Whoso Findeth a Wife

Although the Marquis treated me with calm, unruffled dignity, as befitted the Ambassador of the greatest nation on earth, I nevertheless congratulated myself that my efforts had been eminently successful. Aided by the promptings of the shrewd old Earl, I had, I flattered myself, exercised a careful and even delicate tact in dealing with this leader among diplomatists, and, as may be imagined, the knowledge that my mission was successful caused me the utmost satisfaction.

When I had first approached the subject he had been inclined to disregard my words, and grew so angry that I feared lest he might tender his resignation, as the Earl had apprehended. But the Minister’s clever arguments, rather than my own tact, convinced him, for he saw that to act at once was imperative; hence the success of my first secret mission.

We sat together for nearly an hour calmly discussing the matter from various standpoints, and when we rose his Excellency again congratulated me upon the soundness of my views, laughingly declaring that, instead of penning the Earl’s impatient and irritating dispatches, he ought to appoint me to a post abroad.

Full of elation, I descended the broad stairs, so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly, and met unexpectedly, a few moments later, my friend Captain Cargill, of the 2nd Life Guards, the junior Military Attaché, who greeted me with a hearty British hand-grip.

“Didn’t expect to meet you here, old chap,” he cried. “I thought you were tied up in the chief’s private room always, and never allowed out of England.”

“This is the first time I’ve been here officially,” I replied, laughing.

“What’s the trouble? Anything startling?” he inquired.

“No, nothing very extraordinary,” I remarked, carelessly. “I’ve seen the Marquis, and concluded my mission.”

Continuing, I extracted from him a promise to dine with me at the Continental that evening, as I intended to leave next day, and after a brief conversation we parted. Along the shady side of the Rue du Faubourg St Honoré I strolled leisurely, turning into the Rue Royale, passing the gloomy façade of the Madeleine, and continuing along the boulevard to the Grand Café. Paris possessed but little attraction for me in my gloomy frame of mind. Five years of my youth had been spent there, and I knew the city in every mood, but to-day, plunged as I was in a debauch of melancholy, its gay aspect under the warm sunshine jarred upon me.

On leaving the Embassy it had occurred to me to call upon an old friend, who, in my student days, had shared rooms with me, but who had been returned as Deputy at the last election, and now lived in the Rue des Petits-Champs. With that object I had walked along mechanically, and instead of turning down the Rue des Capucines, as I should have done, I had found myself in the Place de l’Opéra. Then, seating myself at one of the tables in front of the Grand Café, I ordered a “bock,” and contemplatively watched the crowd of passers-by.

When last I had sat at that spot it was with Ella, on the night before we had returned to London from our honeymoon. Well I remembered how happy and content she had then been; how she had enjoyed the light, cosmopolitan chatter about her, and how fondly we had loved each other. In those days she had mingled tender words with her kisses, which seemed to bear my soul away. Yet how weary and full of terrible anxiety had been the nine months that had elapsed since that delightful autumn night, the last of our lazy tour through rural France. When I reflected upon all the remarkable occurrences, they seemed like some hideous nightmare, while she herself appeared striking, yet mysterious, as the fair vision in some half-remembered dream.

Thus was I sitting alone at the little marble-topped table, gazing into space, wondering, as I did daily, how my lost wife fared, and whether she ever gave a single passing thought to the man who, notwithstanding all her faults and follies, loved her better than his life, when before my eyes there arose for a second a face that in an instant was familiar.

A man, short of stature and well-dressed, had lounged leisurely by with a cigarette, but scarcely had he walked a dozen yards beyond the café when I jumped up, and rushing along, accosted him.

It was Ivan Renouf.

He turned sharply at mention of his name, regarding me with an inquiring glance, but next second expressed pleasure at our meeting. Together we returned to the café, and chatted amicably over a mazagran. Presently, after we had been speaking of our last interview at Mrs Laing’s, I asked him the truth about his sudden dismissal from her service.

“What your wife told you was quite correct,” he answered, with a mysterious smile; “I was detected.”

“You are generally too wary to be caught by those upon whom you are keeping observation,” I remarked.

Slowly he selected a fresh cigarette, and laughing carelessly, answered, —

“It was not by accident but by design that I was caught. My object was already attained, and I desired to be discharged at once from madame’s service.”

“She left London almost immediately,” I said.

“Yes, I am quite aware of that. It was best for her,” he observed, rather abruptly.

“My wife also fled on the same day,” I exclaimed slowly. “I haven’t seen her since.”

At this announcement he betrayed no surprise, but merely remarked, “So I have heard.”

“Tell me,” I urged earnestly, “do you know anything of her movements? I am endeavouring to find her, and am in utter despair.”

With a sharp glance at me, the great detective stirred his long glass, raised it to his lips, and took a deep draught. Then, slowly replacing it upon the table, he coldly answered, —

“I know nothing of your wife’s whereabouts, m’sieur.”

