The Princess Passes by Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson

A >> Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson >> The Princess Passes

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

Gaeta left in the evening, the Boy and I seeing her off at the train;
and twelve hours later we started for Chatelard, Joseph taking us away
from the highroads--which would have been perfect for Molly's
Mercedes--along certain romantic by-paths which he knew from former
journeys. Conversation no longer made itself between us; we had to
make it, and in the manufacturing process I mentioned my "friends who
were motoring."

"They may turn up before long now," I said, "judging from the plans
they wrote of in a letter I had from them at Aosta. It's just possible
that they will pass through Aix. You would like them."

"I have run away from my own friends, and--gone rather far to do it,"
said the Boy. "Yet I seem destined to meet other people's. It was with
very different intentions that I set out on this journey of mine."

"'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,'" I quoted carelessly. "Perhaps
yours will end so."

"I thought I had done with lovers," said the Boy, with one of his odd
smiles.

"You're not old enough to begin with them yet."

"I was thinking of--my sister. Her experience was a lesson in love I'm
not likely to forget soon. Yet sometimes I--I'm not sure I learned the
lesson in the right way. But we won't talk of that. Tell me about
your friends. I'm becoming inured to social duties now."

"You don't seem to find them too onerous. As for my friends--they're
an old chum of mine, Jack Winston, and his bride of a few months, the
most exquisite specimen of an American girl I ever met. Perhaps you
may have heard of her. She's the daughter of Chauncey Randolph, one of
your millionaires. Look out! Was that a stone you stumbled over?"

"Yes. I gave my ankle a twist. It's all right now. I daresay my sister
knows your friend."

"I must ask Molly Winston, when I write, or see her. But you've never
told me your sister's name, except that she's called 'Princess.' If I
say Miss Laurence----"

"There are so many Laurences. Did you--ever mention in your letters
to--your friends that you were--travelling with anyone?"

"I haven't written to them since I knew your name, but before that, I
told them there was a boy whom I had met by accident and chummed up
with, just before Aosta. I think I rather spread myself on a
description of our meeting."

"You _didn't_ do that! How horrid of you!"

"Oh, I put it right afterwards, I assure you, in another letter. I
told them that in spite of the bad beginning, we'd become no end of
pals. That we travelled together, stopped at the same hotels,
and--what's the matter?"

"Nothing. My ankle does hurt a little, after all. Shall you go on in
your friends' motor car if you meet them?" He looked up at me very
earnestly as he spoke.

"At one time I thought of doing so, if we ran across each other. But
now that I've got you----"

"Who knows how long we may have each other? Either one of us may
change his plans--suddenly. You mustn't count on me, Lord Lane."

"Look here," I said crossly, "do speak out. Don't hint things. Do you
mean me to understand that you wish to stop at Aix, indefinitely, and
play out your little comedy of flirtation to its close?"

"I don't know what I intend to do; now, less than ever," answered the
Boy in a very low voice, the shadow of his long lashes on his cheeks.

I was too much hurt to question him further, and we pursued our way in
silence, along the lake side, and then up the billowy lower slopes of
the Semnoz. We had showers of rain in the sunshine; and the long, thin
spears of crystal glittered like spun glass, until dim clouds spread
over the bright patches of blue, and the world grew mistily
grey-green.

We had planned long ago, before the spell of the Contessa fell upon
us, to make the journey we were taking now, by way of the Semnoz, the
so-called Rigi of this Alpine Savoy, which is neither wholly French
nor wholly Italian. But we had abandoned the idea since, in a fine
frenzy to keep our promise of rejoining her with all speed lest she
perish alone in the icy disapproval of her friends. When the mists
closed round us, we ceased to regret the decision, if we had regretted
it; for instead of seeing Savoy spread out beneath us, with its snow
mountains and fertile valleys, lit with azure lakes--as many as the
Graces--we should have been wrapped in cloud blankets.

After a walk of thirty-two kilometres, we came to Chatelard, and,
having known little or nothing of the town, we were surprised to find
that most other people knew of it as a great centre for excursions.
It was almost as unbelievable as that the places where we lived could
possibly go on existing in exactly the same way during our absence.

"There are actually three hotels, all said to be good," I remarked,
quoting from my guide-book. "To which shall we go?"

The Boy hesitated. "Choose which you like, for yourself," he replied
with a slight appearance of embarrassment. "As for me, I will make up
my mind--later."

