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.