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Updated: June 15, 2025
The duke was not mistaken; when he saw Franz, the servant came up to him. "Your excellency," he said, "the master of the Hotel de Londres has sent to let you know that a man is waiting for you with a letter from the Viscount of Morcerf." "A letter from the viscount!" exclaimed Franz. "Yes." "And who is the man?" "I do not know." "Why did he not bring it to me here?" "The messenger did not say."
From Monday, January 24th, to February 10th, 1876: Rome, Hôtel de Londres, Piazza di Spagna. I swear that all these tragic and jealous remarks about A were written under the influence of romantic reading, and that I only half believed them while I was writing, exciting myself for the pleasure of it, and I greatly regret these exaggerations. The archimandrite has been at our house.
He began to hate the pavilion of the Rue Nollet, and, moreover, success suddenly declared itself with respect to his books, which hitherto had sold but moderately well. So, prompted by the advent of comparative wealth, he rented in the Rue de Londres a spacious flat, the arrangements of which occupied him and his wife for several months.
As his Serene Highness resided at the Hotel de Londres, we agreed to dine there. After accepting a dainty cup of chocolate I departed, purposely returning home by way of the Londres. Here, with a little diplomacy, I managed to reserve for dinner the table I wanted, one next to the Prince. Well pleased, I later dressed, armed myself with a bouquet of La France roses, and called on my partner.
The De Londres family were businesslike as well as pious; Ewenny's prime object was to help them to gain heaven, it also helped them to gain the earth. The close and constant connection which these houses maintained with their mother abbeys in England and abroad always kept them Anglo-Norman in sympathies foreign garrisons.
I winked knowingly. Possibly it pleased the courier to have someone to chuckle over a secret. All my oars were in. "At the Grand Hotel de Londres," he said slyly, "there is a gentleman who does not fool me." I offered him another cigarette, helped him to another glass of wine. "He is registered there as Count Techlow, but he can't fool me. He is the Prince Galitzin."
"Waiter, what cigars have you got?" "Londres, conchas, regalias, cacadores, partagas, esceptionales. Which would you like, sir?" "Damn the name! a big one that will take some time to smoke."
When I put up at the Hôtel de Londres, from which I am writing, I had to run no gantlet between a double line of solemn-looking, white-cravated waiters; yet I have only to ring my bell, to be attended to with promptitude, with zeal, nay, con amore.
Supposing that I arrange to meet you at, say, the Hôtel de Londres there, and then repay you for your trouble." "But it's so unusual; so almost absurd," still demurred the acting woman. The eavesdropper from the closet felt that it was an instance of diamond cutting diamond. How hard and polished and finished, he thought, actor and actress confronted each other.
"And what do you now intend to do?" "Not quite so fast, my dear Ewart. Just wait and see," answered the man who had re-entered France by the back door. And by midnight "Monsieur Charles Bellingham, de Londres," was sleeping soundly in his room in the Hôtel de Paris at Monte Carlo. During the next three days I saw but little of Bindo. His orders to me were not to approach or to worry him.
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