Mademoiselle of Monte Carlo

“Yes,” he said. “Your mother has not asked me over to Nice to-night because she believes you and I have been too much together of late.”

“No,” declared Dorise. “I’m sure it’s not that, Hugh—I’m quite sure! It’s simply an oversight. I’ll see about it when we get back. We leave the hotel at half-past nine. It is the great White Ball of the Nice season.”

“Please don’t mention it to her on any account, Dorise,” Hugh urged. “If you did it would at once show her that you preferred my company to that of the Count. Go with him. I shan’t be jealous! Besides, in view of my financial circumstances, what right have I to be jealous? You can’t marry a fellow like myself, Dorise. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

The girl halted. In her eyes shone the light of unshed tears.

“Hugh! What do you mean? What are you saying?” she asked in a low, faltering voice. “Have I not told you that whatever happens I shall never love another man but yourself?”

He drew a long breath, and without replying placed his strong arms around her and, drawing her to him, kissed her passionately upon the lips.

“Thank you, my darling,” he murmured. “Thank you for those words. They put into me a fresh hope, a fresh determination, and a fearlessness—oh! you—you don’t know!” he added in a low, earnest voice.

“All I know, Hugh, is that you love me,” was the simple response as she reciprocated his fierce caress.

“Love you, darling!” he cried. “Yes. You are mine—mine!”

“True, Hugh. I love no other man. I hate that tailor’s dummy, George Sherrard, and as for the Count—well, he’s an idiotic Frenchman—the ‘hardy annual of Monte Carlo’ I heard him called the other day. No, Hugh, I assure you that you have no cause for jealousy.”

And she smiled sweetly into his eyes.

They were standing together beneath a twisted old olive tree through the dark foliage of which the sun shone in patches, while by their feet the mountain torrent from the high, snow-clad Alps rippled and splashed over the great grey boulders towards the sea.

“I know it, darling! I know it,” Hugh said in a stifled voice. He was thinking of the tragedy of that night, but dare not disclose to her his connexion with it, because he knew the police suspected him of making that murderous attack upon the famous “Mademoiselle.”

“Forgive me, Hugh,” exclaimed the girl, still clasped in her lover’s arms. “But somehow you don’t seem your old self to-day. What is the matter? Can’t you tell me?”

He drew a long breath.

“No, darling. Excuse me. I—I’m a bit upset that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I’m upset because for the last day or two I have begun to realize that our secret must very soon come out, and then—well, your mother will forbid me the house because I have no money. You know that she worships Mammon always—just as your father did—forgive me for my words.”

“I do forgive you because you speak the truth,” Dorise replied. “I know that mother wants me to marry a rich man, and—”

“And she will compel you to do so, darling. I am convinced of that.”

“She won’t!” cried the girl. “I will never marry a man I do not love!”

“Your mother, if she doesn’t suspect our compact, will soon do so,” he said. “She’s a clever woman. She is on the alert, because she intends you to marry soon, and to marry a rich man.”

“Mother is far too fond of society, I admit. She lives only for her gay friends now that father is dead. She spends lavishly upon luncheons and dinners at the Ritz, the Carlton, and Claridge’s; and by doing so we get to know all the best people. But what does it matter to me? I hate it all because–”

And she looked straight into his eyes as she broke off.

“Because,” she whispered, “because—because I love you, Hugh!”

“Ah! darling! You have never been so frank with me before,” he said softly. “You do not know how much those words of yours mean to me! You do not know how all my life, all my hopes, all my future, is centred in your own dear self!” and clasping her again tightly in his arms he pressed his lips fondly to hers in a long passionate embrace.

Yet within the stout heart of Hugh Henfrey, who was so straight, honest and upright a young fellow as ever trod the Broad at Oxford, lay that ghastly secret—indeed, a double secret—that of his revered father’s mysterious end and the inexplicable attack upon Yvonne Ferad at the very moment when he had been about to learn the truth.

They lingered there beside the mountain stream for a long time, until the sun sank and the light began to fail. Again and again he told her of his great love for her, but he said nothing of the strange clause in his father’s will. She knew Louise Lambert, having met her once walking in the park with her lover. Hugh had introduced them, and had afterwards explained that the girl was the adopted daughter of a great friend of his father.

Dorise little dreamed that if her lover married her he would inherit the remainder of old Mr. Henfrey’s fortune.

“Do come over to the ball at Nice to-night,” the girl urged presently as they stood with hands clasped gazing into each other’s eyes. “It will be nothing without you.”

“Ah! darling, that’s very nice of you to say so, but I think we ought to be discreet. Your mother has invited the Count to go with you.”

“I hate him!” Dorise declared. “He’s all elegance, bows and flattery. He bores me to death.”

“I can quite understand that. But your mother is fond of his society. She declares that he is so amusing, and in Paris he knows everyone worth knowing.”

“Oh, yes. He gave us an awfully good time in Paris last season—took us to Longchamps, and we afterwards went to Deauville with him. He wins and loses big sums on the turf.”

“A born gambler. Everyone knows that. I heard a lot about him in the Travellers’ Club, in Paris.”

“But if mother telephones to you, you’ll come with us—won’t you?” entreated the girl again.

The young man hesitated. His mind was full of the tragic affair of the previous night. He was wondering whether the end had come—whether Mademoiselle’s lips were already sealed by Death.

He gave an evasive reply, whereupon Dorise, taking his hand in hers, said:

“What is your objection to going out with us to-night, Hugh? Do tell me. If you don’t wish me to go, I’ll make an excuse to mother and she can take the Count.”

“I have not the slightest objection,” he declared at once. “Go, dearest—only leave me out of it. The bal blanc is always good fun.”

“I shall not go if you refuse to go,” she said with a pout.

Therefore in order to please her he consented—providing Lady Ranscomb invited him.

They had wandered a long way up the narrow, secluded valley, but had met not a soul. All was delightful and picturesque, the profusion of wild flowers, the huge grey moss-grown boulders, the overhanging ilexes and olives, and the music of the tumbling current through a crooked course worn deep by the waters of primeval ages.

It was seldom that in the whirl of society the pair could get a couple of hours together without interruption. And under the blue Riviera sky they were indeed fraught with bliss to both.

When they returned to the town the dusk was already falling, and the great arc lamps along the terrace in front of the Casino were already lit. Hugh took her as far as the entrance to the Metropole and then, after wishing her au revoir and promising to go with her to Nice if invited, he hastily retraced his steps to the Palmiers. Five minutes later he was speaking to the old Italian at the Villa Amette.

“Mademoiselle is still unconscious, m’sieur,” was the servant’s reply to his eager inquiry. “The doctors have been several times this afternoon, but they hold out no hope.”

“I wonder if I can be of any assistance?” Hugh asked in French.

“I think not, m’sieur. What assistance can any of us give poor Mademoiselle?”

Ah, what indeed, Hugh thought as he put down the receiver.

Yet while she lived, there was still a faint hope that he would be able to learn the secret which he anticipated would place him in such a position that he might defy those who had raised their hands against his father and himself.