She turned, and her eyes fell upon the sleeping child. She was all she had now to care for in the whole wide world.

Recollections of her last visit to Paris haunted her--that visit when Carl had so very indiscreetly followed her there, and taken her about incognito in open cabs to see the sights. There had been no harm in it whatsoever, no more harm than if he had been her equerry, yet her enemies had, alas! hurled against her their bitter denunciations, and whispered their lies so glibly that they were believed as truth. Major Scheel, the attache at the Emba.s.sy, had recognised them, and being Leitolf's enemy, had spread the report. It had been a foolish caprice of hers to take train from Aix-les-Bains to Paris to see her old French nurse Marie, who had been almost as a mother to her. The poor old woman, a pensioned servant of the Archducal family, had, unfortunately, died a month ago, otherwise she would have had a faithful, good friend in Paris. Marie, who knew Count Leitolf well, could have refuted their allegations had she lived; but an attack of pneumonia had proved fatal, and she had been buried with a beautiful wreath bearing the simple words "From Claire" upon her coffin.

As the sunset haze fell over Paris she still sat beside the sleeping child. If her enemies condemned her, then she would not defend herself.

G.o.d, in whom she placed her fervent trust, should judge her. She had no fear of man's prejudices or misjudgment. She placed her faith entirely in her Maker. To His will she bowed, for in His sight the pauper and the princess are equal.

That evening she had a little soup sent to her room, and when Ignatia was again sleeping soundly she went forth upon the balcony leading from the corridor, and sitting there, amused herself by looking down upon the life and movement of the great salon below. To leave the hotel was impossible because of Ignatia, and she now began to regret that she had not brought the maid with her from Wartenstein.

Time after time the misfortune of the loss of her jewels recurred to her. It had destroyed her independence, and it had negatived all her plans. Money was necessary, even though she were an Imperial Archd.u.c.h.ess. She was incognito, and therefore had no credit.

The gay, after-dinner scene of the hotel was presented below--the flirtations, the heated conversations, and the lazy, studied att.i.tudes of the bloused English girl, who lolls about in cane lounge-chairs after dining, and discusses plays and literature. From her chair on the balcony above she looked down upon that strange, changeful world--the world of tourist Paris. Born and bred at Court as she had been, it was a new sensation to her to have her freedom. The life was entirely fresh to her, and would have been pleasant if there were not behind it all that tragedy of her marriage.

Several days went by, and in order to kill time she took little Ignatia daily in a cab and drove in the Bois and around the boulevards, revisiting all the "sights" which Leitolf had shown her. Each morning she went out driving till the luncheon-hour, and having once lunched with old Marie upstairs at the Bra.s.serie Universelle in the Avenue de l'Opera, she went there daily.

You probably know the place. Downstairs it is an ordinary _bra.s.serie_ with a few chairs out upon the pavement, but above is a smart restaurant peculiarly Parisian, where the _hors d'oeuvres_ are the finest in Eurorie and the _vin gris_ a speciality. The windows whereat one sits overlook the Avenue, and from eleven o'clock till three it is crowded.

She went there for two reasons--because it was small, and because the life amused her. Little Ignatia would sit at her side, and the pair generally attracted the admiration of every one on account of their remarkably good looks. The habitues began inquiring of the waiters as to who was the beautiful lady in black, but the men only elevated their shoulders and exhibited their palms. "A German," was all they could answer. "A great lady evidently."

That she attracted attention everywhere she was quite well aware, yet she was not in the least annoyed. As a royalty she was used to being gazed upon. Only when men smiled at her, as they did sometimes, she met them with a haughty stare. The superiority of her Imperial blood would on such occasions a.s.sert itself, much to the confusion of would-be gallants.

Thus pa.s.sed those spring days with Paris at her gayest and best. The woman who had renounced a crown lived amid all that bright life, lonely, silent, and unrecognised, her one anxiety being for the future of her little one, who was ever asking when Allen would return.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE SHY ENGLISHMAN.

One afternoon about four o'clock, as the Princess, leading little Ignatia, who was daintily dressed in white, was crossing the great hall of the Hotel Terminus on her way out to drive in the Bois, a rather slim, dark-haired man, a little under forty, well dressed in a blue-serge suit, by which it required no second glance to tell that he was an Englishman, rose shyly from a chair and bowed deeply before her.

At that hour there were only two or three elderly persons in the great hall, all absorbed in newspapers.

She glanced at the stranger quickly and drew back. At first she did not recognise him, but an instant later his features became somehow familiar, although she was puzzled to know where she had met him before.

Where he had bowed to her was at a safe distance from the few other people in the hall; therefore, noticing her hesitation, the man exclaimed in English with a smile,--

"I fear that your Imperial Highness does not recollect me, and I trust that by paying my respects I am not intruding. May I be permitted to introduce myself? My name is Bourne. We met once in Treysa. Do you not recollect?"

In an instant the truth recurred to her, and she stood before him open-mouthed.

"Why, of course!" she exclaimed. "Am I ever likely to forget? And yet I saw so little of your face on that occasion that I failed now to recognise you! I am most delighted to meet you again, Mr. Bourne, and to thank you."

"Thanks are quite unnecessary, Princess," he declared; whereupon in a low voice she explained that she was there incognito, under the t.i.tle of the Baroness Deitel, and urged him not to refer to her true station lest some might overhear.

