestry finally asserted itself. She
sat down at her dainty writing table, and in a steady hand she wrote:

     "I am going away to-morrow, and I may never see you again. When
     this reaches you I shall be gone. Whether we meet again sometime
     will depend upon many things. As for those which concern me, I
     cannot write you now. And you? Can you not imagine obstacles for
     yourself? Has it not occurred to you, even now, that I--a strange
     woman--may be many things you had not, at first, dreamed of?
     There are those, as you must surely know, whose business it is to
     roam about the centers of Europe. And for what purpose? None know
     their missions, or what master they may serve, except the one
     whose will they implicitly obey. You have told me that you love
     me. Are you sure, my friend, that that would not all be changed
     if I were some one--something--that I seemed not? Think well over
     this, I pray you. It may mean much to me.

    "Meanwhile do not try to find me, for I shall be hidden far
    away. Some day, perhaps, you may know all."

When Paul received this letter the following morning it was almost
more than he could bear. How could she have misjudged him so! A
longing seized him to find her--in spite of her charge. The situation
was unendurable--he must seek her out and convince her that it was
she herself alone that mattered. What was position to him? He had
position. He was endowed with worldly goods. And he could marry whom
he chose. He looked at the note again.

What could she mean?

Ah! he had it! She was a secret agent--there was no doubt--working
probably in the service of the Dalmatian government. Well, for all
that Paul cared nothing. The only course of action open to him was to
follow her, to the ends of the world, if need be.

He would convince her--she _must_ be convinced--and then, he hoped,
all would be well. She cared for him, somewhat--the tone of the letter
seemed to show that--though she tried to conceal it, evidently. The
Countess was expected back that day--he would seek her help.

Paul wasted no time. Another hour found him at the Dalmatian Embassy,
face to face with the Countess Oreshefski, who was instantly all
sympathy as she noted his agitation.

"My dear lady," he said to her, "you will not think it strange, I
hope, if I ask your help in a matter of great importance to me?"

"What is it, Sir Paul? You know that if I can be of assistance to you
in any way it will make me only too happy." And the Countess regarded
him with a tender look.

Paul had a strange attraction for women, as I have said, and this fine
woman, having lost her only son--Paul's own age--many years before,
had always felt a mother's interest in him.

"You are very kind," Paul continued, "and I will be quite frank with
you. I shall have to presume upon your good nature to ask your advice
and help once more.