Her Majesty's Minister Part 33

"You don't know its composition yet?"

"No. Ferrari is trying to discover it, but at present has failed. The fact of a second person suffering from it is in itself very mysterious.

I intended to call upon you this evening and tell you all about it."

"The affair is extraordinary," I admitted. "I wonder whether the same person who made the attempt upon Yolande's life is responsible for the attempt upon the Englishman? What can be the motive?"

"Ah! that's impossible to tell. All we know is that some unknown person in Paris has in his or her possession a deadly compound capable of producing catalepsy and subsequent death in a manner most swift and secret. In order to ascertain whether any other person is attacked in the same manner, I have sent letters to the Direction of all the hospitals in Paris explaining the case, and asking that if any similar cases are brought to them for treatment, I may be at once communicated with."

"An excellent precaution," I said. "By that means we shall be able to watch the progress of the mysterious criminal."

"You have heard nothing from Mademoiselle Yolande?"

"Nothing," I said.

"Hers was a curious case," he remarked. "But the man Payne's was equally strange. It appears that he made no statement to either police or hospital authorities before he left. He only said that he was walking along the boulevard and suddenly fell to the ground insensible."

"You think he had some motive in preserving silence?" I inquired quickly.

"Yes, I feel sure of it. I only wish I could rediscover him. They were foolish to allow him to take his discharge before giving me an opportunity of concluding my investigations. It was simply owing to professional jealousy. English medical men are not liked in Paris hospitals. But I must be off," he said, rising. "Good-bye."

Then he went out, and, entering his carriage, drove away.

Volkouski, the Russian attache, was sitting close by, and I crossed to him, greeting him merrily. He was a good fellow--a thorough cosmopolitan, who had been trained in the smartest school of diplomacy-- namely, the Emba.s.sy in London, which is presided over by that prince among diplomatists, Monsieur de Staal. Whatever may be said regarding the relations between Russia and England as nations, it cannot be denied that in the European capitals the staffs of the emba.s.sies of both Powers are always on terms of real friendship. I make no excuse for repeating this. The mutual courtesy of the representatives of the two nations is not, as in the case of those of France, Germany, and Austria, mere diplomatic manoeuvring, but in most instances a sound understanding and a deep personal regard. England, Russia, and Italy have interests in common, hence their representatives fraternise, even though certain journals may create all sorts of absurd scares regarding what they are pleased to term the "aggressive policy of Russia." This is a stock journalistic expression, as meaningless as it is absurd. We who are "in the know" at the emba.s.sies smile when we read those alarmist articles, purporting to give all sorts of wild plans, which exist only in the imagination of the leader-writer. There is, indeed, one London journal known in the Russian Emba.s.sies on the Continent as _The Daily Abuser_, because of its intensely Russophobe tone. Fortunately n.o.body takes it seriously.

I chatted with Volkouski, sipping a mazagran the while. He was, I found, full of projects for his leave. His chief had already left Paris, and he himself was going home to Moscow for a month. Every diplomatist on service abroad gets homesick after a time, and looks forward to his leave with the same pleasurable antic.i.p.ation of the schoolboy going for his summer holidays. To escape from the shadow of a throne or the ceaseless chatter of an over-democratic Republic is always a happy moment for the wearied attache or worried secretary of emba.s.sy.

One longs for a respite from the glare and glitter of the official world of uniforms and Court etiquette, and looks forward to rambles in the country in flannels and without a collar, to lazy afternoons upon the river, or after-luncheon naps in a hammock beneath a tree. To the tired diplomatist, sick of formalities, and with the stifling dust of the ballroom over his heart, the expression "en campagne" conveys so very much.

Shortly before midnight I stepped from a fiacre and ascended the broad steps of the Elysee. Tired as I was of the ceaseless whirl of the City of Pleasure, it nevertheless amused me to fix the physiognomy of the great official fetes. They are inevitably ba.n.a.les, of course; but there is always a piquancy of detail and of contrast that is interesting.

If one wishes to see what a mixed crowd is like, there is no better ill.u.s.tration than the flocks of guests at the Elysee b.a.l.l.s. Ah! what a crowd it was that night! What dresses! What a public! I know, of course, that it can never be otherwise under the present democratic regime. One man, who came on foot and whose boots were muddy, forgot to turn down the tucked-up ends of his trousers. People were walking about with their hands in their pockets, jostling each other without a word of excuse. Many were touching the furniture, and feeling the curtains and tapestry with that sans-gene which so disgusted Gambetta with his former friends. You could see that they were determined not to appear astonished at anything, and that, after all, they were at home in the Elysee. They were of the detestable breed of cafe politicians, of loud-voiced orators at party meetings, of successful carpet-baggers, who render the ideas of equality and fraternity at times insufferable.

