ONE afternoon I was sitting outside the Café de la Paix, watching the splendour and shabbiness of Parisian life, and wondering over my vermouth at the strange panorama of pride and poverty that was passing before me, when I heard some one call my name. I turned round, and saw Lord Murchison. We had not met since we had been at college together, nearly ten years before, so I was delighted to come across him again, and we shook hands warmly. At Oxford we had been great friends. I had liked him immensely, he was so handsome, so high-spirited, and so honourable. We used to say of him that he would be the best of fellows, if he did not always speak the truth, but I think we really admired him all the more for his frankness. I found him a good deal changed. He looked anxious and puzzled, and seemed to be in doubt about something. I felt it could not be modern scepticism, for Murchison was the stoutest of Tories, and believed in the Pentateuch as firmly as he believed in the House of Peers; so I
I don't understand women well enough, he answered.
My dear Gerald, I said, women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.
I cannot love where I cannot trust, he replied.
I believe you have a mystery in your life, Gerald, I exclaimed; tell me about it.
Let us go for a drive, he answered, it is too crowded here. No, not a yellow carriage, any other colourthere, that dark-green one will do; and in a few moments we were trotting down the boulevard in the direction of the Madeleine.
Where shall we go to? I said.
Oh, anywhere you like! he answeredto the restaurant in the Bois; we will dine there, and you shall tell me all about yourself.
I want to hear about you first, I said. Tell me your mystery.
He took from his pocket a little silver-clasped morocco case, and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside there was the photograph of a woman. She was tall and slight, and strangely picturesque with her large vague eyes and loosened hair. She looked like a clairvoyante, and was wrapped in rich furs.
What do you think of that face? he said; is it truthful?
I examined it carefully. It seemed to me the face of some one who had a secret, but whether that secret was good or evil I could not say. Its beauty was a beauty moulded out of many mysteriesthe beauty, in fact, which is psychological, not plasticand the faint smile that just played across the lips was far too subtle to be really sweet.
Well, he cried impatiently, what do you say?
She is the Gioconda in sables, I answered. Let me know all about her.
Not now, he said; after dinner; and began to talk of other things.
When the waiter brought us our coffee and cigarettes I reminded Gerald of his promise. He rose from his seat, walked two or three times up and down the room, and, sinking into an armchair, told me the following story:
One evening, he said, I was walking down Bond Street about five o'clock. There was a terrific crush of carriages, and the traffic was almost stopped. Close to the pavement was standing a little yellow brougham, which, for some reason or other, attracted my attention. As I passed by there looked out from it the face I showed you this afternoon. It fascinated me immediately. All that night I kept thinking
The next day I arrived at Park Lane punctual to the moment, but was told by the butler that Lady Alroy had just gone out. I went down to the club quite unhappy and very much puzzled, and after long consideration wrote her a letter, asking if I might be allowed to try my chance some other afternoon. I had no answer for several days, but at last I got a little note saying she would be at home on Sunday at four, and with this extraordinary postscript: Please do not write to me here again; I will explain when I see you. On Sunday she received me, and was perfectly charming; but when I was going away she begged of me if I ever had occasion to write to her again, to address my letter to Mrs. Knox, care of Whittaker's Library, Green Street. There are reasons, she said, why I cannot receive letters in my own house.
All through the season I saw a great deal of her, and the atmosphere of mystery never left her. Sometimes I thought that she was in the power of some man, but she looked so unapproachable that I could not believe it. It was really very difficult for me to come to any conclusion, for she was like one of those strange crystals that one sees in museums, which are at one moment clear, and at another clouded. At last I determined to ask her to be my wife: I was sick and tired of the incessant secrecy that she imposed on all my visits, and on the few letters I sent her. I wrote to her at the library to ask her if she could see me the following Monday at six. She answered yes, and I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I was infatuated with her: in spite of the mystery, I thought thenin consequence of it, I see now. No; it was the woman herself I loved. The mystery troubled me, maddened me. Why did chance put me in its track?
You discovered it, then? I cried.
I fear so, he answered. You can judge for yourself.
When Monday came round I went to lunch with my uncle, and about four o'clock found myself in the Marylebone Road. My uncle, you know, lives in Regents Park. I wanted to get to Piccadilly, and took a short cut through
You went to the street, to the house in it? I said.
Yes, he answered.
One day I went to Cumnor Street. I could not help it; I was tortured with doubt. I knocked at the door, and a respectable-looking woman opened it to me. I asked her if she had any rooms to let. Well, sir, she replied, the drawing-rooms are supposed to be let;
I do.
Then why did Lady Alroy go there?
My dear Gerald, I answered, Lady Alroy was simply a woman with a mania for mystery. She took these rooms for the pleasure of going there with her veil down, and imagining she was a heroine. She had a passion for secrecy, but she herself was merely a Sphinx without a secret.
Do you really think so?
I am sure of it, I replied.
He took out the morocco case, opened it, and looked at the photograph. I wonder? he said at last.