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Updated: June 15, 2025
“Mme. la Comtesse de Lastaola as soon as she likes after the success of this war.” “And you believe in its success?” “Do you?” “Not for a moment,” I declared, and was surprised to see her look pleased. She was an aristocrat to the tips of her fingers; she really didn’t care for anybody.
Blunt, easy, equable, but with her calm, sparkling eyes holding me in angry subjection. “Nothing of the sort is being talked about. The references to Mme. de Lastaola are in a very different tone, I can assure you, thanks to her discretion in remaining here. And, I must say, thanks to the discreet efforts of her friends. I am also a friend of Mme. de Lastaola, you must know.
I had finally made up my mind to write a letter to Doña Rita; and this “honest fellow” for whom I was waiting would take it to her. He would have no difficulty in Tolosa in finding Madame de Lastaola. The General Headquarters, which was also a Court, would be buzzing with comments on her presence. Most likely that “honest fellow” was already known to Doña Rita.
Monsieur George owned to knowing Captain Blunt but only very slightly. His friend then informed him that this Captain Blunt was apparently well acquainted with Madame de Lastaola, or, at any rate, pretended to be.
This Blunt on three distinct occasions when the name of Madame de Lastaola came up in conversation in a mixed company of men had expressed his regret that she should have become the prey of a young adventurer who was exploiting her shamelessly. He talked like a man certain of his facts and as he mentioned names . . . “In fact,” the young man burst out excitedly, “it is your name that he mentions.
I, of course, could not share his consternation. My feelings in that connection were of a different order; but I was annoyed at his unintelligent stare. “I suppose,” I said, “you will take it on yourself to advise Doña Rita, who is greatly interested in this affair.” “Yes, but I was given to understand that Madame de Lastaola was to leave Paris either yesterday or this morning.”
She waited a little longer, then she woke me up with a crash. It was as if the house had fallen, and yet she had only asked me: “I believe you are received on very friendly terms by Madame de Lastaola on account of your common exertions for the cause. Very good friends, are you not?” “You mean Rita,” I said stupidly, but I felt stupid, like a man who wakes up only to be hit on the head.
That’s the notorious Monsieur George.” At last she herself drove me out by coming to sit by me vivaciously and going into ecstasies over “ce cher Monsieur Mills” and that magnificent Lord X; and ultimately, with a perfectly odious snap in the eyes and drop in the voice, dragging in the name of Madame de Lastaola and asking me whether I was really so much in the confidence of that astonishing person. “Vous devez bien regretter son départ pour Paris,” she cooed, looking with affected bashfulness at her fan. . . . How I got out of the room I really don’t know.
But then it was covered by the occult influence of her who was referred to in confidential talks, secret communications, and discreet whispers of Royalist salons as: “Madame de Lastaola.” That was the name which the heiress of Henry Allègre had decided to adopt when, according to her own expression, she had found herself precipitated at a moment’s notice into the crowd of mankind.
For instance, the distinguished personality in the world of finance with whom I had to confer several times, alluded to the irresistible seduction of the power which reigned over my heart and my mind; which had a mysterious and unforgettable face, the brilliance of sunshine together with the unfathomable splendour of the night as—Madame de Lastaola.
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