Ah! to forget would, I knew, be impossible. When a man has loved as ardently and intensely as I loved Yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. You, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair one who in youth’s golden days was your all in all. The sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman’s chiffons as she passes, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. You recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. The tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. The most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love.
I had been a fool. This bitter truth was forced upon me as I sat there ruminating. I had cast aside that patience and discretion which I, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by Kaye as a secret agent. My own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as I reflected I began to wonder how it was that I should have so completely lost my self-control. True, indeed, it is that love is blind.
I drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. What mad words I wrote I almost forget. All I know is that even then I could not hold back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. I tried to put the letter aside for calmer reflection, but could not. My pen ran on, recording the eloquence of my heart. Then, scaling it, I addressed it, rang for the messenger of the Embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to her.
“There is no answer, m’sieur?” the man inquired.
“None,” I answered.
Then the door closed again, and I was alone.
Yes, I saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. Fate had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my life.
Some ten minutes later Harding entered, saying: “Doctor Deane has called, and wishes to see you, sir.”
I at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched.
“Hulloa, Ingram, old chap!” he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise, “what’s the matter? You don’t look yourself.”