I could take this in but one way: as a snub. Evidently he had selected
this fashion of intimating to me the change that Gaeta's intrusion had
worked in our relations. I bit back a sharp word or two which I might
have regretted by-and-bye, and answered not at all. In consequence of
this little passage, however, the Boy went to one hotel, and I to
another, where I put Joseph up also.

A sense of loneliness was upon me, therefore my conscience stirred
uneasily, and I reproached myself in that of late I had neglected the
affairs of my muleteer. At one time he and I had conversed at length
on such subjects as mules, women, perdition, and the like; but for
many days now our intercourse had consisted mostly of a "Good morning,
Joseph!" "Good morning, Monsieur!"

To-night I sent for him, and enquired whether he had anything to wish
for.

"Ah, Monsieur, there is but one thing for which I ask at present," he
said.

"Anything I can manage, Joseph?"

"I fear not, Monsieur. It is the assurance that the poor young soul I
am trying to lead out of darkness may reach the light before we have
to part."

"Innocentina's?"

"The same, Monsieur."

"You think her conversion within sight?"

"Just round the corner, if I may so express it."

"Yet I hear that she tells her employer she is devoting all her
energies towards saving you from eternal fire. It was her excuse for
letting the bag drop off Souris' back without noticing it, and for
allowing Fanny's saddle to chafe."

"Ah, Monsieur, women are ready with excuses. Do you think I would
permit any preoccupation of mine to interfere with the well-being of
Finois?"

"Even saving a pretty woman's soul? No, Joseph, to do you justice, I
don't. But I warn you, you may not have much more time before you to
finish your good work. Innocentina's employer and I may part company
before long." Though I smiled, I spoke heavily.

Joseph's melancholy dark face flushed, and the light died out of his
eyes. "Thank you, Monsieur, I will do my best to be quick," said he,
as if it had been a question of saddling Finois, instead of rescuing a
young lady from the clutches of the Scarlet Woman. Whatever progress
he had really been making with Innocentina's soul, it was clear that
she had been getting in some deadly work upon his honest heart.

CHAPTER XX

The Great Paolo

"Condescension is an excellent thing; but it is strange how
one-sided the pleasure of it is."--R.L. STEVENSON.

After I went to bed that night, I thought long and bitterly of the
Little Pal's defection. Mentally I addressed him as a young gazelle
who had gladdened me with his soft dark eye, only to withdraw the
light of that orb when it was most needed. As he apparently wished me
to understand that, now he was on with Gaeta, he would fain be off
with me, I would take him not only at his word, but before it. I would
make an excuse to avoid stopping at the Contessa's villa, but would
let him revel there alone in his glory; if one did not count the Di
Nivolis.

Next morning we met by appointment at eight o'clock, and tried to
behave as if nothing had happened; but I realised that I would have
been a dead failure as an actor. I was grumpy and glum, and the
coaxing, child-like ways which the Boy used for my beguiling were in
vain. I did not say anything about my change of plans for Aix, but I
brooded darkly upon them throughout the day, my mood eating away all
pleasure in the charming scenery through which we passed, as a black
worm eats into the heart of a cherry.

We had about twenty-nine kilometres to go, and by the time that the
shadows were growing long and blue, we were approaching Aix-les-Bains.
Nature had gone back to the simple apparel of her youth, here. She
was idyllic and charming, but we were not to ask of her any more
sensational splendours, by way of costume, for she had not brought
them with her in her dress-basket. There were near green hills, and
far blue mountains, and certain rocky eminences in the middle
distance, but nothing of grandeur. Poplars marched along with us on
either side, primly on guard, and puritanical, though all the while
their myriad little fingers seemed to twinkle over the keyboard of an
invisible piano, playing a rapid waltz.

Then we came at last into Aix-les-Bains, where I had spent a merry
month during a "long," in Oxford days. I had not been back since.

Already the height of the season was over, for it was September now,
but the gay little watering-place seemed crowded still, and in our
knickerbockers, with our pack-mule and donkeys, and their attendants,
we must have added a fantastic note to the dance-music which the very
breezes play among tree-branches at light-hearted Aix.

"Pretty, isn't it?" I remarked indifferently, as we passed through
some of the most fashionable streets.

"Yes, very pretty," said the Boy. "But what is there that one misses?
There's something--I'm not sure what. Is it that the place looks
huddled together? You can't see its face, for its features. There are
people like that. You are introduced to them; you think them charming;
yet when you've been away for a little while you couldn't for your
life recall the shape of their nose, or mouth, or eyes. I feel it is
going to be so with Aix, for me."

