Stolen Souls. Le Queux William
and so artistic.
For a second, unnoticed by her, I gazed in admiration, but she passed on and was lost. Turning a few moments afterwards, I sped back in the hope of overtaking her and again feasting my eyes upon her incomparable beauty, but though I searched the crowd for fully half an hour, I was compelled to relinquish my self-imposed task, turning at last into the Casino, where, over cigarettes and coffee, I sat chatting to a loquacious old captain of artillery upon the political crisis until the musical carillon of San Vicente chimed the midnight hour. Then, wishing my companion “Buenas noches,” I rose and strolled back to my hotel, haunted by the sad, sweet face that had passed and vanished like a shadow.
But I had work before me. The relations between England and Spain were strained, and diplomatic negotiations regarding some incidents in Morocco and in Cuba had been rendered more difficult on account of the unexpected overthrow of the Ministry. The British Government was more interested in the affairs of Spain than it had been for many years, so the British public were eager for the latest intelligence; therefore, when I retired to my room, I was compelled to sit far into the night, writing by the light of a guttering candle all I knew, and recording every rumour anent the complex questions.
Those who have wandered over the yellow sands of San Sebastian well know how picturesque is the view across the Bay of Zurriola. It was upon this scene I gazed on opening my windows on the following morning. Beyond the broad Plaza, lined on three sides by handsome houses, the sunlit waters of the Bay of Biscay rolled in upon the shore, wave after wave of transparent emerald breaking in long lines of snowy foam. White villas gleamed from among the foliage on the hillsides, and high brown cliffs rose from right and left, against which the rollers, roaring and surging, dashed and went up in columns of spray.
Swallowing my coffee, I went out – not, however, before I had made a gratifying discovery; namely, that the room next mine, communicating by a locked door, was the private sitting-room of Señor Canovas del Castillo, the statesman upon whose political actions the eyes of Europe were at that moment centred. Success in journalism depends a good deal upon luck, and to accidental incidents I attribute any good fortune I have enjoyed in obtaining exclusive and reliable information in various holes and corners of the Continent where I have had to compete with the resident correspondents of Reuter’s, the Havas, and the Central News agencies. I had walked across the Plaza de la Constitucion, wondering how I could best turn this fortuitous circumstance to account, when suddenly I found myself before the grey façade of Santa Maria, and almost involuntarily I entered. The air was heavy with incense, and the church was in semi-darkness – a chiaroscuro that was exceedingly striking and effective. There was, however, little of interest beyond the heavily-gilded and somewhat tawdry altars, which are the feature in most Spanish churches, and I was just about to leave when the silence was broken by loud sobbing close to me. I had believed myself alone in the place, but on gazing round in surprise, I saw within a few yards of me, half hidden by one of the great stone columns, a female figure kneeling before one of the altars, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as though her heart would break. I was turning away, leaving the lonely worshipper to her grief, when the dress, the softness of outline, and the flawless complexion seemed strangely familiar. Next instant I recognised her as the girl I had passed in the crowd, and whose beauty had so impressed me.
Upon the stones she was kneeling in abject despair. In her dark hair she had placed a crimson rose, and her delicate white hands, upon which some bright gems glistened, were wet with bitter tears.
My feet fell noiselessly upon the matting, and she was unaware of my presence, until, placing my hand lightly upon her shoulder, I bent, exclaiming in French: —
“Mademoiselle is unhappy! Is there no assistance I can render?”
She started, raising her pale, pensive face to mine in surprise. Then in sorrow she shook her head.
“M’sieur is very kind,” she answered, in a voice that betrayed a poignant grief. “Words of sympathy may lighten one’s burden of sorrow, but nothing can heal a broken heart.”
“It mainly depends on how the fracture was caused,” I answered, smiling, and, grasping her tiny hand, assisted her to rise.
She brushed the dust from her dress, dashed away her tears, and, turning to me, said —
“I have heard that gaiety is efficacious – sometimes.”
“Until I know the cause, I cannot prescribe for the effect,” I replied, as I held open the door and she passed out into the sunlight.
“Ah, m’sieur,” she sighed bitterly, her beautiful eyes still full of tears, “woe is my heritage! The brightness of each dawn jars upon me, showing me how gloomy life is, and how utterly hopeless and lonely is the sea of despair upon which I am drifting. I welcome each night with joy, because – because it brings me one day nearer – nearer to death.”
“You are young and fair; you have joy and life around you. Surely you are joking?”
“No, m’sieur. Ah, you do not know!” she sighed. “If you were aware of my secret, you would, I assure you, not be surprised that, even though surrounded by friends, I desire to die.”
“But it is so extraordinary!” I said, walking beside her and chatting as if we were old acquaintances. “Have you never tried to unburden yourself by confiding your secret to some friend?”
“Dieu! No. I – I dare not.”
“Dare not?” I echoed. “Of what are you afraid?”
“Afraid?” she repeated in a strained voice, speaking like one in a dream, with her eyes fixed straight before her. “Yes, I – I am a wretched, miserable coward, because I fear the punishment.”
“Is your crime of such a flagitious character, then?”
“My crime?” she cried, turning suddenly upon me with flashing eyes. “What – what do you know of my crime? What do you insinuate?”
“Nothing, mademoiselle,” I answered, as politely as I could, though amazed at her sudden change of manner. “Your own strange words must be my excuse for inquisitiveness.”
“Then let us change the subject. To you my private affairs can be of no concern whatever.”
I was not prepared for this stinging rebuff. We passed the front of the Casino, strolling through the shady gardens facing the Concha, and when we had rested upon a convenient seat, pleasantly sheltered from the sun, she grew communicative again. While I had been telling her of my journey over the Pyrenees to Madrid, her grief had been succeeded by gaiety, and when I related some amusing contretemps that had befallen me at a wayside posada in the Sierra de Guara, she laughed lightly. At length at my request, she drew out a silver case, and, in exchange for my card, gave me one bearing the name “Doroteita d’Avendaño.”
Then, with an ingenuousness that enhanced her personal charms, she told me of herself, that she was the only daughter of the Count Miguel d’Avendaño, who had represented Castillejo in the Senate, but who had died a year ago. The widowed Countess – who had been her companion on the previous night – had let their mansion in the Calle Ancha de San Bernardo at Madrid to a wealthy foreigner, and since that time her mother and herself had been travelling, spending the winter at Cannes, the spring at Seville, and coming to San Sebastian for a few weeks previous to going north to Paris. She pointed out their villa from where we sat, a great white house with a terrace in front, standing out against a background of foliage on the side of the hill overlooking the bay. The Count, her father, had, I knew, been one of the most celebrated of Spanish statesmen. Referring to many well-known personages at Court as her friends, her observations regarding their little idiosyncrasies were full of dry humour. With a versatility of narrative she told me many little anecdotes of the Queen-Regent and the infant monarch, the knowledge of which betrayed an intimacy with the domestic arrangements of the palace, and for fully an hour gossiped on pleasantly.
“And amid this life of gaiety and happiness I find you kneeling in yonder church, abandoned to melancholy!” I observed at length, half reproachfully.
The light died out of her face.
“True,” she sighed. “Sometimes