Her Majesty's Minister

“Do you remember the Countess of Flanders’ balls at Brussels – how we danced together?” she remarked.

“Remember them!” I echoed. “They were in the golden days when everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose – the days when our love was perfect.”

She sighed again, but no word escaped her. She was, I knew, reflecting upon those blissful days and nights when we met here and there at all hours and at all the best houses in Brussels, dining, lunching, dancing, and gossiping – together always.

“Will you not resolve to forget the past, Yolande?” I asked fervently, taking her hand in mine again. “Come, tell me that you will – that you will not hold me aloof like this? I cannot bear it – indeed I can’t, for I love you;” and I bent until my lips touched her finger-tips.

“I cannot!” she cried at last, with an effort rising and firmly withdrawing her hand from my grasp.

“You cannot? Why?” I demanded, taken somewhat aback by her sudden attitude of determination.

“I will not allow you to ruin yourself, Gerald, on my account,” she declared in a very low but calm voice.

“But why should my love for you prove my ruin?” I cried madly. “The truth is that you do not love me. Why not admit it at once?”

“You are in error,” she hastened to protest. “I do love you. I love you to-day with the same fond affection as I entertained for you until that day – fatal to me – when you turned your back upon me and left me. But, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then.” She paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: “Gerald, my love, hear me! These are my last words, but I pronounce them – I make confession – so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between us.”

“Well,” I said, “speak – tell me!”

“Ah!” she cried hoarsely, covering her face with her hands, “you wring this confession from me. I am the most unhappy girl in all the world. Would that I were dead that it was all ended! If I did not love you, Gerald, I should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after our marriage. But I cannot – I cannot! Even though we shall part to-day for ever, I have resolved to be frank with you because I still have one single spark of honesty left within my heart!”

“I don’t understand,” I exclaimed. “Tell me.”

“Then listen,” she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments of hesitation. “When we were lovers in the old days I was, as you know, a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my God and for yourself. But I am that no longer. I am unworthy your love, Gerald. I am unfit to be your wife, and can never be – never!” and she threw herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while I stood there rigid as a statue.

Chapter Eleven

Deane Speaks his Mind

An hour later I was seated in my room at the Embassy staring blankly at the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. I loved Yolande – nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to allow me to resume my place at her side. At one moment it seemed to me as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another I could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct suspicion. My love’s strange words were in themselves a sufficient self-condemnation. Her service as a political agent had been secured by one or other of the Powers – France, I suspected; and, to put it plainly, she was a spy!

This knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. Of all the women I had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of our diplomacy, Yolande was certainly the chief. The events which had culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery. Why had she done this? Who had tempted her or forced her to it?

Those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and I, loving her so fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. There was an affinity between us that I knew might some day prove fatal.

But we had parted. She had announced her intention of leaving Paris, accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored that I would never seek her again.

“I shall take care to evade you,” she had said. “To-day we meet for the last time. We must each go our own way and strive our hardest to forget.”

Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible. When a man has loved as ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair one who in youth’s golden days was your all in all. The sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman’s chiffons as she passes, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. You recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. The most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love.

I had been a fool. This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there ruminating. I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent. My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control. True, indeed, it is that love is blind.

I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. What mad words I wrote I almost forget. All I know is that even then I could not hold back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. I tried to put the letter aside for calmer reflection, but could not. My pen ran on, recording the eloquence of my heart. Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for the messenger of the Embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to her.

“There is no answer, m’sieur?” the man inquired.

“None,” I answered.

Then the door closed again, and I was alone.

Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. Fate had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my life.

Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: “Doctor Deane has called, and wishes to see you, sir.”

I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.

“Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!” he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise, “what’s the matter? You don’t look yourself.”

“Oh, nothing,” I answered with ill-feigned carelessness. “A bit worried, that’s all.”

“Worried over mademoiselle – eh?” he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes.

I nodded in the affirmative.

“Ah, I guessed as much,” he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the table and flinging himself into a chair. “Mind if I smoke? I’ve been busy all day, and am dying for a weed.”

“Smoke? Why, of course,” I answered, pushing my cigars and some matches before him.

I took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously through the smoke, asked at last:

“What has occurred between you? Mademoiselle is leaving Paris to-morrow.”

“How did you know?”

“I called half an hour ago, and found both her and the Countess making preparations for a hasty departure. Have you quarrelled again?”

“No, there is no quarrel between us,” I answered gravely. “On the contrary, there is a perfect understanding.”

