The Lost Ambassador written by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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THE LOST AMBASSADOR

OR,

THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING DELORA

BY

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

AUTHOR OF "THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE," "THE MISSIONER,"
"JEANNE OF THE MARSHES," ETC.

With Illustrations in Color by

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY

BOSTON LITTLE,
BROWN, AND COMPANY
1910

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A RENCONTRE

II. A CAFE IN PARIS

III. DELORA

IV. DANGEROUS PLAY

V. SATISFACTION

VI. AN INFORMAL TRIBUNAL

VII. A DOUBLE ASSIGNATION

VIII. LOUIS INSISTS

IX. A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE

X. DELORA DISAPPEARS

XI. THROUGH THE TELEPHONE

XII. FELICIA DELORA

XIII. LOUIS, MAITRE D'HOTEL

XIV. LOUIS EXPLAINS

XV. A DANGEROUS IMPERSONATION

XVI. TWO OF A TRADE

XVII. A VERY SPECIAL DINNER

XVIII. CONTRASTS

XIX. WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

XX. A TERRIBLE NIGHT

XXI. A CHANGE OF PLANS

XXII. FORMAL CALL

XXIII. FELICIA

XXIV. A TANTALIZING GLIMPSE

XXV. PRIVATE AND DIPLOMATIC

XXVI. NEARLY

XXVII. WAR

XXVIII. CHECK

XXIX. AN UNSATISFACTORY INTERVIEW

XXX. TO NEWCASTLE BY ROAD

XXXI. AN INTERESTING DAY

XXXII. A PROPOSAL

XXXIII. FELICIA HESITATES

XXXIV. AN APPOINTMENT WITH DELORA

XXXV. A NARROW ESCAPE

XXXVI. AN ABORTIVE ATTEMPT

XXXVII. DELORA RETURNS

XXXVIII. AT BAY

XXXIX. THE UNEXPECTED

ILLUSTRATIONS

"If monsieur is ready," he suggested, "perhaps
we had better go" Frontispiece

She took up a magazine and turned away
with a shrug of the shoulders Page 66

"By Jove, it's Bartot!" I exclaimed " 135

I raised her fingers to my lips, and I smiled
into her face " 275

THE LOST AMBASSADOR

CHAPTER I

A RENCONTRE

There was no particular reason why, after having left the Opera House,
I should have retraced my steps and taken my place once more amongst
the throng of people who stood about in the _entresol_, exchanging
greetings and waiting for their carriages. A backward glance as I had
been about to turn into the Place de l'Opera had arrested my somewhat
hurried departure. The night was young, and where else was such a
sight to be seen? Besides, was it not amongst some such throng as this
that the end of my search might come?

I took up my place just inside, close to one of the pillars, and, with
an unlit cigarette still in my mouth, watched the flying
_chausseurs_, the medley of vehicles outside, the soft flow of
women in their white opera cloaks and jewels, who with their escorts
came streaming down the stairs and out of the great building, to enter
the waiting carriages and motor-cars drawn up in the privileged space
within the enclosure, or stretching right down into the Boulevard. I
stood there, watching them drive off one by one. I was borne a little
nearer to the door by the rush of people, and I was able, in most
cases, to hear the directions of the men as they followed their
womankind into the waiting vehicles. In nearly every case their
destination was one of the famous restaurants. Music begets hunger in
most capitals, and the cafes of Paris are never so full as after a
great night at the Opera. To-night there had been a wonderful
performance. The flow of people down the stairs seemed interminable.
Young women and old,--sleepy-looking beauties of the Southern type,
whose dark eyes seemed half closed with a languor partly passionate,
partly of pride; women of the truer French type,--brilliant, smiling,
vivacious, mostly pale, seldom good-looking, always attractive. A few
Germans, a fair sprinkling of Englishwomen, and a larger proportion
still of Americans, whose women were the best dressed of the whole
company. I was not sorry that I had returned. It was worth watching,
this endless stream of varying types.

