The Indiscretion of the Duchess | Page 2

their motives must be
accepted merely as my reading of them, and for what, as such, it is
worth. The actual facts speak for themselves. Let each man read them
as he will; and if he does not indorse all my views, yet he will, 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 ennuyée, 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 château, 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