“Am I to understand that you refuse to tell me anything?” I asked, annoyed.

He shrugged his shoulders, but answered no word. I detested him instinctively.

“Is it not strange that they should both have fled in this extraordinary manner?” I suggested. “Can you assign any motive whatever for their flight?”

“I am really not good at conundrums,” he replied indifferently. “But if you took my advice, m’sieur, you would abandon all thought of her, for at least one fact was quite plain, namely, that mademoiselle never loved you.”

“How do you know that?” I cried, with sinking heart, as the ghastly truth was forced upon me for the thousandth time.

“From my own observations,” he answered, looking straight at me across the table. “Your marriage was, I am fully aware, an unhappy one; therefore you should regard it entirely as of the past. She will never trouble you again, I can assure you.”

“Why?” I demanded. “Your words indicate that you are fully aware of the true facts. Tell me all, Renouf, and set my mind at rest.”

“I have told you all, m’sieur,” he said, suddenly tossing his cigarette away, glancing at his watch and rising. “That is, I have told you all that I may. But I have an appointment,” he added abruptly. “Adieu.”

And before I could prevent him he had raised his hat with a show of politeness, and walked hurriedly off across the broad Place in the direction of the Boulevard des Italiens.

In chagrin I bit my lip, for instead of giving me any clue to the hiding-place of my errant wife, his words only tended to increase my mistrust and despair. Was not, however, his refusal only what I might have expected? I rose and slowly walked away down the Rue Auber, deeply reflecting upon his denunciation of Ella’s faithlessness. What motive could he have, I wondered, in thus declaring that she had never loved me?

That night Cargill dined with me, and after taking our coffee and liqueurs in the courtyard of the Continental, watching the well-dressed crowd of idlers who assemble there nightly after dinner, we strolled out along the brightly-lit streets, where all Paris was enjoying the cool, star-lit evening after the heat and burden of the day.

Our footsteps led us unconsciously to that Mecca of the Briton or American resident in Paris, the Hôtel Chatham, and entering the American bar we found assembled there a number of mutual acquaintances. At one of the small wooden tables sat my old and valued friend, Henry Allender, counsel to the United States Embassy in Paris, a man universally liked in both British and American colonies of the French capital, and opposite him a short, stout, round-faced Frenchman, attired in grey, and wearing the Legion of Honour in his lapel – Monsieur Goron, the well-known Chief of Police. From both I received a cordial welcome, and as we sat down to chat over cocktails carefully mixed by the deft, loquacious bar-tender, Tommy, I took up Le Monde Illustré, lying upon the table, and opened it carelessly.

Several pages I had turned over, when suddenly my eyes fell upon a full-page illustration of a beautiful woman in evening dress, with a fine diamond tiara upon her head. The features were unmistakable. With an involuntary cry that startled my companions, I sat rigid and motionless, glaring at it in abject dismay.

The portrait itself did not surprise me so much as the amazing words printed beneath. The latter held me spellbound.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Cosmopolitans

“Why, what’s the matter, old chap?” inquired Cargill, bending forward quickly to glance at the journal. “You look as if you’ve got an acute attack of the jim-jams.”

“See!” I gasped hoarsely, pointing to the printed page upon which my strained eyes had riveted themselves.

“Deucedly pretty woman,” declared the attaché, who was nothing if not a ladies’ man. Few men were better known in Paris than Hugh Cargill.

“Yes, yes, I know,” I exclaimed impatiently. I was sitting dumbfounded, the words beneath the picture dancing before my vision in letters of fire.

The portrait that seemed to smile mockingly at me was a reproduction of a photograph of Ella. The handsome, regular features were unmistakable. With the exception of the magnificent tiara, the ornaments she wore I recognised as belonging to her. All were now in my possession, alas! for on leaving me she had discarded them, and with ineffable sadness I had locked them away in a small cabinet. The jewel-case containing her wedding-ring was a veritable skeleton in my cupboard that I dare not gaze upon.

The picture was undoubtedly that of my lost wife, yet beneath was printed in French the words, —

“Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia.”

“Look!” I cried, my eye still upon the page. “Surely there’s some mistake! That can’t be the Grand Duchess!”

Allender and Cargill bent simultaneously over the little table, and both declared that there was no mistake.

“She’s very well-known here,” exclaimed the attaché. “I’ve seen her driving her Orloff ponies in the Bois dozens of times. Besides, one never forgets such a face as hers.”

“Does she live here?” I inquired breathlessly.

“Sometimes,” he answered; and smiling behind the veil of tobacco smoke, he added, “She’s been away a long time now. I suppose you want an introduction to her – eh? Well, I don’t expect you’ll be successful, as her circle is the most select in Paris. She never invites any of the ‘corps diplomatique.’”