The villa which the Contessa had taken for a few weeks before her
annual flitting for Monte Carlo, was on the way to Marlioz, and we had
been told exactly how to find it. Still silent as to my ultimate
intentions, I tramped along with the Boy beside me, Joseph and
Innocentina bringing up the rear. We would know the villa from the
description we had been given, and having passed out of the town, we
presently saw it; a little dun-coloured house, standing up slender and
graceful among trees, like a charming grey rabbit on the watch by its
hidden warren in the woods.

"I'm tired, aren't you?" asked the Boy. "I shall be glad to rest."

Now was my time. "I shan't be able to rest quite yet," said I, with a
careless air. "I shall see you in, say 'How-de-do' to the Contessa,
and then I must be off to the hotel where I used to stop. I remember
it as delightful."

"Why," exclaimed the Boy blankly, "but I thought--I thought we were
going to stay with the Contessa!"

"You are, but I'm not," I explained calmly. "My friends the Winstons
may very likely turn up at the same hotel" (this was true on the
principle that anything, no matter how unexpected, _may_ happen); "and
if they should, I'd want to be on the spot to give them a welcome. I
wouldn't miss them for the world."

"The Contessa will be disappointed," said the Boy slowly.

"Oh no, I don't think so; and if she is, a little, you will easily
console her."

"If I had dreamed that you wouldn't----" The Boy began his sentence
hastily, then cut it as quickly short.

I opened the gate. We passed in together, Joseph remaining outside
according to my directions, keeping Fanny-anny as well as Finois,
while Innocentina followed the Boy with the pack-donkey.

A turn in the path brought us suddenly upon a lawn, surrounded with
shrubbery which at first had hidden it from our view. There, under a
huge crimson umbrella, rising flowerlike by its long slender stem from
the smooth-shaven grass, sat four persons in basket chairs, round a
small tea table. Gaeta, in green as pale as Undine's draperies, sprang
up with a glad little cry to greet us. The Baron and Baronessa smiled
bleak "society smiles," and a handsome, fair young man frankly glared.

Evidently this was the great Paolo, master of the air and ships that
sail therein; and as evidently he had heard of us.

Now I knew what the Baron had meant when he said to his wife:
"Something _shall_ happen, my dear." He had telegraphed a
danger-signal to Paolo, and Paolo had lost not a moment in responding.
This looked as if Paolo meant business in deadly earnest, where the
Contessa was concerned; for how many dinners and medals must he not
have missed in Paris, how many important persons in the air-world must
he not have offended, by breaking his engagements in the hope of
making one here?

He was fair, with a Latin fairness, this famous young man. There was
nothing Saxon or Anglo-Saxon about him. No one could possibly bestow
him--in a guess--upon any other country than his native Italy. He was
thirty-one or two perhaps, long-limbed and wolfishly spare, like his
elder brother, whom he resembled thus only. He had an eagle nose,
prominent red lips, sulky and sensuous, a fine though narrow forehead
under brown hair cut _en brosse_, a shade darker than the small, waxed
moustache and pointed beard. His brows turned up slightly at the outer
corners, and his heavy-lidded, tobacco-coloured eyes were bold,
insolent, and passionate at the same time.

This was the man who wished to marry butterfly Gaeta, and who had come
on the wings of the wind, in an airship "shod with fire," or in the
_train de luxe_, to defend his rights against marauders.

His look, travelling from me to the Boy, and from the Boy to
Innocentina and meek grey Souris, was so eloquent of contempt passing
words, that I should have wanted to knock the sprawling flannelled
figure out of the basket chair, if I had not wanted still more to yell
with laughter.

He, the Boy and I were like dogs from rival kennels eyeing each other
over, and thinking poorly of the other's points. Paolo di Nivoli was
doubtless saying to himself what a splendid fellow he was, and how
well dressed and famous; also how absurd it really would be to fear
one of us dusty, knickerbockered, thick-booted, panama-hatted louts,
in the tournament of love. The donkey, too, with its pack, and
Innocentina with her toadstool hat, must have added for the aeronaut
the last touch of shame to our environment.

As for us,--if I may judge the Boy by myself,--we were totting up
against the Italian his stiff crest of hair, for all the world like a
toothbrush, rampant, gules; the smear of wax on the spikes of his
unnecessarily fierce moustache; the ridiculous pinpoints of his narrow
brown shoes; the flaunting newness of his white flannels: the
detestable little tucks in his shirt; his pink necktie.

In fact, each was despising the other for that on which the other
prided himself.