Towards the end there came out two people who were becoming almost
familiar figures to me. The man was one of those whose nationality was
not so easily surmised. He was tall and thin, with iron-gray hair,
complexion so sallow as to be almost yellow, black moustache and
imperial, handsome in his way, distinguished, indescribable. By his
side was a girl who had the air of wearing her first long skirt, whose
hair was arranged in somewhat juvenile fashion, and whose dark eyes
were still glowing with the joy of the music. Her figure, though very
slim, was delightful, and she walked as though her feet touched the
clouds. Her laugh, which I heard distinctly as she brushed by me only
a few feet away, was like music. Of all the people who had passed me,
or whom I had come across during my fortnight's stay in Paris, there
was no one half so attractive. The girl was absolutely charming; the
man, remarkable not only in himself, but for a certain air of
repressed emotion, which, while it robbed his features of the dignity
of repose, was still, in a way, fascinating. They entered a waiting
motor-car splendidly appointed, and I heard the man tell the tall,
liveried footman to drive to the Ritz. I leaned forward a little
eagerly as they went. I watched the car glide off and disappear,
watched it until it was out of sight, and afterwards, even, watched
the spot where it had vanished. Then, with a little sigh, I turned
back once more into the great hall. There seemed to be no one left
now of any interest. The women had become ordinary, the men
impossible. With a little sigh I too aimlessly descended the steps,
and stood for a moment uncertain which way to turn.

"Monsieur is looking for a light?" a quiet voice said in my ear.

I turned, and found myself confronted by a Frenchman, who had also
just issued from the building and was himself lighting a cigarette. He
was clean-shaven and pale, so pale that his complexion was almost
olive. He had soft, curious-looking eyes. He was of medium height,
dark, correctly dressed according to the fashion of his country,
although his tie was black and his studs of unusual size. Something
about his face struck me from the first as familiar, but for the
moment I could not recall having seen him before.

"Thank you very much," I answered, accepting the match which he
offered.

The night was clear, and breathlessly still. The full yellow moon was
shining in an absolutely cloudless sky. The match--an English wax
one, by the way--burned without a flicker. I lit my cigarette, and
turning around found my companion still standing by my side.

"Monsieur does not do me the honor to recollect me," he remarked, with
a faint smile.

I looked at him steadfastly.

"I am sorry," I said. "Your face is perfectly familiar to me, and
yet--No, by Jove, I have it!" I broke off, with a little laugh. "It's
Louis, isn't it, from the Milan?"

"Monsieur's memory has soon returned," he answered, smiling. "I have
been chief _maitre d'hotel_ in the cafe there for some years. The
last time I had the honor of serving monsieur there was only a few
weeks ago."

I remembered him perfectly now. I remembered, even, the occasion of my
last visit to the cafe. Louis, with upraised hat, seemed as though he
would have passed on, but, curiously enough, I felt a desire to
continue the conversation. I had not as yet admitted the fact even to
myself; but I was bored, weary of my search, weary to death of my own
company and the company of my own acquaintances. I was reluctant to
let this little man go.

"You visit Paris often?" I asked.

"But naturally, monsieur," Louis answered, accepting my unspoken
invitation by keeping pace with me as we strolled towards the
Boulevard. "Once every six weeks I come over here. I go to the Ritz,
Paillard's, the Cafe de Paris,--to the others also. It is an affair of
business, of course. One must learn how the Frenchman eats and what he
eats, that one may teach the art."

"But you are a Frenchman yourself, Louis," I remarked.

"But, monsieur," he answered, "I live in London. _Voila
tout._ One cannot write menus there for long, and succeed. One
needs inspiration."

"And you find it here?" I asked.

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Paris, monsieur," he answered, "is my home. It is always a pleasure
to me to see smiling faces, to see men and women who walk as though
every footstep were taking them nearer to happiness. Have you never
noticed, monsieur," he continued, "the difference? They do not plod
here as do your English people. There is a buoyancy in their
footsteps, a mirth in their laughter, an expectancy in the way they
look around, as though adventures were everywhere. I cannot understand
it, but one feels it directly one sets foot in Paris."

I nodded--a little bitterly, perhaps.

"It is temperament," I answered. "We may envy, but we cannot acquire
it."

"It seems strange to see monsieur alone here," Louis remarked. "In
London, it is always so different. Monsieur has so many
acquaintances."

I was silent for a moment.

"I am here in search of some one," I told Louis. "It isn't a very
pleasant mission, and the memory of it is always with me."

"A search!" Louis repeated thoughtfully. "Paris is a large place,
monsieur."

"On the contrary," I answered, "it is small enough if a man will but
play the game. A man, who knows his Paris, must be in one of
half-a-dozen places some time during the day."