An incredulous smile crossed his features. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know, after all, what right I have to interfere in your private affairs at all, old chap, but if I might be allowed to make an observation I should say that there is some very extraordinary mystery surrounding both the Countess and her daughter.”

“You don’t like the Countess?”

“No, I don’t. I conceived a violent prejudice against her on the first occasion that I saw her. That prejudice has already ripened into – well, I was about to say hatred.”

“Why?”

“Well, I called upon them this afternoon with an object, and found the Countess determined to place impediments in my way.”

“What was your object?”

“I wished to satisfy myself of a certain fact.”

“Of what fact?” I inquired with quick suspicion. “Of the cause of her daughter’s sudden attack last night.”

“And what did you find?” I asked eagerly.

“I discovered a rather curious circumstance,” he said. “You will remember telling me that when you searched the room you found she had written a letter almost immediately before her mysterious attack. Well, when I had a look round that room later I saw the letter sealed in its envelope and addressed to the Baroness Maillac, at Grands Sablons, lying in the little letter-rack, and took possession of it, in the faint hope that it might direct me to some clue as to the cause of her curious condition. You will remember, too, the curious, unaccountable mark upon her lip. I wished to see that mark again. I examined it, but against the wish of the Countess, who appeared to regard me with considerable animosity.”

“What was in the letter? You opened it, of course?”

“Yes, I opened it, but the note inside was of no interest whatever. Nevertheless, I had my suspicions, and have proved them to be well grounded.”

“What have you proved?”

“Briefly this: the mark upon mademoiselle’s lip caused me to suspect poisoning; yet it was apparent that she had not attempted suicide, but that the poison, whatever its nature, had entered the tiny crack in the lip by accident. I therefore came to the conclusion that her lip had come into contact with some baneful substance immediately prior to her attack, and when you mentioned the writing of the letter it appeared to me that the gum upon the envelope might be the channel by which the poison was conveyed to the mouth. The greater part of the night I spent in dissolving the gum and making experiments with the solutions thus obtained.”

“And what did you discover?”

“I discovered the presence of a most powerful specific irritant poison. I used Mitscherlich’s method of detection, and although I cannot yet actually determine the poison with which the gum on the envelope had been impregnated, I proved its terrible effect by experiments. A rabbit inoculated with a single drop of the solution died, in fourteen seconds, of complete paralysis of the muscles, while a drop placed on a piece of meat and given to a cat proved fatal within one minute.”

“Then there was poison on the envelope?” I gasped, astounded.

“Yes, but only upon that particular envelope. While left alone in the room awaiting mademoiselle, I secured four other of the same envelopes from the stationary rack on her escritoire. These I took home at once, made solutions, and tested them upon rabbits without effect. This proved that one envelope alone was poisoned.”

“Then she was actually poisoned?” I said, surprised at his ingenuity and careful investigation.

“Undoubtedly so. The most curious feature is the mysterious character of the poison. At first I suspected strychnia; but as that attacks the sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, and the symptoms were so totally different, I was compelled to abandon that theory, as also another I formed – namely, that the paralysis of the motor nerves might be due to curare. After some hours of study and experiment, however, I found that the poison was one extremely difficult of detection when absorbed into the system – that its symptoms were none of those ordinarily attributed to irritant poisons by Tanner and the other toxicologists – that it was a poison not commonly known, if, indeed, known at all.”

“Then you think that Yolande was the victim of a deliberate attempt upon her life?”

“Of that I am absolutely convinced. Having taken possession of the letter, I could not well mention it or make inquiries regarding it. I thought it would be best to leave such inquiries to you, who are her intimate friend. I went there to-day in order to satisfy myself regarding the mark on the lip, and also to secure some of the other envelopes. Both of these objects I fortunately accomplished, and have succeeded in establishing the fact that she was poisoned in a most ingenious and secret manner by some person who is evidently no novice in the use of that most deadly and mysterious substance.”

“But whom do you suspect?”

He blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and, with his eyes fixed upon the panelled ceiling, answered:

“Ah! that’s the enigma.”

“Well,” I said, after a pause, “you seem so hostile towards the Countess, I’m wondering if you suspect her?”

“I can’t very well, even though there are several curious circumstances which seem to point in that direction. The great fact in favour of her innocence is that she sent for you. Therefore I should like to obtain more direct evidence before actually condemning her. Some of the circumstances are distinctly suspicious, even damning, yet others go far to prove the exact contrary.”

“But I can’t see what object she could have in getting rid of her daughter,” I observed, much puzzled by this extraordinary theory.

