"In Treysa the sensation caused is enormous. It is the sole topic of conversation. The Crown Princess was greatly beloved by the people, but her elopement has entirely negatived her popularity, as the scandal is considered utterly unpardonable. The Crown Prince has left hurriedly for Vienna in order to confer with the Emperor, who, it is rumoured, has issued an edict withdrawing from the Princess her t.i.tle, and all her rights as an Imperial Archd.u.c.h.ess, and her decorations, as well as forbidding her to use the Imperial arms. The excitement in the city of Treysa is intense, but in the Court circle everything is, of course, denied, the King having forbidden the press to mention or comment upon the matter in any way. Reuter's correspondent, however, has, from private sources within the palace, been able to substantiate the above report, which, vague though it may be, is no doubt true, and the details of which are already known in all the Courts of Europe. It is thought probable in Treysa that the Crown Prince Ferdinand will at once seek a divorce, for certain of the palace servants, notably the lady-in-waiting, the Countess de Trauttenberg, have come forward and made some amazing statements. A Council of Ministers is convened for to-morrow, at which his Majesty will preside."

"De Trauttenberg!" exclaimed the Princess bitterly between her teeth.

"The spy! I wonder what lies she has invented."

She saw the two Englishmen with their eyes still upon her, therefore she tried to control her feelings. What she had read was surely sufficient to rouse her blood. She returned to her room. "I am no longer popular with the people!" she thought to herself. "They too believe ill of me!

My enemies have, alas! triumphed." She re-read the telegram with its bold heading--the announcement which had startled Europe two days before--and then with a low sigh replaced the paper upon the table.

This crisis she had foreseen. The Court had given those facts to the press correspondent because they intended to hound her down as an infamous and worthless woman, because they had conspired to drive her out of Treysa; and victory was now theirs.

But none of the tourist crowd in the Schweizerhof ever dreamed that the cheaply-dressed, demure little widow was the notorious woman whom all; the world was at that moment discussing--the royal Ionian who had boldly cast aside a crown.

What she read caused her to bite her lips till they bled. She returned to her room, and sat for an hour plunged in bitter tears. All the world was against her, and she had no single person in whom to confide, or of whom to seek a.s.sistance.

That night, acting upon a sudden impulse, she took little Ignatia with her, and left by the mail by way of Bale for Paris, where she might the better conceal herself and the grief that was slowly consuming her brave young heart.

The journey was long and tedious. There was no _wagon-lit_, and the child, tired out, grew peevish and restless. Nevertheless, half an hour before noon next day the express ran at last into the Gare de l'Est, and an elderly, good-natured, grave-looking man in black, with a bright red tie, took her dressing-bag and gallantly a.s.sisted her to alight. She was unused to travelling with the public, for a royal saloon with bowing servants and attendants had always been at her disposal; therefore, when the courteous old fellow held out his hand for her bag, she quite mechanically gave it to him.

Next instant, however, even before she had realised it, the man had disappeared into the crowd of alighting pa.s.sengers.

The truth flashed upon her in a second.

All her magnificent jewels had been stolen!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN SECRET.

Realising her loss, the Princess quickly informed one of the station officials, who shouted loudly to the police at the exit barrier that a theft had been committed, and next moment all was confusion.

Half a dozen police agents, as well as some gardes in uniform, appeared as though by magic, and while the exit was closed, preventing the weary travellers who had just arrived from leaving, an inspector of police came up and made sharp inquiry as to her loss.

In a moment a knot of inquisitive travellers gathered around her.

"A man wearing a bright red cravat has taken my dressing-bag, and made off with it. All my jewels are in it!" Claire exclaimed excitedly.

"Pardon, madame," exclaimed the police official, a shrewd-looking functionary with fair, pointed beard, "what was the dressing-bag like?"

"A crocodile one, covered with a black waterproof cover."

"And the man wore a red tie?"

"Yes. He was dressed in black, and rather elderly. His red tie attracted me."

For fully a quarter of an hour the iron gate was kept closed while, accompanied by the inspector and two agents, she went among the crowd trying to recognise the gallant old fellow who had a.s.sisted her to alight. But she was unable. Perhaps she was too agitated, for misfortune seemed now to follow upon misfortune. She had at the first moment of setting foot in Paris lost the whole of her splendid jewels!

With the police agents she stood at the barrier when it was reopened, and watched each person pa.s.s out; but, alas! she saw neither the man with the red tie nor her dressing-bag.

And yet the man actually pa.s.sed her unrecognised. He was wearing a neat black tie and a soft black felt hat in place of the grey one he had worn when he had taken the bag from her hand. He had the precious dressing-case, but it was concealed within the serviceable pigskin kit-bag which he carried.

She was looking for the grey hat, the red tie, and her own bag, but, of course, saw none of them.

And so the thief, once outside the station, mounted into a fiacre and drove away entirely unsuspected.

"Madame," exclaimed the inspector regretfully, when the platform had at last emptied, "I fear you have been the victim of some clever international thief. It is one of the tricks of jewel-thieves to wear a bright-coloured tie by which the person robbed is naturally attracted.