Before the buffet these fellows displayed themselves as goujats--cads-- plain and simple. They grabbed for sandwiches, for biscuits, for gla.s.ses of champagne across the shoulders of ladies in front of them, or even elbowed them aside to get to the front row--and stop there. In the smoking-room the boxes of cigars were gone in the twinkling of an eye.

One man struck his match on the wall. With these odd guests about it is not surprising that the Budget writes off a certain sum every year for articles that have disappeared from the buffets.

Whew! the heat there was insufferable!

In my search for Sibyl I pa.s.sed through the antechamber. The footmen wore new livery. I saw none of those restaurant waiters who used, in the time of ce pauvre Monsieur Faure, to be employed at twenty francs the evening, supper included. Yes, things had slightly improved, but the crush was terrific. I made my way to the Salon des Aides-de-Camp, that historic chamber where, in the armchairs still furnishing the room, on the night of the coup d'etat, sat, a prey to mortal anxiety, Morny, Persigny, Saint Arnaud, Pietri, Rouher, King Jerome, and the Prince President.

The j.a.panese military attache, walking before me, mixed himself up somehow with his sabre, and fell. This contretemps was greeted, as at a theatre, with laughter. Someone cried, "Oh, la la!" as if the stumble were a very clever bit of clowning indeed. The unhappy j.a.panese looked as if he wished the floor would swallow him.

I struggled up and paid my respects to the President, who was standing in the centre of the salon. Smiling, affable, displaying a simplicity that was real and unaffected, and yet devoid of mere familiarity, his bow and hand-shake were perfect. He struck the right note. I was impressed, moreover, by his sense of proportion. A little more cordiality, and he would cease to be Chief of the State. A little more solemnity, and he would be stilted. It is a little hard to convey the distinction; but imagine, on the one hand, a host who wants to make you forget his official position, and on the other a President of the Republic who is determined to be a good host. For well-bred people there is always a well-defined shade of difference between these two; and the President was the latter.

While turning away I suddenly came face to face with Monsieur Mollard, the chef-adjoint of the Protocol, who greeted me affably and commenced to tell me the latest story of General de Galliffet, Minister of War.

"It is amusing," he laughed. "You must hear it, M'sieur Ingram. The General arrived at his club, the Union, last night, and for some reason or another his former friends were more than usually cold in their treatment of him. After saying a bonjour to one and the other of them, and receiving a curt reply here and a snub there, the Minister of War realised this. But he took their coolness coolly. With his back to the fireplace he said quietly, by way of bringing home to his friends the absurdity of their att.i.tude: `You may come near me. Je ne sens pas mauvais--I don't smell bad. You see, there was no Cabinet to-day!' Is it not excellent?"

I smiled. It was a purely French joke. Mollard was always full of droll stories. Every diplomatist in Paris knew him as the keeper of the Elysee traditions, as guardian of its unwritten law by inheritance, his father having been, under other presidencies, the official known as introducteur des amba.s.sadeurs. When a question of precedence puzzled the plebeian bigwigs at the Quai d'Orsay--the Foreign Office--it was Monsieur Mollard who would run to the archives to look it up. Nature had not, however, endowed him with a demeanour befitting his office, for he wore his uniform as awkwardly as a middle-aged volunteer officer, and looked more like a clerk than a chamberlain. But when he spoke he dragged on the mute syllables as French actors are taught to do in delivering Racine. He put three "l's" in "Excellence" and four "r's" in "Protocol." For the rest, he was a good fellow, much liked in the diplomatic circle, although many jokes had from time to time been played at his expense. Presently, after we had been talking for a few moments, I inquired whether he had seen Sibyl.

"Ah, no! I regret, m'sieur," he answered. "But a lady who is sitting over in the Salon Diplomatique has just inquired of me whether you are present."

"A lady? What is her name?"

"I know her by sight, but cannot recall her name," he responded. "She is a grande dame, however."

"Young or old?"

"Young. You will find her in the salon talking with Count Tornelli, the Italian Amba.s.sador. You will easily recognise her. She is wearing a costume of black, trimmed with silver. She told me that she desired to speak with you particularly, and that I was to tell you of her presence."

"But you don't know her?" I laughed.

"Go and see," he answered. "You probably know her;" and, smiling, he turned away.

My curiosity being aroused, I struggled through the throng until I reached the spot indicated. Only the diplomatic corps and distinguished guests were allowed there, and the other guests, huddled together before the open door, were pointing out well-known personages.