"It is true," Louis admitted. "Yet monsieur has not been successful."

"It has been because some one has warned the man of whom I am in
search!" I declared.

"There are worse places," he remarked, "in which one might be forced
to spend one's time."

"In theory, excellent, Louis," I said. "In practice, I am afraid I
cannot agree with you. So far," I declared, gloomily, "my pilgrimage
has been an utter failure. I cannot meet, I cannot hear of, the man
who I know was flaunting it before the world three weeks ago."

Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"Monsieur can do no more than seek," he remarked. "For the rest, one
may leave many burdens behind in the train at the Gare du Nord."

I shook my head.

"One cannot acquire gayety by only watching other people who are gay,"
I declared. "Paris is not for those who have anxieties, Louis. If ever
I were suffering from melancholia, for instance, I should choose some
other place for a visit."

Louis laughed softly.

"Ah! Monsieur," he answered, "you could not choose better. There is no
place so gay as this, no place so full of distractions."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"It is your native city," I reminded him.

"That goes for nothing," Louis answered. "Where I live, there always I
make my native city. I have lived in Vienna and Berlin, Budapest and
Palermo, Florence and London. It is not an affair of the place. Yet of
all these, if one seeks it, there is most distraction to be found
here. Monsieur does not agree with me," he added, glancing into my
face. "There is one thing more which I would tell him. Perhaps it is
the explanation. Paris, the very home of happiness and gayety, is also
the loneliest and the saddest city in the world for those who go
alone."

"There is truth in what you say, Louis," I admitted.

"The very fact," he continued slowly, "that all the world amuses
itself, all the world is gay here, makes the solitude of the
unfortunate who has no companion a thing more _triste_, more
keenly to be felt. Monsieur is alone?"

"I am alone," I admitted, "except for the companions of chance whom
one meets everywhere."

We had been walking for some time slowly side by side, and we came now
to a standstill. Louis held up his hand and called a taximeter.

"Monsieur goes somewhere to sup, without a doubt," he remarked.

I remained upon the pavement.

"Really, I don't know," I answered undecidedly. "There is a great deal
of truth in what you have been saying. A man alone here, especially at
night, seems to be looked upon as a sort of pariah. Women laugh at
him, men pity him. It is only the Englishman, they think, who would do
so foolish a thing."

Louis hesitated. There was a peculiar smile at the corners of his lips
which I did not quite understand.

"If monsieur would honor me," he said apologetically, "I am going
to-night to visit one or perhaps two of the smallest restaurants up in
the Montmartre. They are by way of being fashionable now, and they
tell me that there is an _Homard Speciale_ with a new sauce which
must be tasted at the Abbaye."

All the apology in Louis' tone was wasted. It troubled me not in the
least that my companion should be a _maitre d'hotel_. I did not
hesitate for a second.

"I'll come with pleasure, Louis," I said, "on condition that I am
host. It is very good of you to take pity upon me. We will take this
taximeter, shall we?"

Louis bowed. Once more I fancied that there was something in his face
which I did not altogether understand.

"It is an honor, monsieur," he said. "We will start, then, with the
Abbaye."

CHAPTER II

A CAFE IN PARIS

The Paris taximeters are good, and our progress was rapid. We passed
through the crowded streets, where the women spread themselves out
like beautiful butterflies, where the electric lights were deadened by
the brilliance of the moon, where men, bent double over the handles of
their bicycles, shot hither and thither with great paper lanterns
alight in front of them. We passed into the quieter streets, though
even here the wayfarers whom we met were obviously bent on pleasure,
up the hill, till at last we pulled up at one of the best-known
restaurants in the locality. Here Louis was welcomed as a prince. The
manager, with many exclamations and gesticulations, shook hands with
him like a long-lost brother. The _maitres d'hotel_ all came
crowding up for a word of greeting. A table in the best part of the
room, which was marked _reserve_, was immediately made ready.
Champagne, already in its pail of ice, was by our side almost before
we had taken our places.

I had been here a few nights before, alone, and had found the place
uninspiring enough. To-night, except that Louis told me the names of
many of the people, and that the supper was the best meal which I had
eaten in Paris, I was very little more amused. The nigger, the Spanish
dancing-girl with her rolling eyes, the English music-hall singer with
her unmistakable Lancashire accent, went through the same
performance. The gowns of the women were wonderful,--more wonderful
still their hats, their gold purses, the costly trifles which they
carried. A woman by our side sat looking into a tiny pocket-mirror of
gold studded with emeralds, powdering her face the while with a
powder-puff to match, in the centre of which were more emeralds, large
and beautifully cut. Louis noticed my scrutiny.

