Her Majesty's Minister

“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.

Would she herself keep the appointment, I wondered? Surely not! She was too busy making preparations for a hasty departure. Nevertheless, she might have sent a message to her mysterious correspondent regretting her inability to be present. Anyhow, I was determined to watch and ascertain for myself.

The English tea-shop in the Rue Royale is known, I daresay, to a good many of my lady readers who go shopping in the Madeleine quarter, bargain-hunting in the Louvre, or strolling about the grand boulevards watching Parisian life in all its many phases. Tea such as that to which English people are accustomed is difficult to obtain in Paris hotels. It usually turns out to be slightly discoloured hot water, served in a teapot upon the spout of which hangs a more or less useless strainer. With the addition of sugar and milk, the beverage becomes both weak to the eye and nauseous to the palate, while in the bill at a first-class hotel the unfortunate visitor finds himself charged two francs for “one tea simple.” The English shop in the Rue Royale, known to the Englishman in Paris as the “Bun-shop,” is like Henry’s, or the American bar at the Chatham, where presides the ubiquitous Johnnie with the small moustache, one of the institutions of the English colony. It is a rendezvous for the ladies, just as the Chatham bar is crowded at four o’clock by Englishmen resident in the gay capital, with a sprinkling of those misguided and decadent Paris youths who term themselves Orleanists and play at political conspiracy.

The “Bun-shop” is generally full from four to five, be it summer or winter. In the season it is patronised largely by chic Parisiennes and their male encumbrances, generally laden with small parcels; while in summer the British tourists in their blouses and short tailor-made skirts, which serve alike for the boulevards and the Alps, seem to scent it out and make it their habitual house of call.

When I strolled in, the crowd at the little tables mostly hailed from those essentially British hotels in the Rue Caumartin. Being a Britisher, I naturally hesitate to criticise the get-up of the tourist to Paris. But it is always a matter of speculation to those of us who live abroad why our compatriot, who would not be seen in a golf-cap in the Strand or Piccadilly, invariably sports one when he patronises the boulevards, and conducts himself, when in what he calls “gay Paree,” in a fashion which often makes one think that he has left his manners behind in England together with his silk hat. The fair-faced English girl in cotton blouse and straw hat is always a common object in the “Bun-shop,” and on this afternoon she was predominant, and the chatter in English was general.

I found one of the little tables free, and, discovering an illustrated paper, sat with it before me, making an examination of each little group visible from my seat. Not a single person, however, excited my suspicion. Apparently no one was waiting, save a girl in black, a Parisienne evidently, who, being joined presently by a gentleman, finished her tea and went forth.

The clock showed it to be already five, and as I sat sipping my cup and feigning to read the Graphic, I became more and more convinced that Yolande, finding herself unable to keep the appointment, had sent an excuse.

About me sounded the gossip which one always hears among the feminine tourists in Paris: the criticisms of the Louvre museum, the eulogies of the “lovely things” in the Rue de la Paix, and the delight at wonderful bargains obtained at the Bon Marché. It is always the same. The tide of tourists is never-ceasing; and the impression which Paris makes upon the Englishman or Englishwoman is always exactly similar. Those who spend a fortnight in the City of Pleasure always believe life there to be a round of gaiety punctuated by fêtes de nuit with Moulin Rouge attractions. These idolaters should live a year in Paris, when they would soon discover that the French capital quickly becomes far more monotonous than their own much-abused London.

The hands of the clock moved very slowly, and by degrees I got through the whole of the cup-marked illustrated literature of the establishment. Many of the merry gossips had risen and departed, and at half-past five only two little groups remained.

At length a smart victoria stopped before the door, and a dark, rather handsome, middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman descended, and, entering, took a seat. Her style was not English, that was certain; and by the fact that she took lemon with her tea I judged her to be Russian, although she addressed the waiter with an accent purely Parisian. Her footman stood at the door with the carriage-rug over his arm. From the inquisitive expression of her face I judged it to be the first time she had visited the tea-shop.

Could she be waiting for Yolande? I made a close examination of her face, and saw that although she was just a trifle made-up, as are most Parisiennes, she was nevertheless good-looking. She sipped her tea leisurely, nibbled a biscuit, and was readjusting her veil by twisting it beneath her chin, when suddenly the silhouette of a figure appeared in the open doorway.

I glanced up quickly over the top of my piper, and in an instant recognised the new-comer, who looked very smart in his well-cut frock-coat, silk hat, and light grey suède gloves. He hesitated for an instant on the threshold and glanced swiftly around. No sooner had his eyes fallen upon the woman sitting there than he turned instantly, went out, and was next moment lost to sight.

The man who had stood in the doorway during that brief moment, and who had apparently retreated owing to the presence of the woman whose carriage was awaiting her, was none other than the individual whose arrival in Paris was so inexplicable – the man known as Rodolphe Wolf.

Chapter Thirteen