The Indiscretion of the Duchess | Page 2

I venture to think, be recompensed by a story which even the greatest familiarity and long pondering has not robbed of all its interest for me. But then I must admit that I have reasons which no one else can have for following with avidity every stage and every development in the drama, and for seeking to discern now what at the time was dark and puzzling to me.
The thing began in the most ordinary way in the world--or perhaps that is too strongly put. The beginning was ordinary indeed, and tame, compared with the sequel. Yet even the beginning had a flavor of the unusual about it, strong enough to startle a man so used to a humdrum life and so unversed in anything out of the common as I. Here, then, is the beginning:
One morning, as I sat smoking my after-breakfast cigar in my rooms in St. James' Street, my friend Gustave de Berensac rushed in. His bright brown eyes were sparkling, his mustache seemed twisted up more gayly and triumphantly than ever, and his manner was redolent of high spirits. Yet it was a dull, somber, misty morning, for all that the month was July and another day or two would bring August. But Gustave was a merry fellow, though always (as I had occasion to remember later on) within the limits of becoming mirth--as to which, to be sure, there may be much difference of opinion.
"Shame!" he cried, pointing at me. "You are a man of leisure, nothing keeps you here; yet you stay in this bouillon of an atmosphere, with France only twenty miles away over the sea!"
"They have fogs in France too," said I. "But whither tends your impassioned speech, my good friend? Have you got leave?"
Gustave was at this time an extra secretary at the French Embassy in London.
"Leave? Yes, I have leave--and, what is more, I have a charming invitation."
"My congratulations," said I.
"An invitation which includes a friend," he continued, sitting down. "Ah, you smile! You mean that is less interesting?"
"A man may smile and smile, and not be a villain," said I. "I meant nothing of the sort. I smiled at your exhilaration--nothing more, on the word of a moral Englishman."
Gustave grimaced; then he waved his cigarette in the air, exclaiming:
"She is charming, my dear Gilbert!"
"The exhilaration is explained."
"There is not a word to be said against her," he added hastily.
"That does not depress me," said I. "But why should she invite me?"
"She doesn't invite you; she invites me to bring--anybody!"
"Then she is ennuy��e, I presume?"
"Who would not be, placed as she is? He is inhuman!"
"M. le mari?"
"You are not so stupid, after all! He forbids her to see a single soul; we must steal our visit, if we go."
"He is away, then?"
"The kind government has sent him on a special mission of inquiry to Algeria. Three cheers for the government!"
"By all means," said I. "When are you going to approach the subject of who these people are?"
"You will not trust my discernment?"
"Alas, no! You are too charitable--to one half of humanity."
"Well, I will tell you. She is a great friend of my sister's--they were brought up in the same convent; she is also a good comrade of mine."
"A good comrade?"
"That is just it; for I, you know, suffer hopelessly elsewhere."
"What, Lady Cynthia still?"
"Still!" echoed Gustave with a tragic air. But he recovered in a moment. "Lady Cynthia being, however, in Switzerland, there is no reason why I should not go to Normandy."
"Oh, Normandy?"
"Precisely. It is there that the duchess--"
"Oho! The duchess?"
"Is residing in retirement in a small chateau, alone save for my sister's society."
"And a servant or two, I presume?"
"You are just right, a servant or two; for he is most stingy to her (though not, they say, to everybody), and gives her nothing when he is away."
"Money is a temptation, you see."
"Mon Dieu, to have none is a greater!" and Gustave shook his head solemnly.
"The duchess of what?" I asked patiently.
"You will have heard of her," he said, with a proud smile. Evidently he thought that the lady was a trump card. "The Duchess of Saint-Maclou."
I laid down my cigar, maintaining, however, a calm demeanor.
"Aha!" said Gustave. "You will come, my friend?"
I could not deny that Gustave had a right to his little triumph; for a year ago, when the duchess had visited England with her husband, I had received an invitation to meet her at the Embassy. Unhappily, the death of a relative (whom I had never seen) occurring the day before, I had been obliged to post off to Ireland, and pay proper respect by appearing at the funeral. When I returned the duchess had gone, and Gustave had, half-ironically, consoled my evident annoyance by telling me that he had given such a description of me to