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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 principal 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 hoarsely, “I thought as much. You have found some other woman whom you prefer?”

      I nodded assent. 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 hoarsely. “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 circumstances which led to our parting. My memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer’s evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her home, I charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in Brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting. After that I had applied to the Foreign Office to be transferred, and a month later found myself in Rome.

      Perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded. Sometimes I had thought I had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, I had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere acquaintance. Indeed, I think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love I once bore her to remain within me. It was not just to Edith – that I knew; yet notwithstanding the denunciations of both Kaye and Anderson, I could not altogether crush her from my heart. To wholly forget the woman for whom one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult, sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. Visions of some sweet face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. Thus it was with me – just as it has been with thousands of others.

      “No,” I admitted truthfully and honestly at last, “my love for Yolande is perhaps not altogether dead.”

      “Then you will render me a service?” she cried quickly. “Say that you will – for her sake! – for the sake of the great love you once bore her!”

      “Of what nature is this service you desire?” I asked, determined to act with caution, for the startling stories I had heard had aroused within me considerable suspicion.

      “I desire your silence regarding an absolute secret,” she answered in a hoarse half-whisper.

      “What secret?”

      “A secret concerning Yolande,” she responded. “Will you, for her sake, render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as to what you may see or learn here to-day?”

      “I will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips,” I said. “But as to assistance, I cannot promise until I am aware of the nature of the service demanded of me.”

      “Of course,” she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile. My words had apparently reassured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though relying upon me for help. “Then as you give me your promise upon your honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth. Come with me.”

      She led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the sunset. The room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and motionless. In the dim half-light I could just distinguish the features as those of Yolande.

      “What has occurred?” I cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in fascination.

      “We

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