"The wealth of France," he whispered in my ear, "is spent upon its
women. What the Englishman spends at his club or on his sports the
Frenchman spends upon his womankind. Even the _bourgeoisie_, who
hold their money with clenched fists like that," he gesticulated,
striking the table, "for their women they spend, spend freely. They
do all this, and the great thing which they ask in return is that they
are amused. After all, monsieur," he continued, "they are
logical. What a man wants most in life, in the intervals between his
work, is amusement. It is amusement that keeps him young, keeps him in
health. It is his womankind who provide that amusement."

"And if one does not happen to be married to a Frenchwoman?"

Louis nodded sympathetically.

"Monsieur is feeling like that," he said, as he sipped his wine
thoughtfully. "Yes, it is very plain! Yet monsieur is not always
sad. I have seen him often at my restaurant, the guest or the host of
many pleasant parties. There is a change since those days, a change
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps
of the Opera House."

I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the
society of a very popular little _maitre d'hotel_, holiday
making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few
steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which
travelled around the room, were weary.

"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is
there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or
tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the
story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love
to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because
their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the
rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once
or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and
I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."

I glanced at my companion a little curiously. There was something in
his manner distinctly puzzling. With his lips he was smiling approval
at the little _danseuse_ who was pirouetting near our table, but
it seemed to me that his mind was busy with other thoughts. Suddenly
he turned his head toward mine.

"Monsieur must remember," he said quietly, "that a place like this is
as the froth on our champagne. It is all show. It exists and it passes
away. This very restaurant may be unknown in a year's time,--a beer
palace for the Germans, a den of absinthe and fiery brandy for the
_cochers_. It is for the tourists, for the happy ladies of the
world, that such a place exists. For those who need other
things--other things exist."

"Go on, Louis," I said quietly. "You have something in your mind. What
is it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I could take monsieur somewhere where
he would be more entertained. There is nothing to do there, nothing to
see, little music. But it is a place,--it has an atmosphere. It is
different. I cannot explain. Monsieur would understand if he were
there."

"Then, for Heaven's sake, let us pay our bill and go!" I
exclaimed. "We have both had enough of this, at any rate."

Louis did not immediately reply. I turned around--we were sitting side
by side--wondering at his lack of response. What I saw startled
me. The man's whole expression had changed. His mouth had come
together with a new firmness. A frown which I had never seen before
had darkened his forehead. His eyes had become little points of
light. I realized then, perhaps for the first time, their peculiar
color,--a sort of green tinged with gray. He presented the appearance
of a man of intelligence and acumen who is thinking deeply over some
matter of vital importance.

"Well, what is it, Louis?" I asked. "Are you repenting of your offer
already? Don't you want to take me to this other place?"

"It is not that, monsieur," Louis answered softly, "only I was
wondering if I had been a little rash."

"Rash?" I repeated.

Louis nodded his head slowly, but he paused for several moments before
speaking.

"I was only wondering," said he, "whether, after all, it would amuse
you. There is nothing to be seen, not so much as here. Afterwards,
perhaps, you might regret--you might think that I had done wrong in
not telling you certain things about the place which must remain
secret."

"We will risk that," I answered, rising. "Let me come with you and I
will judge for myself."

Louis followed my example, but I fancied that I still detected a
slight unwillingness in his movements. My request for the bill had
been met with a smile and a polite shake of the head. Louis whispered
in my ear that we were the guests of the management,--that it would
not be correct to offer the money for our entertainment. So I was
forced to content myself with tipping the head-waiter and the
_vestiaire_, the _chausseur_ who opened the door, and the
tall _commissionnaire_ who welcomed us upon the pavement and
whistled for a _petite voiture_.

"Where to, messieurs?" the man asked, as the carriage drew up.

Even then Louis hesitated. He was sitting on the side of the carriage
nearest to the pavement, and he rose to his feet as the question was
asked. It seemed to me that he almost whispered the address into the
ear of the coachman. At any rate, I heard nothing of it. The man
nodded, and turned eastward.

"_Bon soir_, messieurs!" the _commissionnaire_ called out,
with his hat in his hand.

