It seemed curious that the young man Schäfer should be in such high favour with the Crown-Prince.
I watched closely. Whatever was in progress was a strict secret between the pair. The more I saw of Hans Schäfer the more I disliked him. He had cruel eyes and heavy, sensuous lips—a coarse countenance which was the reverse of prepossessing, though I could see that he was a very clever and cunning person.
For a full fortnight the Crown-Prince and the man Schäfer were almost inseparable. Was it for the purpose of meeting Schäfer that we had gone to Nice? The man had been back from London about two months, and had, I learnt, been lately living in Paris.
One evening while strolling in the sunset by the sea along the tree-lined Promenade des Anglais, I suddenly encountered Julie de Rouville, dressed in mourning, a quiet, pathetic figure, just as we had last met.
I instantly recollected that since the evening when I had given her photograph to the Crown-Prince he had never mentioned her, and I could only believe that for some mysterious reason sight of the picture had recalled some distasteful memory.
"Ah, Count!" she cried, as I halted and raised my hat. "This is, indeed, a welcome meeting! I have been looking out for you for the past two days."
"I've been staying over at Cannes," was my reply. "Well?"
She indicated a seat, and upon it we sat together.
"I have to thank you for giving my photograph and message to His Highness," she said in that sweet, refined voice that I so well remembered.
"I trust that the Crown-Prince has written to you—eh?"