“But how did you become acquainted with her?” inquired the attaché, presently, after my companions had been praising her face and extolling her virtues.
“We met in London,” I answered vaguely, for I was in no confidential mood.
“And she captivated you, eh?” my friend exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised. Half Paris goes mad over her beauty whenever she’s here.”
“It is said, and I believe there’s a good deal of truth in it,” exclaimed Goron, confidentially, “that young Max Duchanel, the well-known writer on the Figaro, committed suicide last year by shooting himself over at Le Pré St Gervais because she disregarded his attentions. At any rate an extravagant letter of reproach and farewell was discovered in his pocket. We hushed up the matter because of the position of the personage therein mentioned.”
At least one man had paid with his life the penalty of his devotion to her. Did not this fact force home once again the truth of Sonia’s disregarded denunciation that Ella was not my friend? It was now plain how neatly I had been tricked; and with what artful ingenuity she had masqueraded as my wife. Monsieur Grodekoff, the Russian Ambassador, Paul Verblioudovitch, and Ivan Renouf all knew her true position, yet feared to tell me. Indeed, my friend Paul had urged me to marry and forgot the past, and his Excellency had actually congratulated us both with outstretched hand. Because she was so well-known in Paris she had, while on our honeymoon, only remained in the capital the night, and had refused to go shopping or show herself unnecessarily. She had preferred a quiet, unfashionable hotel in a by-street to any of those well-known; and I now remembered how, even then, she had remained in her room, pleading fatigue and headache. From our first meeting to the moment of her flight her attitude had been that of a consummate actress.
“Did Her Highness pass under another name in London?” Goron asked me presently, appearing much interested.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Ah!” he ejaculated. “She is perfectly charming, and so fond of concealing her real position beneath the most ordinary patronymic. To me, she is always so affable and so nice.”
“Goron is sweet on her also, I believe,” observed Allender, whereat we all laughed in chorus.
I struggled to preserve an outward show of indifference, but every word these men uttered stabbed my heart deeply. When I had ascertained the whereabouts of her house, my first impulse had been to rush out, drive there, and meet her face to face, but my nerves were, I knew, upset and unsteady, so I remained sitting with my light-hearted companions, endeavouring amid that jingle, popping of corks, and chatter of London, New York and Paris, to think deeply and decide upon the best course to pursue.