"I know quite well that you are here incognito," he said. "And this is little Ignatia, is it?" and he patted the child's cheeks. Then he added, "Do you know I have had a very great difficulty in finding you.

I have searched everywhere, and was only successful this morning, when I saw you driving in the Rue Rivoli and followed you here."

Was this man a secret agent from Treysa, she wondered. In any case, what did he want with her? She treated him with courtesy, but was at the same time suspicious of his motive. At heart she was annoyed that she had been recognised. And yet was she not very deeply indebted to him?

"Well, Mr. Bourne," said the Princess, drawing herself up, and taking the child's hand again to go out, "I am very pleased to embrace this opportunity of thanking you for the great service you rendered me. You must, however, pardon my failure to recognise you."

"It was only natural," the man exclaimed quickly. "It is I who have to apologise, your Highness," he whispered. "I have sought you because I have something of urgent importance to tell you. I beg of you to grant me an interview somewhere, where we are not seen and where we cannot be overheard."

She looked at him in surprise. The Englishman's request was a strange one, yet from his manner she saw that he was in earnest. Why, she wondered, did he fear being seen with her?

"Cannot you speak here?" she inquired.

"Not in this room, among these people. Are there not any smaller salons upstairs? they would be empty at this hour. If I recollect aright, there is a small writing-room at the top of the stairs yonder. I would beg of your Highness to allow me to speak to you there."

"But what is this secret you have to tell me?" she inquired curiously.

"It surely cannot be of such a nature that you may not explain it in an undertone here?"

"I must not be seen with you, Princess," he exclaimed quickly. "I run great risk in speaking with you here in public. I will explain all if you will only allow me to accompany you to that room."

She hesitated. So ingenious had been the plots formed against her that she had now grown suspicious of every one. Yet this man was after all a mystery, and mystery always attracted her, as it always attracts both women and men equally.

So with some reluctance she turned upon her heel and ascended the stairs, he following her at a respectful distance.

Their previous meeting had indeed been a strange one.

Fond of horses from her girlhood, she had in Treysa made a point of driving daily in her high English dogcart, sometimes a single cob, and sometimes tandem. She was an excellent whip, one of the best in all Germany, and had even driven her husband's coach on many occasions. On the summer's afternoon in question, however, she was driving a cob in one of the main thoroughfares of Treysa, when of a sudden a motor car had darted past, and the animal, taking fright, had rushed away into the line of smart carriages approaching on the opposite side of the road.

She saw her peril, but was helpless. The groom sprang out, but so hurriedly that he fell upon his head, severely injuring himself; while at that moment, when within an ace of disaster, a man in a grey flannel suit sprang out from nowhere and seized the bridle, without, however, at once stopping the horse, which reared, and turning, pinned the stranger against a tree with the end of one of the shafts.

In an instant a dozen men, recognising who was driving, were upon the animal, and held it; but the next moment she saw that the man who had saved her had fallen terribly injured, the shaft having penetrated his chest, and he was lying unconscious.

Descending, she gazed upon the white face, from the mouth of which blood was oozing; and having given directions for his immediate conveyance to the hospital and for report to be made to her as soon as possible, she returned to the palace in a cab, and telephoned herself to the Court surgeon, commanding him to do all in his power to aid the sufferer.

Next day she asked permission of the surgeon that she might see the patient, to thank him and express her sympathy. But over the telephone came back the reply that the patient was not yet fit to see any one, and, moreover, had expressed a desire that n.o.body should come near him until he had quite recovered.

In the fortnight that went by she inquired after him time after time, but all that she was able to gather was that his name was Guy Bourne, and that he was an English banker's clerk from London, spending his summer holiday in Treysa. She sent him beautiful flowers from the royal hothouses, and in reply received his thanks for her anxious inquiries.

He told the doctor that he hoped the Princess would not visit him until he had quite recovered. And this wish of his she had of course respected. His gallant action had, without a doubt, saved her from a very serious accident, or she might even have lost her life.

Gradually he recovered from his injuries, which were so severe that for several days his life was despaired of, and then when convalescent a curious thing happened.

He one day got up, and without a word of thanks or farewell to doctors, staff, or to the Crown Princess herself, he went out, and from that moment all trace had been lost of him.

Her Highness, when she heard of this, was amazed. It seemed to her as though for some unexplained reason he had no wish to receive her thanks; or else he was intent on concealing his real ident.i.ty with some mysterious motive or other.

She had given orders for inquiry to be made as to who the gallant Englishman was; but although the secret agents of the Government had made inquiry in London, their efforts had been futile.

It happened over two years ago. The accident had slipped from her memory, though more than once she had wondered who might be the man who had risked his life to save hers, and had then escaped from Treysa rather than be presented to her.

And now at the moment when she was in sore need of a friend he had suddenly recognised her, and come forward to reveal himself!

Naturally she had not recognised in the dark, rather handsome face of the well-dressed Englishman the white, bloodless countenance of the insensible man with a bra.s.s-tipped cart-shaft through his chest. And he wanted to speak to her in secret? What had he, a perfect stranger, to tell her?

The small writing-room at the top of the stairs was fortunately empty, and a moment later he followed her into it, and closed the door.

Little Ignatia looked with big, wondering eyes at the stranger. The Princess seated herself in a chair, and invited the Englishman to take one.