Her Majesty's Minister

“Come, madame,” I said good-humouredly, “you know Rodolphe Wolf quite as well as I do. When you last met, his name was not Wolf. Is not that so?”

“Well,” she answered, “now that you put it in that manner I may as well admit that your suggestion is correct.”

“And what is the object of his sudden visit to Paris?”

“I cannot make out,” she replied in a more confidential tone. “As I tell you, de Wolkenstein introduced him, but, as m’sieur knows, I am very quick to detect a face that I have once seen, and I recognised him in an instant.”

“Sibyl told me that he had a long chat with her, and she described him as a most charming fellow.”

“Ah, no doubt! I suspected him and watched. It was evident that he came to my salon in order to meet her.”

“To meet Sibyl! Why?”

“That I cannot tell.”

“But I think, Baronne, we may be both agreed upon one point.”

“And that is?”

“That the man who now calls himself Rodolphe Wolf is here in Paris with some secret motive.”

“I am entirely in accord, m’sieur – quite. Some steps must at once be taken to ascertain that man’s motives.”

“It seems curious that he should have been introduced for the purpose of meeting Sibyl. What information did he want from her?”

“How can we tell? You know better than myself whether she ever knows any secrets of the Embassy.”

“She knows nothing, – of that I am absolutely convinced,” I responded. “Her father is devoted to her; but, nevertheless, he is one of those strict diplomatists who do not believe in trusting women with secrets.”

“Yet Wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her,” she said reflectively.

“No doubt. As soon as she returned she began to talk of him.”

And next instant I recollected the strange effect the news of his arrival in Paris had had upon Yolande, and the curiously tragic event which had subsequently occurred. All was puzzling – all inscrutable.

A silence fell between us. I was revolving in my mind whether I should ask this wizen-faced old leader of Society a further question. With sudden resolve I turned to her again and asked:

“O Baronne, I had quite forgotten. Do you chance to know the Countess de Foville, of Brussels? They have a château down in the Ardennes, and move in the best set in Belgium?”

“De Foville? De Foville?” she repeated. “What, do you mean the mother of that little witch Yolande?”

“Yes. But why do you call her a witch?” I demanded, with feigned laughter.

“Why?” cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with displeasure. “Well, I do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but all I can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to pursue is to cut her acquaintance.”

“What do you mean?” I gasped.

“I mean exactly what I have said.”

“But I don’t understand,” I cried. “Be more frank with me,” I implored.

“No,” she answered in that hard voice, by which I knew that mention of Yolande’s name had displeased her. “Remember that we are friends, and that sometimes we have interests in common. Therefore, take this piece of advice from an old woman who knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Knows that your friendship with the pretty Yolande is dangerous – extremely dangerous.”

Chapter Ten

Confession

Next day, when the manservant asked me into the tiny boudoir in the Rue de Courcelles, I found Yolande, in a pretty tea-gown of cream silk adorned with lace and ribbons, seated in an armchair in an attitude of weariness. The sun-shutters were closed, as on the previous day, for the heat in Paris that July was insufferable, and in the dim light her wan figure looked very fair and fragile. The qualities which imparted to her a distinct individuality were the beautiful combination of the pastoral with the elegant – of simplicity with elevation – of spirit with sweetness.

She gave vent to a cry of gladness as I entered, rose, and stretching out her hands in welcome, drew a seat for me close to her. I looked at her standing before me in her warm, breathing, human loveliness.

“You are better, Yolande? Ah! how glad I am!” I commenced. “Last night I believed that you were dead.”

“And if I had died would it really have mattered so very much to you?” she asked in a low, intense voice. “You have forgotten me for three whole years until now.”

“I know – I know!” I cried. “Forgive me.”

“I have already forgiven,” she said, allowing her hand still to remain in mine. “But I have been thinking to-day – thinking ever so much.”

Her voice was weak and faltering, and I saw that she was not herself.

“Thinking of what?”

“Of you. I have been wondering whether, if I had died, you would have sometimes remembered me?”

“Remembered you?” I said earnestly. “Why, of course, dearest. Why do you speak in such a melancholy tone?”

“Because – well, because I am unhappy, Gerald!” she cried, bursting into sudden tears. “Ah! you do not know how I suffer – you can never know!”

I bent and stroked her hair, that beautiful red-gold hair that I had so often heard admired in the great salons in Brussels. It had been bound but lightly by her maid, and was secured by a blue ribbon. She had apologised for receiving me thus, but declared that her head ached, and it was easier so. Doctor Deane had called twice that morning, and had pronounced her entirely out of danger.

“But why are you suffering?” I asked, caressing her and striving to charm away her tears. “Cannot you confide in me?”

She shook her head in despair, and her body was shaken by a convulsive sob.

“Surely there is confidence between us?” I urged. “Do you not remember that day long ago when we walked one evening in the sunset hand-in-hand, as was our wont, along the river-path towards La Roche? Do you not remember how you told me that in future you would have no single secret from me?”

“Yes,” she answered hoarsely, with an effort, “I recollect.”

“Then you intend to break your promise to me?” I whispered earnestly. “Surely you will not do this, Yolande? You will not hide from me the cause of all this bitterness of yours?” She was silent. Her breast, beneath its lace, rose quickly and fell again. Her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon the carpet.

“I would not break my promise,” she said at last, clasping my hand convulsively and lifting her eyes to mine; “but, alas! it is now imperative.”

“Why imperative?”