Her Majesty's Minister Part 34

As we sat there chatting, watching the gaily uniformed corps diplomatique, and bowing ever and anon as some man or woman came up to congratulate her on her return to Paris, she told me of the dreariness of her life in the gloomy, ancestral Castle of Rudolstadt, and how, finding it unendurable at last, she had suddenly resolved to spend the remainder of the summer at Chantoiseau.

"I have been there already a fortnight, and everything is in order," she said. "I am inviting quite a number of people. You must come also."

"But I scarcely think it is possible for me to be absent from Paris just now," I answered in hesitation.

"I will take no refusal," she said decisively. "I will talk to Lord Barmouth to-night before I leave. Me never refuses me anything.

Besides, in two hours you can always be at the Emba.s.sy. You will remember, the last time you were my guest, how easy you found the journey to and from Paris. Why, you often used to leave in the morning and return at night. No, you cannot refuse."

"I must consult His Excellency before accepting," I replied. "In the meantime, Princess, I thank you for your kind invitation."

"Princess?" she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows. "Why not Leonie? I was Leonie to you always in the days gone by. Is there any reason why you should be so distant now? Unless--" and she paused.

"Unless what?" I inquired, looking at her swiftly.

"Unless you have a really serious affair of the heart," she said.

"I have none," I answered promptly, suppressing a sigh with difficulty.

"Then do not use my t.i.tle. I hate my friends to call me Princess.

Recollect that to you I am always Leonie."

"Very well," I laughed, for she was full of quaint caprice.

I had pleasant recollections of my last visit to the chateau, and hoped that if the theft of the instructions contained in the despatch I had brought from London produced no serious international complication, I should obtain leave to join her house-party, which was certain to be a smart and merry one.

She told me the names of some she had invited. Among those known to me were the Baroness de Chalencon, Count de Hindenburg, the German Amba.s.sador, and his wife, and Count de Wolkenstein, Austrian Amba.s.sador, as well as several other men and women of the smartest set in Paris.

"You will be a real benefactress," I laughed. "Everyone here is stifled; while Dieppe is too crowded; Aix, with its eternal Villa des Fleurs, is insupportable; and both Royat and Vichy are full to overflowing."

"Ah, mon cher Gerald!" cried the Princess, lifting her small hands, "it is your English tourists who have spoilt all our summer resorts. If one has no place of one's own in which to spend the summer nowadays, one must herd with the holders of tourist tickets and hotel coupons."

I admitted that what she said was in a great measure true. Society, as the grande dame knows it, is being expelled by the tourists from the places which until a year or two ago were expensive and exclusive. Even the Riviera is fast becoming a cheap winter resort, for Nice now deserves to be called the Margate of the Continent.

Having arranged that I should do my best to accept her invitation, our conversation drifted to politics, art, and the drama. She seemed in utter ignorance of recent events, except such as she had read about in the newspapers.

"I know nothing," she laughed. "News reaches Rudolstadt tardily, and then only by the journals; and you know how unreliable they are. How I've longed time after time to spend an evening in Paris to hear all the gossip! It is charming, I a.s.sure you, to be back here again."

"But for what reason did you shut yourself up for so long?" I asked.

"It surely is not like you!"

She grew grave in an instant, and appeared to hesitate. Her lips closed tightly, and there was a hard expression at the corners of her well-shaped mouth.

"I had my reasons--strong ones."

"What were they?"

"Well, I was tired of it all."

"Leonie," I said, looking at her seriously, "pray forgive me, but you do not intend to tell me the truth. You were tired of it years ago, when the Prince was alive."

"That was so," she answered, with a glance of triumph; "and I went home to my father and shut myself up at Wchinitz."

"But you must have had some stronger motive in burying yourself again as you have recently done. You did not write to a soul, and no one knew where you were. You simply dropped out; and you had some reason for doing so, otherwise you would have told the truth to your most intimate friends."

"You are annoyed that I should have left you without a word--eh?" she asked. "Well, I will apologise now."

"No apology is necessary," I answered. "It is only because we are such good friends that I venture to speak thus. I feel confident that you have sustained some great sorrow. You are, somehow, not the same as you were in Paris two years ago; now, tell me--"

"Ah! Do not talk of it!" she cried huskily, rising to her feet. "Let us drop the subject. Promise me, Gerald, not to mention it again, for I confess to you that it is too painful--much too painful. I promised you a waltz. Come, let us dance."

Thus bidden, I rose, and she, twisting her skirts deftly in her hand, leaned lightly upon my arm as I conducted her to the great ballroom. A very few moments later we glided together into the whirling, dazzling crowd.

"You will not speak of that again, Gerald?" she urged in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, looking earnestly up to my face, as her head came near my shoulder. "Promise me."

"If it is your wish, Leonie," I responded, puzzled, "I will ask no further question."

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

IN THE FOREST OF FONTAINEBLEAU.

Sixty kilometres from Paris, just off that straight and n.o.ble highway that runs through the heart of the magnificent forest, and pa.s.ses through the old-world town of Fontainebleau--where Napoleon signed his abdication--through the mediaeval, crumbling gates of Moret, and away far south to Lyons, rises the fine old Chateau of Chantoiseau. Half-way between the clean little village of By, standing in the midst of its well-kept vineyards, and the river-hamlet of Thomery, it occupies a commanding position on the summit of a cliff, where far below winds the Seine, on past Valvins and Samois, until it becomes lost like a silver thread among the dark woodlands in the direction of Paris.