I looked in, and in a moment saw before me the striking figure in black and silver. No second glance was needed to recognise who she was. For a moment I stood in hesitation; then, with a sudden resolve, entered, and, walking straight up, bowed low before her.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

PRINCESS LEONIE.

"Princess," I said, "permit me to offer my felicitations on your return to Paris. This is indeed an unexpected pleasure."

"Ah, M'sieur Ingram!" she cried in charming English, holding forth her white-gloved hand, "at last! I have been hunting for you all the evening. All Paris is here, and the crush is terrible. Yes, you see I am back again."

The Italian Amba.s.sador had risen, bowed, and turned to speak to another acquaintance; therefore, with her sanction, I dropped into his place.

"And are you pleased to return?" I inquired, glancing at her beautiful and refined face, which seemed to me just a trifle more careworn than when I had last met her eighteen months ago.

"Ah!" she answered, "I am always pleased to come back to France. I went to America for a few months, you know; thence to Vienna, and for nearly a year have been living at home."

"At Rudolstadt?"

She nodded.

"Well," I said, "it was really too bad of you to hide your existence from your friends in that manner. Everyone has been wondering for months what had become of you. Surely you found Rudolstadt very dull after life here?"

"I did," she sighed, causing the magnificent diamonds at her throat to sparkle with a thousand fires. "But I have departed from my hermitage again, you see. Now, sit here and tell me all that has happened during my absence. Then if you are good, I will, as a reward, give you just one waltz."

"Very well," I laughed. "Remember that I shall hold you to your bargain;" and then I commenced to gossip about the movements of people she had known when, two years before, she had been the most admired woman in Paris.

The Princess Leonie-Rose-Eugenie von Leutenberg was, according to the _Almanach de Gotha_--that red, squat little volume so dreaded by the ladies--only thirty years of age, and was certainly extremely good-looking. Her pale, half-tragic beauty was sufficient to arrest attention anywhere. Her n.o.ble features were well-moulded and regular, her eyes of a clear grey, and her hair of flaxen fairness, while her bearing was ever that of a daughter of the greatest of the Austrian houses. Her goodness of heart, her gracefulness, her conversational esprit, and her genuine Parisian chic had rendered her popular everywhere; while, as with the d.u.c.h.esse de Berri, one strong point of her beauty was her charming little foot, which two years ago had been declared to be the loveliest foot in France, or, in Paris, simply "Le pied de la Princesse." Her shoes and hosiery were perfect marvels of fineness and neatness, and when she walked, or rather glided, along the Avenue des Acacias, the other promenaders formed long rows on each side to behold and admire le pied de la Princesse.

I had heard it declared, too, with mysterious smiles, how le pied de la Princesse had been seen more than once at the masked b.a.l.l.s at the Opera, and many an amusing little story had gone the round, and many a piquant tale had been told of how the Princess had been recognised here and there by the extreme smallness of her foot. One was that for a wager she had disguised herself as a work-girl with a bandbox on her arm, and, attended by her valet, likewise disguised, appeared before the Hotel de Ville awaiting an omnibus. The vehicle stopped, and the conductor exclaimed in an indifferent tone, "Entrez, mademoiselle," without taking any further notice. Then, however, his wandering eye caught sight of a pair of tiny feet, and, looking into her face in surprise, he enthusiastically exclaimed: "Ah! ah! le pied de la Princesse!" and doffed his hat respectfully. The Princess lost her wager, but was in no little measure proud of the conquest which her foot had won over the plain omnibus-conductor.

Her life had been a somewhat tragic one. The only daughter of Prince Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau, the Seigneur of Wchinitz, in Bohemia, Leonie had, when scarcely out of her teens, been forced to marry the old Prince Othon von Leutenberg, a man forty years her senior. The marriage proved an exceedingly unhappy one, for he treated her brutally, and after five years of a wretched existence, during which she bore herself with great patience and forbearance, the Prince died of alcoholism in Berlin, and her release brought her into possession of an enormous fortune, together with the mansion of the Leutenbergs in the Frieung at Vienna, one of the finest in the Austrian capital, the castle and extensive estates in Schwazbourg-Rudolstadt, that had belonged to the family from feudal days, as well as the hotel in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and the beautiful Chateau de Chantoiseau, deep in the forest of Fontainebleau.

She was very charming, and there was an air of sadness in her beauty that made her the more interesting. We were friends of long standing.

Indeed, I had known her in the days when I was junior attache and fancied myself in love with every woman. I had admired her, and a firm friendship existed between us, although I think I can say honestly that I had never fallen in love with her. More than once, when those false and scandalous tales had been whispered about her--as they are whispered about every pretty woman in Paris--I had const.i.tuted myself her champion, and challenged her traducers to prove their words.