“No,” I answered huskily, “I desire no introduction.” A sudden giddiness had seized me. The jingle of glasses, the incessant chatter, the loud laughter, and the heavy smoke of cigars had combined with this sudden and bewildering discovery to produce a slight faintness. I took up a glass of ice-water at my elbow and gulped it down.

“Do you know her?” inquired Allender, with a pronounced American accent, at the same time regarding me curiously.

“Yes,” I answered, not without hesitation. “She is – I mean we have already met.”

“Well, you’re to be congratulated,” he answered, smiling. “I reckon she’s the finest looking woman in Paris, and that’s a solid fact.”

Without replying I slowly turned over the page, and there saw a brief article with the same heading as the legend beneath the portrait. Cargill and Allender were attracted at that moment by the entry of one of their friends, a wealthy young man who, with his wife, had forsaken Ohio for residence in the French capital, and while they chatted I eagerly scanned the article, which ran as follows, —

“Paris will welcome the return of Her Imperial Highness the Grand Duchess Elizaveta Nicolayevna of Russia, whose portrait we give on another page. For nearly nine months her great house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées, the scene of so many brilliant fêtes during her last residence there, has been closed, but she arrived in Paris about ten days ago, and has announced her intention of remaining among us until the end of the year. As our readers are no doubt aware, Her Imperial Highness, niece of the late Tzar Alexander, and cousin of the present Czar, is an excellent linguist, speaking English and French perfectly, in addition to her native Russian. She was born at Tzarskoïe-Selo, but her early days were spent in England. She, however, prefers Paris to either London or St Petersburg, although in the latter city her entertainments at the mansion on the English Quay are on a scale almost as brilliant as those at the Winter Palace itself. Her beauty is incomparable, and her diamonds among the finest in Europe. Her munificence to the poor of Paris is well-known. Although moving in the highest circle, she does not fear to go herself into the very vilest slums, accompanied by her trusty Muscovite man-servant, and there distribute relief to the deserving from her own purse. Both the needy and the wealthy therefore welcome her on her return.”

I re-read the article. Then I sat with the paper before me, staring at it in blank bewilderment. The surprising discovery held me petrified. This beautiful woman, who had masqueraded as Ella Laing, and had become my wife by law, was actually the daughter of a reigning house, the cousin of an Emperor.

The astounding truth seemed incredible.

“Well,” asked Cargill, turning to me with a smile a moment later, “have you been reading all about her?”

“Yes,” I answered, drawing a long breath.

“Come, don’t sigh like that, old fellow,” he cried, and glancing across to the bar, shouted, “Mix another dry Martini, Tommy, for my friend.”

To affect indifference I strove vainly. Nevertheless, I listened with eager ears as my three companions commenced discussing the merits of the high-born woman who was my wife. To me she was no longer Ella. Her personality, so vivid and distinct, seemed in those moments of perplexity to fade like the memory of some half-remembered dream.

“Her beauty is simply marvellous,” Allender acknowledged, smoking on in his dry, matter-of-fact way. He was not more than thirty-eight, but by sheer merit as a sound lawyer and a thorough good fellow, he had risen to the lucrative post he held, and had, in the course of five years, formed a large and valuable practice and a wide circle of friends among the English-speaking colonies in the French capital.

“I entirely agree with m’sieur,” observed Monsieur Goron, in his broken English. “Her Highness is very beautiful, but, ah – cold as an icicle.”

“Is there no scandal regarding her?” I inquired eagerly, well knowing that in Paris no woman is considered really chic without some story being whispered about her.

“None,” replied the renowned investigator of Anarchist conspiracies. “I have the pleasure of knowing Her Highness, and I have always found her a most estimable young lady. There is, however,” he added, “some curious romance, I believe, connected with her earlier life.”

“A romance?” cried Cargill. “Do tell us all about it.”

“Ah, unfortunately I do not know the details,” answered the old Frenchman, suddenly exhibiting his palms. “It was alleged once by somebody I met officially – who it was, I really forget. She lived for years in England, and is a cosmopolitan thoroughly, besides being one of the richest women in Paris.”

“Is it true that she sometimes goes into the low quarters of the city and gives money to the poor?” I asked him, for this love of midnight adventure accounted for Ella’s strange penchant for rambling alone at night that had once caused me so much perturbation.

“Certainly. With her, philanthropy is a fad. I accompanied her on several occasions last year,” he replied. “She attired herself in an old, worn-out dress of one of her maids, and disguised herself most effectually. On each night she distributed about five thousand francs with her own hands. Indeed, so well-known is she in certain quarters that I believe she might go there alone with perfect safety. However, when she is going we always know at the Préfecture, and take precautions. It would not do for us to allow anything to happen to an Imperial Highness,” he added.

