I had been patient, and had lost her.
Plunged in deep despair, I turned into the courtyard of the hotel, and sat down to think. As I did so a servant handed me a telegram. It was from Lord Warnham at Osborne, requesting my return on the morrow.
The one thought that possessed me was that Ella—or the woman I had known and adored under that name—was in Paris. Could I leave without seeing her? She had deserted me, it was true, yet my passion was at that moment as intense even as it had been in those calm autumn days when we had wandered together along the peaceful lanes around old-world Chateauroux, hand-in-hand, in sweet contentment. In those never-to-be-forgotten hours we both possessed the delights of love and fever of happiness. To us everything was passion, ecstasy and delirium. We both felt as if we were living in a rose-coloured atmosphere; the heights of sentimentality glistened in our imaginations, and common everyday existence appeared to us to be far down below in the distance—in the shade between the gaps in these heights. I still felt the softness of that tiny hand I had so often pressed to my lips; I still felt the clasp of her arms about my neck; I still saw her deep blue eyes gazing into mine as we interchanged vows of eternal fidelity.
The cry of a man selling the Soir aroused me. I rose suddenly. Yes, I must see her again. I must see her, if for the last time.
Stepping into a cab, I directed the man to drive to her house, then, seating myself, glanced at my watch. It was already near midnight.
Soon, with the clip-clap of the horse’s hoofs sounding upon the asphalte, we were crossing the Place de la Concorde, rendered bright by its myriad lights, then entering the broad avenue we passed the lines of illuminated cafés half-hidden by the trees surrounding them, and, driving on for some ten minutes, at last pulled up among a number of private carriages that were setting down guests before a great mansion, where I alighted.
One of those brilliant fêtes that were the talk of Paris was apparently about to commence, for many notabilities were arriving, and as I went forward to the spacious portico I was preceded by two pretty laughing girls attended by a tall and distinguished-looking man of military appearance. I drew back while they entered the great, brilliantly-lit hall with its fine marble staircase and profusion of exotics; then, when they had passed on, I inquired in French of the gigantic Russian concierge whether Her Highness was at home.
“Yes, m’sieur,” answered the man, gruffly, scanning me closely, noticing that I was attired in a suit of dark tweed, for so suddenly had I left England that I had had no time to take with me a claw-hammer coat. “Her Highness is at home, m’sieur, but she is engaged,” he said, when he had thoroughly inspected me.
I half drew my card-case from my pocket, but fearing lest she might not see me if she knew my name, I said,—
“Go to her, and say that a friend craves one moment of her time upon an important matter.”