The Countess, a handsome, well-preserved woman of middle age, slightly inclined to embonpoint, met me on the threshold, and in silence grasped my hand. From the window she had apparently watched me alight from the fiacre, and had rushed forth to meet me.

That something unusual had occurred was plain from the paleness of her countenance and the look of despair in her eyes. We had been excellent friends in Brussels in bygone days, for she had favoured my suit and had constantly invited me to her pretty home in the Boulevard de Waterloo or to the great old chateau in the Ardennes. A glance was sufficient to show me that she had grown considerably older, and that her face, although it still bore distinct traces of a faded beauty, was now worn and haggard. She was essentially a grande dame of the old regime, now fast disappearing from our ken, but at no time could she be considered a great hostess. She was somewhat intransigent, a woman of strong prejudices, usually well justified, and incapable of pretence or shams.

But the law of kindliness was ever on her tongue, and she contented herself with giving those of whom she disapproved a wide berth. She was dressed plainly in black, with a single wisp of lace at the throat--a costume unusual for her. In Brussels her handsome toilettes, obtained from Paris, had always been admired. Although matronly, like the majority of Belgian women, she was extremely chic, with an almost girlish waist, and at whatever hour one called one always found her dressed with extreme taste and elegance. I must, however, admit that her appearance surprised me. Her hair had grown greyer, and she seemed as though utterly negligent of her personal appearance.

"Madame!" I exclaimed in alarm as our hands met, "tell me what has occurred."

"Ah, m'sieur," she cried in French, "I am in despair, and have sent for you! You can help me--if you will."

"In what manner?" I inquired breathlessly.

"Yolande!" she gasped, in a choking voice.

"Yolande!" I echoed. "What has happened to her? Your man will tell me nothing."

"He has orders to say nothing," she explained, leading the way into the elegant salon. "Now tell me," she said, looking at me very earnestly, "I am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or I would not presume to question you. Will you forgive me if I do?"

"Most certainly," I responded.

"Then before we go further I will put my question to you," she said in a strange voice. "Do you love Yolande?"

Such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise. I stood looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed.

"Why ask me that?" I inquired, puzzled. "Tell me what has happened to her."

"I can tell you nothing until you have answered my question," she replied quite calmly. I saw from her countenance that she was desperate.

"I think, madame, that when we were together in Brussels my actions must have betrayed to you--a woman--the state of my heart towards your daughter," I said. "I do not seek to deny that at that time I loved her more fondly than I could ever love again, and--"

"Then you do not love her still?" she cried, interrupting me.

"Allow me to conclude," I went on, speaking quite calmly, for I saw in this curious question of hers some mysterious motive. "I loved her while in Brussels, and for two years hoped to make her my wife."

"And then you grew tired of her?" the Countess asked, in a tone that was almost a sneer in itself. "It is always the same with you diplomatists.

The women of every capital amuse you, but on your promotion you bow your adieux and seek fresh fields to conquer."

"I think you misjudge me," I protested, rather annoyed at her words. "I loved Yolande. When I admit this, I also admit that, like other men whose calling it is to lounge in the princ.i.p.al salons of Europe, I had not escaped the fascination exercised by other eyes than hers. But to me she was all the world. Surely, madame, you remember the days at Houffalize? You cannot disguise from yourself that I really loved her then?"

"But all that is of the past," she said seriously, her white hands clasped before her. "Briefly, you no longer entertain any love for her.

Is not that so?"

I hesitated. My position was a difficult one. I was a diplomatist, and could speak untruths artistically when occasion required, but she had cornered me.

"Madame has guessed the truth," I answered at last.

"Ah!" she cried hoa.r.s.ely, "I thought as much. You have found some other woman whom you prefer?"

I nodded a.s.sent. It was useless to lead her to believe what was not the truth. Yolande was of course charming in many ways; but when I thought of Edith I saw that comparison was impossible.

"And you have no further thought of her?" she asked.

"As far as marriage is concerned, no," I responded. "Nevertheless, I still regard her as an intimate friend. I was here only two or three hours ago chatting with her."

"You!" she cried, glaring at me strangely. "You were here--to-day?"

"Yes," I replied. "I thought she would certainly tell you of my visit."

"She told me nothing. I was quite unaware of it. I was out, and the servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence."

"I gave a card," I replied. "It is no doubt in the hall."

"No, it is not. It has been destroyed."

"Why?" I asked.

"For some mysterious reason known to Yolande." Then, turning quickly again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness, saying: "Tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead--so dead that you would not care to perform her a service?"

Anderson's strange and startling story flashed through my mind. I made no reply.

"Remember the affection you once bore her," she urged. "I am a woman, m'sieur, and I presume to remind you of it."

I needed no reminder. The recollection of those sweet idyllic days was still fresh as ever in my memory. Ah! in those brief sunny hours I had fondly believed that our love would last always. It is ever the same.

Youth is ever foolish.

"I should have loved her now," I answered at last, "were it not for one fact."

There was a mystery which had ended our love, and I saw now an opportunity of clearing it up. "To what fact do you refer?"

"To the reason of our parting."

"The reason!" echoed the Countess. "I have no idea whatever of the reason. What was it?"

I held my breath. Would it be just to tell her the truth? I wondered.

I reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered:

"Because I discovered that her heart was not wholly mine."

She regarded me with undisguised amazement.

"Do you mean that Yolande had another lover?"

"No!" I cried with sudden resolve. "This conversation is not fair to her. It is all finished. She has forgotten, and we are both happy."

"Happy!" cried the Countess hoa.r.s.ely. "You are, alas! mistaken. Poor Yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world. She has never ceased to think of you."

"Then I regret, madame," I responded.

"If you really regret," she answered, "then your love for her is not altogether dead."

She spoke the truth. At this point I may as well confide to you, my reader, the fact that I still regarded my charming little friend of those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to love. I recollected the painful circ.u.mstances which led to our parting.