All this passed in a glance, but the frigid atmosphere grew no warmer
for the introduction hastily effected by Gaeta. To be sure, the Boy
bowed, I bowed, and Paolo bowed the lowest of the trio, so that we saw
the parting in his hair; but three honest snorts of defiance would
have been no more unfriendly than our courtesies.

Not a doubt that Gaeta felt the electricity in the air, with the
instinct of a woman; but with the instinct of a born flirt, she
thrilled with it. Her colour rose; her warm eyes sparkled. She was
perfectly happy; for--from her point of view--were there not here
three male beings all secretly ready to fly at one another's throat
for love of her; and what can a spoiled beauty want more?

She covered the little awkwardness with charming tact, for all her
childishness; and then the excuses I made for my defection caused a
diversion. She was so sorry; it was really too bad. I was going to
desert her for other friends. Were not we friends, nice new friends,
so much more interesting than old friends, whom you knew inside-out,
like your frocks or your gloves? But surely, I would come often, very
often to the villa--always for _dejeuner_ and _diner_, till the other
friends arrived, was it not? And I would not try to take Signor Boy
(this was the name she had built on mine for him) away from her and
the dear Baronessa?

I reassured her on this last point, promised everything she asked, and
then got away as quickly as I could, lest I should disgrace myself by
letting escape the wild laughter which I caged with difficulty. It was
arranged that we should all meet that evening, after dinner, at the
Villa des Fleurs, for one of those _fetes de nuit_ which Gaeta loved;
and then I turned my back upon the group under the red umbrella,
without a glance for the Boy.

I tramped into the town once more, with Joseph close behind, leading
his own Finois and Innocentina's Fanny, and found my way to the hotel,
in its large shady garden, where coloured lamps were already beginning
to glow in the twilight. Soon I had all the resources of civilisation
at my command: a white-and-gold panelled suite, with a bath as big as
a boudoir, and hot water enough to make of me a better man (I hoped)
than Paolo di Nivoli.

Later I dined on the wide balcony, with flower-fragrance blowing
towards me from the mysterious blue dusk of the garden. I ought, I
said to myself, to be well-contented, for the dinner was excellent,
and the surroundings a picture in aquarelles. Still, I had a vague
sense of something very wrong, such as a well brought up motor car
must feel when it has a screw loose, and can't explain to the
chauffeur. What was it? The Boy's absence? Nonsense; he didn't want
me, rather the contrary. Why should I want him? A few weeks ago I had
not known that he existed. I drank a pint of dry champagne, iced
almost to freezing point; but instead of hardening my heart against
the ex-Brat, to my annoyance the sparkling liquid gradually but surely
produced the opposite effect.

The fragrance of the flowers, the soft wind among the chestnut trees
in the garden, the beauty of the night, all reproached me for my
conduct to the young creature I had abandoned. What use was it to
remind myself that I had merely taken a leaf out of his book, that I
had even played into his hands, as he seemed to desire? The answer
would come that he was a boy, and I a man. No matter what he had done,
I ought not to have left him to flirt with Gaeta under the jealous
eyes of the Italian, who was "a whirlwind, and caught a woman off her
feet."

It was too late now to think of this, for I had refused Gaeta's
invitation to visit at her house, and having done so I could not ask
for another, even if I would. Probably the Boy would know well enough
how far to go, and to protect himself from consequences when he had
reached the limit.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI

The Challenge

"'Do I indeed lack courage?' inquired Mr. Archer of himself,
'Courage, . . . that does not fail a weasel or a rat--
that is a brutish faculty?'"--R.L. STEVENSON.

I drank my black coffee and smoked a cigarette. Then, a glance at my
watch told me that it was time to keep the appointment at the Villa
des Fleurs, five minutes' walk from the hotel. I expected the
Contessa's party to be late, but somewhat to my surprise they had
already arrived, and a quick glance showed me that, outwardly at
least, the relations of all were still amicable.

"Signor Boy did not wish to come," said the Contessa to me, "but I
made him. He says that he does not like crowds. Look at him now; he
has wandered far from us already, probably to find some dark corner
where he can forget that there are too many people. But then, it was
sweet of him to come at all, since it was only to please me."

It was true. The Boy had slipped away from the seats we had taken near
the music. He had gone to avoid me, perhaps, I said to myself
bitterly. I need not have spoiled my dinner with anxiety for his
welfare; he seemed to be taking very good care of himself.

