He smiled again. “There also, Mademoiselle — in the one there are many cities. Between the Paris of the old catholic families and the Paris of the American tourists there is a great gulf fixed. Then there is the city of the artists, and the city of the night-life. There is the Russian colony, and the bicycle-racing world of the bourgeoise. But I, myself, have not been to Paris for many years.”
“But why, Monsieur?” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Surely Paris is the one city in the world in which to live?”
“Perhaps — I am not sure of that — but like yourself, for many years I have lived in exile.”
“Tell me about this, Monsieur.”
“It was in ‘96, Princess; for us who preserve the loyalties of our birth, there is still a king of France. When I was a young man I was an ardent Royalist. In those days there was serious hope of restoring the monarchy — hopes which I fear are now for ever dead. I was deeply implicated in a conspiracy to bring about a coup d’état. I do not grumble at the penalty, it only makes me a little sad at times that I cannot return freely to the places which I love.”
“Freely? you say, Monsieur; you do then at times go back?”
“Yes, at long intervals — but it is a risk that I am not prepared to take so readily now that I am an older man. Besides, it is impossible for me to stay in the houses of my friends without bringing a certain risk on them too, and in the public places, where my world gathers, I should be recognized immediately.”
“That is sad, Monsieur. Where then do you live?”
“I have a villa in Italy, where I stay sometimes in the winter, and an old castle in Austria, but I do not care to go to Austria now. Since the War, all my friends there have lost their money. Oh, it is pathetic — all those dear, charming people, so gay, so hospitable. They never thought of money, and now they have none, they think of nothing else. Most of my life is spent in London now.”
“Tell me of London. Is it true that there is always fog?”