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Updated: June 22, 2025
Jasmine asked at last one day, when she had been able to assure Ian that the end was very near, that M. Mennaval had turned his face from Slavonia, and had carried his government with him almost.
One of life's Revolutionaries was insolently ravaging the secret place where her pride dwelt. Pride what pride had she now? Where was the room for pride or vanity? ... And all the time she saw the face of a dead man down by the river a face now beneath the sod. It flashed before her eyes at moments when she least could bear it, to agitate her soul. M. Mennaval how dare he write to her so!
Thus if they met naturally, it was also so constantly that people gossiped; but at first, certainly, not to Jasmine's grave disadvantage, for M. Mennaval was thought to be less dangerous than impressionable. In that, however, he was somewhat maligned, for his penchant for beautiful and "select" ladies had capacities of development almost unguessed.
They came with whips to scourge her. Nothing was private to her inner self now. Everything was arrayed against her. All life doubled backwards on her, blocking her path. M. Mennaval what did she care for him!
Lady Tynemouth's sympathy was deeply roused for Jasmine, and she meant to try and win her confidence and to help her in her trouble, if she could; but she was full of something else at this particular moment, and she was not completely conscious of the agony before her. "Have you been using this sjambok on Mennaval?" she asked with an attempt at lightness. "I saw him leaving as I came in.
Yet through it all Lady Tynemouth saw her glance many times with a strange, strained inquiry at Rudyard, seated far away opposite her; at another big, round table. "There's something wrong here," Lady Tynemouth said to herself, and wondered why Ian Stafford was not present. Mennaval was there, eagerly seeking glances.
Also there were few days in the week when Jasmine did not see M. Mennaval, the ambassador for Moravia not always at her own house, but where the ambassador chanced to be of an evening, at a fashionable restaurant, or at some notable function.
It had no companion there; but on another table near were many photographs; four of women, the rest of men: celebrities, old friends like Ian Stafford and M. Mennaval. His face hardened. De Lancy Scovel's black slander swept through his veins like fire again, his heart came up in his throat, his fingers clinched.
These Jasmine gave with a smiling openness and apparent good-fellowship, which were not in the least compromising. Lady Tynemouth saw Mennaval's vain efforts, and laughed to herself, and presently she even laughed with her neighbour about them. "What an infant it is!" she said to her table companion. "Jasmine Byng doesn't care a snap of her finger about Mennaval."
"His Excellency, the Moravian ambassador," the footman said. "Monsieur Mennaval?" she asked, mechanically, as though scarcely realizing what he had said. "Yes, ma'am, Mr. Mennaval." "Please say I am indisposed, and am sorry I cannot receive him to-day," she said. "Very good, ma'am." The footman turned to go, then came back. "Shall I tell the maid you want her?" he asked, respectfully.
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