"I was horribly worried at dinner," whispered Gaeta to me, the light
of the fireworks playing rosily over her face. "Those two--you know
of whom I speak--weren't a bit nice to each other. It was Paolo who
began it, of course, saying little, hateful things that sounded
smooth, but had a second meaning; and Signor Boy is not stupid. He did
not miss the bad intention, oh, not he, and he said other little
things back again, much sharper and wittier than Paolo, who was
furious, and gnawed his lip. It was most exciting."

"Did you try to pour oil on the troubled waters?" I asked.

"I was very pleasant to them both, if that is what you mean, first to
one and then to the other. After dinner, I gave Signor Boy a rose, and
Paolo a gardenia."

"How charming of you," I commented drily. "If that didn't smooth
matters, what could?"

The aeronaut was sitting on Gaeta's left, I on her right, with the
Baronessa next me on the other side, and both were straining every
nerve to hear our confidences, though pretending to be lost in
admiration of the _feu d'artifice_.

When the Contessa laughed softly, her little dark head not far from my
ear, the Italian sprang up, and walked away, unable to endure five
minutes of Gaeta's neglect. She and I continued our conversation,
though our eyes wandered, mine in search of the Boy, hers I fancy in
quest of the same object.

Soon I caught sight of the slim, youthful figure, in its rather
fantastic evening dress, the becoming dinner-jacket, the Eton collar,
the loosely tied bow at the throat, and the full, black knickerbocker
trousers, like those worn in the days of Henri Quatre. As I watched it
moving through the crowd, and finally subsiding in a seat under an
isolated tree, I saw the boyish form joined by a tall and manly one.
Paolo di Nivoli had followed his young rival, and presently came to a
stand close to the Boy's chair. He folded his arms, and looked down
into the eyes which were upturned in answer to some word.

We could not see the expression of the two faces. We saw only that the
man and the boy were talking, spasmodically at first, then
continuously.

"I do hope they're not quarrelling," said Gaeta, in the seventh heaven
of delight.

"Of course not," I replied, annoyed at her frivolity. "They are too
sensible."

"Let us make some excuse, and go over to them," she pleaded. "I am
tired of sitting still."

There was nothing for it but to obey her whim. I took her across the
grassy space which divided us from the two under the tree, and she
began to chatter about the fireworks. What did Signor Boy think of
them? Was not Aix a charming place?

But abruptly, in the midst of her babble, Paolo di Nivoli swept her
away from the Boy and me, in his best "whirlwind" manner, which
doubtless thrilled her with mingled terror and delight.

"Nice night, isn't it?" I remarked brilliantly.

"Yes," said the Boy.

"Did the Contessa give you a good dinner?"

"No--yes--that is, I didn't notice."

"Perhaps that was natural."

The Boy did not answer, but I heard him swallow hard. He was on his
feet now, having risen at Gaeta's coming, and he stood kicking the
grass with the point of his small patent-leather toe. Then, suddenly,
he looked up straight into my face, with big dilated eyes.

"What's the matter?" I asked, when still he did not speak.

"Oh, Man, I'm in _the most awful scrape_."

"What's up?"

"I should be thankful to tell you about it, and get your advice,
if--you were like you used to be."

"It's you who have changed, not I."

"No, it's you."

"Don't let's dispute about it. Tell me what's the trouble. Has that
bounder been cheeking you?"

"Worse than that. He said things that made me angry, and--then I
checked him."

"Just now--under this tree?"

"It began at dinner, a little. But the particular thing I'm speaking
of happened here. I couldn't stand it, you know."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me how old I was, at first--in _such_ a tone! I answered
that I was old enough to know my way about, I hoped. He said he should
have thought not, as I travelled with my nurse. Then he wanted to know
what was in Souris' pack, whether I carried condensed milk for my
nursing-bottle. It was all I could do to keep from boxing his ears,
before everyone, but I kept still, and laughed a little; presently I
answered in a drawling sort of way, saying I needn't tell him that
what Souris carried was no affair of his, because when I came to think
of it, after all it was quite natural that a great donkey should be
interested in a small one."

"By Jove, you little fire-eater!"

"Well, I had to show him that I was an American, anyhow."

"I suppose he was annoyed."

"He was very much annoyed. Man, he's challenged me to fight a duel.
Only think of it, a real duel! He said I'd have to fight, or he'd
thrash me for a coward. I--it's a horrid scrape, but I don't see how
I'm going to get out of it with--with honour. Will you--if I do have
to--but look here, I won't have him running me through with a _sword_,
or anything of that sort. I'm afraid I couldn't face that. I wouldn't
mind a revolver quite as much."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23