“Of course not,” observed Cargill, adding with the diplomatic instinct, “Of course. Not in view of the Franco-Russian Alliance,” an observation at which we all three laughed merrily.

“Has she a lover?” inquired Allender, turning to Monsieur Goron.

“I think not,” the other replied. “I never heard of one. Indeed, I have never heard her accused of flirtation with anybody.”

“Tell me, m’sieur,” I asked, “are you acquainted with a Russian named Ivan Renouf, who is, I believe, in the secret service.”

“Renouf!” he repeated, glancing quickly at me with his steel-blue eyes. “Yes, I have met him. He is in Paris at the present moment. Whether he is in the actual service of the Tzar’s Government I don’t know, but one thing is certain, namely, that he is a blackmailer and a scoundrel,” he added frankly.

“What offence has he committed?” I asked, eager to learn some fact to his detriment.

“He keeps well within the bounds of the law,” my companion answered. “Nevertheless he is utterly unscrupulous and most ingenious in his methods. He is reported to be chief of the section of Secret Police attached to the Russian Embassy, but they are a mysterious lot of spies, always coming and going. Sent here from St Petersburg, they remain a few months, watching the revolutionary refugees, and then go back, their places being taken by a fresh batch.”

“Why is Renouf in Paris? Have you any idea?”

“None, m’sieur,” Monsieur Goron answered. “He has been absent fully six months, and only last night I met him coming out of La Scala.”

“Did you speak?”

“Yes. He did not, however, recognise me,” smiled the Chief of Police. “I did not expect he would, as I chanced to be acting as a cabman, and was sitting upon my box outside the theatre. He hailed me, but I refused to drive him. I was waiting for a fare who was enjoying himself inside, and who, on coming out, I had the pleasure of driving straight to the Préfecture,” added the man of a thousand disguises with a chuckle, swallowing his cocktail in one gulp.

“Where does the Grand Duchess live?” I inquired, after a slight pause.

“Deedes is simply gone on her,” cried Cargill, with good-humoured banter. “He evidently wants to take her out to dinner.”

“No,” I protested, smiling grimly. “Nothing of the kind. I only want to know whereabouts in the Avenue des Champs Elysées she lives.”

“It is a large white house, with green jalousies, on the left-hand side, just beyond the Avenue de l’Alma,” explained the Chief of Police, laughing at Cargill’s suggestion.

“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.

“Our chief sent her invitations to the Embassy balls on several occasions a year ago, but she declined each,” I heard the attaché saying. “She’s a royalty, so I suppose she thinks herself just a cut above us. But, after all, I don’t blame her,” he added, reflectively. “Diplomacy is but the art of lying artistically. She has no need to struggle for a foothold in society.”

“Correct,” observed Allender. “The women who flutter around at our Embassy are the gayest crowd I’ve ever struck. I reckon they’re not of her set. But she’s a very fine woman, even though she may be a Highness. She’s simply beautiful. I’ve seen some fine women in my day, but for thrilling a man’s soul and driving him to distraction, I never saw anyone to compare with her.”

“That’s so,” Cargill acquiesced. “Yet her refusal to come to us has often been remarked by our chief, especially as we’ve entertained a crowd of other princesses and high nobilities at one time or another.”

“She has a reason, I suppose,” observed Goron, slowly twisting his eternal caporal.

“Goron appears to know all her secrets,” said Cargill, winking at me knowingly. “He trots her about Paris at night, and she confides in him all her little anxieties and fears. A most charming arrangement.”

The astute officer, who, by his energetic action, had succeeded in effectually stamping out the Anarchist activity, smiled and raised both his hands in protest, crying, —

“No, no, messieurs! It is in you younger men that the pretty women confide. As for me, I am old, fat and ugly.”

“But you act as the protector of the philanthropic Elizaveta Nicolayevna,” observed Cargill, “therefore, when you next see her, tell her how her portrait in Le Monde has been admired by an impressionable young Englishman, named Deedes, and present to her the compliments and profound admiration of all three of us.”

“Don’t do anything of the kind, Goron,” I cried, rather angrily. “Remember I know the lady, and such words would be an insult.”

“Very well, if you’re really going to call on her, you might convey our message,” exclaimed the attaché, nonchalantly. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“I don’t think there’s any need for jealousy,” I responded.

Goron laughed heartily at this retort. He was more shrewd than the others, and I instinctively felt that he had guessed that Her Highness and myself were a little more than chance-met acquaintances. But the others continued their fooling, happy, careless, bubbling over with buoyant spirits. Many good fellows frequent the bar of the Chatham, one of the most cosmopolitan resorts in Europe. Many adventurers and “dead beats” make it their headquarters, but of all that merry, easy-going crowd of men with money, and those in want of it, to find two men more popular and more generous than Hugh Cargill and Henry Allender would have been difficult.