"_Bon soir_!" I answered, with my eyes fixed upon the flaring
lights of the Boulevard, towards which we had turned.

CHAPTER III

DELORA

I found Louis, during that short drive, most unaccountably
silent. Several times I made casual remarks. Once or twice I tried to
learn from him what sort of a place this was to which we were
bound. He answered me only in monosyllables. I was conscious all the
time of a certain subtle but unmistakable change in his manner. Up to
the moment of his suggesting this expedition he had remained the
suave, perfectly mannered superior servant, accepted into equality for
a time by one of his clients, and very careful not to presume in any
way upon his position. It is not snobbish to say this, because it was
the truth. Louis was chief _maitre d'hotel_ at one of the best
restaurants in London. I was an ex-officer in a cavalry regiment,
brother of the Earl of Welmington, with a moderate income, and a more
than moderate idea of how to spend it. Louis was servant and I was
master. It had pleased me to make a companion of him for a short time,
and his manner had been a perfect acknowledgment of our relative
positions. And now it seemed to me that there was a change. Louis had
become more like a man, less like a waiter. There was a strength in
his face which I had not previously observed, a darkening anxiety
which puzzled me. He treated my few remarks with scant courtesy. He
was obviously thinking about something else. It seemed as though, for
some inexplicable reason, he had already repented of his suggestion.

"Look here, Louis," I said, "you seem a little bothered about taking
me to this place. Perhaps they do not care about strangers there. I am
not at all keen, really, and I am afraid I am not fit company for
anybody. Better drop me here and go on by yourself. I can amuse myself
all right at some of these little out-of-the-way places until I feel
inclined to go home."

Louis turned and looked at me. For a moment I thought that he was
going to accept my offer. He opened his mouth but said nothing. He
looked away into the darkness once more, and then back into my
face. By this time I knew that he had made up his mind. He was more
like himself again.

"Monsieur Rotherby," he said, "if I have hesitated at all, it was for
your sake. You are a gentleman of great position. Afterwards you might
feel sorry to think that you had been in such a place, or in such
company."

I patted him on the shoulder reassuringly.

"My dear Louis," said I, "you need have no such fears about me. I am a
little of an adventurer, a little of a Bohemian. There is no one else
who has a claim upon my life, and I do as I please. Can't you tell me
a little more about this mysterious cafe?"

"There is so little to tell," Louis said. "Of one thing I can assure
you,--you will be disappointed. There is no music, no dancing. The
interest is only in the people who go there, and their lives. It may
be," he continued thoughtfully, "that you will not find them much
different from all the others."

"But there is a difference, Louis?" I asked.

"Wait," he answered. "You shall see."

The cab pulled up in front of a very ordinary-looking cafe in a side
street leading from one of the boulevards. Louis dismissed the man
and looked for a moment or two up and down the pavement. His caution
appeared to be quite needless, for the thoroughfare was none too well
lit, and it was almost empty. Then he entered the cafe, motioning me
to follow him.

"Don't look around too much," he whispered. "There are many people
here who do not care to be spied upon."

My first glance into the place was disappointing. I was beginning to
lose faith in Louis. After all, it seemed to me that the end of our
adventure would be ordinary enough, that I should find myself in one
of those places which the touting guides of the Boulevard speak of in
bated breath, which one needs to be very young indeed to find
interesting even for a moment. The ground floor of the cafe through
which we passed was like a thousand others in different parts of
Paris. The floor was sanded, the people were of the lower
orders,--rough-looking men drinking beer or sipping cordials; women
from whom one instinctively looked away, and whose shrill laughter was
devoid of a single note of music. It was all very flat, very
uninteresting. But Louis led the way through a swing door to a
staircase, and then, pushing his way through some curtains, along a
short passage to another door, against which he softly knocked with
his knuckles. It was opened at once, and a _commissionnaire_
stood gazing stolidly out at us, a _commissionnaire_ in the usual
sort of uniform, but one of the most powerful-looking men whom I had
ever seen in my life.

"There are no tables, monsieur, in the restaurant," he said at
once. "There is no place at all."

Louis looked at him steadily for a moment. It seemed to me that,
although I was unable to discern anything of the sort, some sign must
have passed between them. At any rate, without any protest or speech
of any sort from Louis the _commissionnaire_ saluted and stood
back.

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