“Unless she feared some awkward revelations which Yolande might make in a moment of desperation. To me there is still a good deal of mystery surrounding both mother and daughter.”

“I quite agree, Dick. But do you think it possible that a mother could deliberately attempt to kill her daughter by such dastardly means? I don’t.”

“Such a thing is not unknown in the annals of crime,” he answered, knocking the ash slowly from his cigar. “You see, it is practically plain that Yolande is in possession of some secret, and has grown nervous and melancholy. Of the nature of that secret we have no idea. If it were disclosed it might seriously affect the Countess; hence it would be to the latter’s advantage if her daughter’s lips were sealed.”

“But, my dear fellow, I know the Countess well. She’s one of the most charming of women, and utterly devoted to Yolande. Your suggestion seems incredible.”

“How incredible it appears to you is of no import, my dear Ingram,” he answered calmly. “You asked me to investigate the strange affair for you, and I’ve done so to the best of my ability. I found that the young lady had been poisoned, in a most secret and ingenious manner, by someone well acquainted with the use of the unknown drug. That the envelope was carefully prepared is quite plain, but by whom it is impossible to say – ”

“Not by her mother,” I declared, interrupting him. “I can’t believe that.”

“It is for you to discover that. You can ask her a little later about the letter, without giving her any clue to the fact that I have secured it. She must remain under the impression that the letter was duly posted by one of the servants.”

“But she is leaving Paris,” I said.

“You can see her this evening and make the necessary inquiries, surely?”

“No,” I responded. “I shall not see her again.”

“Then it is true, as I’ve already suggested, that you’ve quarrelled?”

“No,” I declared, “we have agreed to part again – that’s all.”

He was silent for a moment, contemplating the end of his cigar. Then he observed:

“Well, if I may be permitted to say so, old fellow, I think you’ve chosen a very wise course. You, in your official position, ought not to be mixed up with any mystery of this sort.”

“I know, Dick – I know quite well,” I responded hastily. “You, however, do not love a woman as I love Yolande.”

“Love be hanged!” he cried, laughing. “Love is like the influenza – painful while it lasts, but easily forgotten.”

“This matter is too serious for joking,” I said, a trifle annoyed by his flippancy.

“Ah, I’ve heard that story once or twice before! It is astonishing what a difference a month makes in the course of the malady. Take my tip, old chap, and think no more of her. Depend upon it, your charming Yolande with the pretty hair, that used to be admired so much in Brussels, is not worth the position of wife to a good fellow like you.”

“That’s all very well,” I sighed. “I know I was a fool to have called upon her, but I was compelled.”

“What compelled you?”

“A circumstance over which I had no control,” I answered, for I did not intend to explain to him the accusation made against her by Kaye.

“And you at once fell in love with her again? Ah! such meetings are always extremely dangerous.”

“Yes; that is only too true. I know I have been foolish, and now must suffer.”

“Rubbish!” he cried. “Why, my dear fellow, Edith loves you, and is perfectly devoted to you. She is charming, pretty, smart, with all the qualities necessary for the wife of a successful diplomatist. Some day, when you get your promotion, you will be gazetted minister to one or other of the South American Republics, and with her as your wife you’ll be perfectly happy.”

“You seem to have already carved out my future for me, Dick.”

“I’ve only prophesied the ordinary course of things.”

“I shall, I feel certain, never marry Edith,” I answered, shaking my head. “It is entirely out of the question.”

“Well, we shall see. A man hardly ever marries his first love, you know. There always seems an evil fortune connected with first loves.”

“How coldly philosophical you are, Dick! Is it because you’ve never been in love?”

“Never been in love?” he echoed. “Why, my dear old fellow, I’ve been in love a hundred times, but it’s never been sufficiently serious to cause me to pop the question. I’m quite catholic in my tastes, you see. I’m fond of women as a sex.”

What he said was perfectly true. He was a popular favourite among the English colony in Paris, and was an inveterate diner-out. Indeed, his well-set-up figure was constantly to be seen at all smart gatherings, and I had overheard many a dainty Parisienne whisper nice things about him behind her fan.

“You’ll find a pair of eyes fascinating you one of these days, never fear,” I said. “Then it will be my turn to smile.”

“Smile away, old chap; you’ll never offend me. We are too old friends for that.”

Chapter Twelve

The English Tea-Shop

There was a rap at the door, and Harding entered with a telegram addressed to me. I tore open the flimsy blue paper, and saw that it was in cipher from Berlin. The sender, I knew, was Kaye.

“What’s up?” my friend asked. “Some affair of State?”