Yet in a second, so deft are they, they can change both cravat and hat, and consequently the person robbed fails to recognise them in the excitement of the moment. This is, I fear, what has happened in your case. But if you will accompany me to the office I will take a full description of the missing property."

She went with him to the police-office on the opposite side of the great station, and there gave, as far as she was able, a description of some of the stolen jewels. She, however, did not know exactly how many ornaments there were, and as for describing them all, she was utterly unable to do so.

"And Madame's name?" inquired the polite functionary.

She hesitated. If she gave her real name the papers would at once be full of her loss.

"Deitel," she answered. "Baroness Deitel of Frankfort."

"And to what hotel is Madame going?"

She reflected a moment. If she went to Ritz's or the Bristol she would surely be recognised. She had heard that the Terminus, at the Gare St.

Lazare, was a large and cosmopolitan place, where tourists stayed, so she would go there.

"To the Terminus," was her reply.

Then, promising to report to her if any information were forthcoming after the circulation of the description of the thief and of the stolen property, he a.s.sisted her in obtaining her trunk, called a fiacre for her, apologised that she should have suffered such loss, and then bowed her away.

She pressed the child close to her, and staring straight before her, held her breath.

Was it not a bad augury for the future? With the exception of a French bank-note for a thousand francs in her purse and a little loose change, she was penniless as well as friendless.

At the hotel she engaged a single room, and remained in to rest after her long, tiring journey. With a mother's tender care her first thought was for little Ignatia, who had stood wondering at the scene at the station, and who, when her mother afterwards explained that the thief had run away with her bag, declared that he was "a nasty, bad man."

On gaining her room at the hotel the Princess put her to bed, but she remained very talkative, watching her mother unpack the things she had purchased in Lucerne.

"Go to sleep, darling," said her mother, bending down and kissing her soft little face. "If you are very good Allen will come and see you soon."

"Will she? Then I'll be ever so good," was the child's reply; and thus satisfied, she dropped off to sleep.

Having arranged the things in the wardrobe, the Princess stood at the window gazing down upon the traffic in the busy Rue Saint Lazare, and the cafes, crowded at the hour of the absinthe. Men were crying "_La Presse_" in strident voices below. Paris is Paris always--bright, gay, careless, with endless variety, a phantasmagoria of movement, the very cinematograph of human life. Yet how heavy a heart can be, and how lonely is life, amid that busy throng, only those who have found themselves in the gay city alone can justly know.

Her slim figure in neat black was a tragic one. Her sweet face was blanched and drawn. She leaned her elbows upon the window-ledge, and looking straight before her, reflected deeply.

"Is there any further misfortune to fall upon me, I wonder?" she asked herself. "The loss of my jewels means to me the loss of everything. On the money I could have raised upon them I could have lived in comfort in some quiet place for years, without any application to my own lawyers.

Fate, indeed, seems against me," she sighed. "Because I have lived an honest, upright life, and have spoken frankly of my intention to sweep clean the scandalous Court of Treysa, I am now outcast by both my husband and by my father, homeless, and without money. Many of the people would help me, I know, but it must never be said that a Hapsbourg sought financial aid of a commoner. No, that would be breaking the family tradition; and whatever evil the future may have in store for me I will never do that."

"I wonder," she continued after a pause--"I wonder if the thief who took my jewels knew of my present position, my great domestic grief and unhappiness, whether he would not regret? I believe he would. Even a thief is chivalrous to a woman in distress. He evidently thinks me a wealthy foreigner, however, and by to-night all the stones will be knocked from their settings and the gold flung into the melting-pot.

With some of them I would not have parted for a hundred times their worth--the small pearl necklace which my poor mother gave me when I was a child, and my husband's first gift, and the Easter egg in diamonds.

Yet I shall never see them again. They are gone for ever. Even the police agent held out but little hope. The man, he said, was no doubt an international thief, and would in an hour be on his way to the Belgian or Italian frontier."

That was true. Jewel-thieves, and especially the international gangs, are the most difficult to trace. They are past masters of their art, excellent linguists, live expensively, and always pa.s.s as gentlemen whose very t.i.tle and position cause the victim to be unsuspicious. The French and Italian railways are the happy hunting-ground of these wily gentry. The night expresses to the Riviera, Rome, and Florence in winter, and the "Luxe" services from Paris to Arcachon, Vichy, Lausanne, or Trouville in summer, are well watched by them, and frequent hauls are made, one of the favourite tricks being that of making feint to a.s.sist a lady to descend and take her bag from her hand.

"I don't suppose," she sighed, "that I shall ever see or hear of my ornaments again. Yet I think that if the thief but knew the truth concerning me he would regret. Perhaps he is without means, just as I am. Probably he became a thief of sheer necessity, as I have heard many men have become. Criminal instinct is not always responsible for an evil life. Many persons try to live honestly, but fate is ever contrary. Indeed, is it not so with my own self?"