The position of the splendid old place is superb. From its windows can be obtained a view of the great forest stretching away to the horizon on the left, while to the right is the valley of the Seine, and across the river spread the smiling vineyards with their white walls--the vineyards of Champagne. The house, a long, rambling place with circular towers, has been historical for many centuries. Once the property of Madame La Pompadour, in the days when the splendours of the Palace of Fontainebleau were world-renowned, a latter-day interest also attaches to it, inasmuch as it was the headquarters of the German Crown Prince during the advance of the Prussians upon Paris. Its grounds, sloping down, enclose part of the forest itself; therefore, during the blazing days of August one lives actually in the woods. The forest is an enormous one, and even to-day there still remain many parts unexplored, where the wolf and wild boar retreat in summer, and where even that most ubiquitous forester, the viper-hunter--the man whose profession it is to kill vipers and sell them at the local mairie--has never penetrated. In the whole of the great forest, however, no spot is more charming or more picturesque than that in which the chateau is situated. It is not a show-place, like Barbison or the Gorges de Franchard, but entirely rural and secluded--on the one side the open valley, on the other the dark forest, where in the tunnel-like alleys the trees meet overhead, and where the shady highroads to the painter colony at Marlotte and to Bois-le-Roi are perfect paradises for the cyclist.

Chantoiseau itself is not a village, not even a hamlet, only a big old-fashioned cottage in which the forest-guards live. Above it, on the high ground beyond, stands the fine old chateau. Many of those who read my story have driven or cycled in the forest, and many have no doubt given the great old place a pa.s.sing glance before plunging deep into those leafy glades that lead to Fontainebleau. If when you have driven past you have inquired of your cocher, "Who lives there?" he has probably only shrugged his shoulders and replied: "Servants only.

Madame la Princesse, alas! seldom comes," and you have gone on your way, as many others have done, wondering why such a beautiful old place should be neglected by its owner.

One hot evening at sundown, about three weeks after the President's ball, I strolled slowly beside the Princess down the hill, entering the forest by that well-kept cross-road which leads by the Carrefour de la Croix de Montmorin straight to the pretty village of Montigny on the Loing.

Contrary to expectation, no immediate result had accrued from the mysterious theft of the secret instructions to Lord Barmouth; hence I had obtained leave and accepted my hostess's invitation, although I was compelled to spend two days each week at the Emba.s.sy, going up to Paris in the morning and returning by the six o'clock express from the Gare de Lyon. That some result of the exposure of our policy must certainly make itself felt we knew quite well, but at present the political atmosphere seemed clearer, and by the fact that several of the amba.s.sadors had left Paris considerable confidence had been established.

Yet in those sultry August days the war-cloud still hung over Europe and the representative of Her Majesty was compelled, as he ever is, to exercise the greatest tact and the utmost finesse in order to preserve peace with honour. Truly, the office of British Amba.s.sador in Paris is no sinecure, for upon him rests much of the responsibility of England's position in Europe and her prestige among nations, while to him is entrusted the difficult duty of negotiating amicably with a nation openly and avowedly hostile to British interests and British prosperity.

Those summer days, so sunny, happy, and pleasant, in the forest depths at Chantoiseau, were, nevertheless, perplexing ones for the rulers of Europe. The stifling air was the oppression before the storm. I had more than once chatted in the billiard-room with my fellow guests, the German and Austrian Amba.s.sadors, and both had agreed that the outlook was serious, and that the storm-cloud was upon the political horizon.

But life at the chateau was full of enjoyment. The Princess, a born hostess, knew exactly whom to invite, and her house-parties were always congenial gatherings. There was riding, cycling, tennis, boating, billiards; indeed, something to suit all tastes, while she contented herself with looking on and seeing that all her guests enjoyed themselves.

A riding-party had gone over to Montigny, and after tea the Princess had suggested that I should accompany her for a stroll down into the forest to meet them. She was dressed simply in a washing-dress of pale blue linen, and wore a sailor-hat, so that with her fair hair bound tightly she presented quite an English appearance, save perhaps for her figure and gait, both of which were eminently foreign. The feet that all Paris had admired two years ago were encased in stout walking-boots, and she carried a light cane, walking with all the suppleness of youth.

Soon we left the full glory of the mellow sunset flooding the Seine valley, and entered the forest road where the high trees met and interlaced above, and where the golden light, filtering through the screen of foliage, illuminated here and there the deeper shadows, struck straight upon the brilliant green of the bracken, married with the greyness on the lichen-covered trunks, and kissed the leaves with golden lips. Birds were twittering farewells to the day, and here and there a red-brown squirrel, startled by our presence, darted from bough to bough with tail erect, while on each side of the road was a carpet of moss and wild-flowers. The sweet odour of the woods greeted our nostrils, and we inhaled it in a deep draught, for that gloomy shade was delightfully cool and refreshing after the blazing heat of the stifling day. As I had been compelled to attend to some official correspondence, I had not joined the riding-party. The Princess had given some half-dozen of us tea in the hall, and, while the others had gone off to play tennis, she and I had been left alone.

Suddenly, as we walked along in the coolness, she turned to me, saying in a tone of reproach:

"Gerald, you have hidden from me the true seriousness of the situation at your Emba.s.sy. Why?"

"Well," I answered, facing her in surprise, "we do not generally discuss our fears, you know. Others might profit by the knowledge."

"But surely you might have confided in me?" she said gravely.

"Then de Wolkenstein has told you?"