“Yes,” I answered mechanically, as I went across to the safe, and took out the decipher-book which gave the key to the cipher used by members of the secret service. By its aid I had quickly transcribed the message, which read:

“Suspicions regarding Yolande de Foville proved beyond doubt. She is a French agent employed indirectly by the Quai d’Orsay. Am returning to-night. In the meantime instruct Osborne to keep strict observation upon her movements.

“K.”

“Anything serious?” asked Deane, watching my face.

I held my breath, and managed to recover my self-possession.

“No,” I answered, “nothing of any grave importance. I sit here to deal with a strange variety of public business, ranging from despatches from home down to vice-consul’s worries.”

“We are not at war yet,” he laughed, “and we trust to you diplomatists to keep us out of it.”

I smiled, rather sadly I think. Little did my friend dream how near we actually were to hostilities with France. But in the school of diplomacy the first lesson taught is that of absolute secrecy; hence I told him nothing. To be patient, to preserve silence, to be able to give to an untruth the exact appearance of the truth, and to act a lie so as to deceive those with the most acute intelligence on earth, are qualifications absolutely necessary – together, of course, with the stipulated private income of four hundred a year – for the success of the rising diplomatist.

“We are trying to keep England out of war,” I said. “Indeed, that is the principal object of our existence. Were it not for the efforts of Lord Barmouth, we should have been at war with the Republic long ago. Why, scarcely a week passes but the political situation changes, and we find ourselves, just as the French also find themselves, sitting on the edge of the proverbial volcano. Then, by careful adjustment and marvellous tact and finesse, matters are arranged, and once more the ships of State sail together again into smooth waters. Only ourselves, in this Embassy, are really alive to the heavy responsibilities resting on the shoulders of our trusted Chief. Many a sleepless night he passes in his own room opposite, I can assure you.”

“And yet he is always merry and good-humoured, as though he hadn’t a single care in the world.”

“Ah, that is owing to his long training as a diplomatist. He shows no outward sign of anxiety, for that would betray weakness or vacillation of policy. An ambassador’s face should never be an index to his thoughts.”

He tossed his cigar-end away and rose, asking: “Where are you feeding to-night? Can you dine with me at Ledoyen’s – or at the Café de Paris, if you prefer it?”

“Sorry I can’t, old chap,” I responded. “The Chief and I have a dinner engagement at the Austrian Embassy. I’d much rather be with you; for, as you know, I’m tired to death of official functions.”

“You’re bound to attend them, I suppose?”

“Yes, worse luck,” I replied. “To be a diplomatist one must, like a Lord Mayor, possess an ostrich’s digestion.”

“Well, good-bye, old chap. Sorry, you can’t come,” he said, smiling. “But do buck up! I don’t want to have you as a patient, you know. Take my advice, and just forget your pretty charmer. She’s leaving to-morrow, and there’s no reason on earth why you should meet again.”

“But about that letter?” I suggested. “We surely ought to clear up the mystery?”

“Let it pass,” he urged. “Don’t call there again, but simply forget her. Remember, you have Edith.”

His words recalled to me the fact that I had received a letter from her that morning, and that it was still in my pocket unopened.

“Yes, I know,” I exclaimed rather impatiently. “I shall, of course, try to forget. But I fear that I shall never succeed – never!”

“Take my advice and forget it all,” he cried cheerfully, clapping me on the back. “Good-bye.”

We clasped hands in a firm grip of friendship. Then he walked out, and I was left alone.

I went to the window, and looked down into the roadway. It was a blazing afternoon, and the streets seemed deserted. All Paris was at Trouville, Dieppe, or Arcachon, or drinking the more or less palatable waters in Auvergne. Paris in July is always more empty than is London in that month, and it is certainly many degrees hotter, even though the plashing fountains of the Place de la Concorde may give one a pleasant feeling of refreshment in passing, and the trees of the boulevards shed a welcome shade not found in the dusty streets of dear old grimy London.

As I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, it suddenly occurred to me that I had still in my pocket the letter which I had found on Yolande’s little writing-table – the letter making an appointment for five o’clock that day. I glanced at my watch, and found it was already half-past four.

Then, taking out the note, I carefully read it through, and, after a few moments’ debate within myself, determined to stroll round and ascertain who it was who wished so particularly to speak with her.

I do not think, now that I reflect calmly, that this determination was prompted by any feeling of jealousy, but rather by a strong desire to discover the truth regarding her connection with the Quai d’Orsay. Anyhow, I brushed my hair, settled my cravat, replaced the decipher-book in the safe, and, taking my hat, strolled out into the blazing afternoon.