The Princess Passes by Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson

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We lost sight of this second Dauphine Marvel (the last one we were to
see) just before running up the steep hill which led down again into
the dark jaws of another mountain pass. It was the Col de la Croix
Haute; and once past this gateway of the Alps the landscape changed
slowly and indefinably, here and there suggesting that we were drawing
nearer to the south. Though we were still encompassed on every side by
mountains, they had lost their Alpine splendour of bearing; they
stooped, or poked their chins.

The country was now all brown and green; and, surfeited with beauty,
it seemed to me that here was nothing great. We sped through Aspres;
through Serres, on its rocky promontory; and on through Laragne, whose
ancient inn with the sign of a spider gave a name to the town. Pointed
brown-green mountains were crowned with pointed green-brown ruins,
hoary after much history-making; and at the pointed mountains'
brown-green feet those _avant-courriers_ of the South, almond trees,
had sat down to rest on their way home.

Still we flew on; but at Sisteron Jack slowed down the motor. Here
was something too curious for even spoiled sightseers to pass in a
hurry.

The town struggled hardily up one side of a gorge, deep and steep,
where the Durance has forced its patient way through a huge barrier of
rock whose tilted strata correspond curiously on both sides of the
stream. Driving down to the low bridge across the river, we gazed up
at the town piled high above our heads, culminating in a fortress
which, cut in a dark square out of the sky's turquoise, looked old as
the beginning of the world.

Sisteron was brown, too, but not at all green; and beyond, for a time,
the country was still in a grim brown study, though it ought to have
remembered that it was now laughing Provence. It gave us crumbling
chateaux, high-perched ancient rock villages without stint, and even a
house (in the strangely named village of Malijai) where Napoleon had
lain, early in the Hundred Days; but not a smile or a wild flower.
Then, in a flash, its mood changed. The savage land had been tamed by
some whispered word of Mother Nature, and grew youthfully pretty under
our eyes. The poplars, in their autumn cloaks of gold, fringed the
road with flame, and scattered largesse of red copper filings in our
path; the dark mountains drew up over their bare shoulders scarfs of
crimson, and the sun flung a million diamonds into the wide bed of the
Durance.

Night was falling as we drove into the lazy-looking Provencal town of
Digne, where all was green and sleepy, at peace with itself and the
world at large. Even the beautiful Doric _chateau d'eau_ was green
with moss, and the water of its fountain laughed in sleep; the famous
basilica showed grey through green lichen; its wonderful rose window
had a green frame of ivy, and the strange, sculptured beasts guarding
the door had saddles of green velvet mould.

We slept at Digne, and made an early morning start, the car plunging
us almost from the first into scenery which only Gustave Dore could
have imagined. Gnome villages and elfin castles clung to slim
pinnacles of rock which seemed to swing, like blown branches, against
the sky. Wild grey mountains bristled with rocky spines, and trails of
scarlet foliage poured like streams of blood down their rough sides,
completing the resemblance to fierce, wounded boars.

Our road was a road of steep gradients, leading us through gorges of a
grandeur which would have been called appalling when the world was a
little younger, and more in awe of savage Nature. If a midge could be
provided with a proportionately tiny motor car, and sent coasting at
full tilt down a greased corkscrew, from the handle to the sharp end
of the screw, the effect would have been somewhat that of our Mercedes
leaping down the steep defiles. We were vaguely conscious now and then
that a river far below us clamoured for our bones; on one side we had
a precipice, on the other a sheer face of towering cliff.

Gorges, glorious gorges! a plethora of gorges. No sooner were we out
of one, and drawing breath in a valley of golden sunshine and silver
river, but we were back in another majestic canon. Finest of all,
perhaps, was the dark Clou de Rouaine; yet when we sprang out into
daylight to throw ourselves into the village of Les Scaffarels,
wonders did not cease. Now we were in the true hinterland of the gay,
blue-and-gold Riviera, following the course of the Var, down to Nice,
not many miles away. Wide and pebbly in its bed by the bright pleasure
town, here it led us through a succession of more gorges, thundered us
through rock tunnels, swept us over bridges, and at last tumbled us
into sight of a marvel which must throw the whole seven of Dauphine
out of focus. It was the town of Entrevaux, and to my shame I had
never heard of it. Where the narrow valley opens into a broad one, and
the green, swift flowing river sweeps in a sickle-curve round the base
of a high rock, Entrevaux shoots far up into the sky. The river bathes
its dark walls, protected by devices dear to the hearts of mediaeval
Vaubans. Pepper-castor sentry-boxes jut out over the water; a great
drawbridge with portcullis, triple gateway, and neat contrivances for
pouring oil and molten lead upon besiegers, alone gives access to the
town; while behind the old crowded houses a fortified stairway in the
rock leads dizzily up to a stronghold clamped upon a towering peak--a
peak like a black, giant wine-bottle, slender-necked, with the fort
castle for the cork.

"If the Boy could see this with me!" I thought. And then, because this
place was like a fairy place, I remembered the fairy prince's ring.
Never had I followed his instructions; but I rubbed it now, and wished
that the genie of the ring would give me back the Little Pal at Monte
Carlo.

After Entrevaux, picturesque Puget-Theniers was an anticlimax; though
other fairy towns peered down from high crags and sheer hillsides
where they hung by wires caught in spider webs--and though we passed
through other gorges of grim beauty, my thoughts had flown ahead of
our swift car. I was glad when at last we came into sight of a fair
white city lying on the blue curve of a bay and ringed with green
hills, glad that our journey was all but ended; for the fair city was
Nice.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: "THE ROCK OF MONACO".]

CHAPTER XXX

The Day of Suspense

"Will you make me believe that I am not sent for . . . ?
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow!"
--SHAKESPEARE.

From Nice to Monte Carlo over the Upper Corniche, was for us a spin of
less than two hours; and after that most beautiful drive in the world,
we slowed down before the green-shaded loggia of the Royal, early in
the afternoon. The hotel was only just open for the season, and it was
possible to have a choice of rooms. Jack selected a glass-fronted
suite, with a view more beautiful than any other in the extraordinary
little principality:

"Magic casements
Opening on the foam of perilous seas
In faery lands forlorn."

which were, respectively, the harbour, and the rock of Monaco (as old
as Hercules), with its ancient towers dark against a sky of pearl.

I was given a peep into Molly's salon, which appeared to be a sort of
crystal palace, with its two window-walls curtained by trailing roses;
and Jack kept me for a moment at the door.

"I suppose we shall meet for dinner about eight, won't we, no matter
what we may all choose to do meanwhile?" said he.

"Well--er--no," I mumbled, feeling a little foolish. "I have--er--a
sort of engagement for to-night. I think I mentioned it before."

"What, to meet that missing Boy of yours?" asked Jack, in a chaffing
tone, so tactlessly loud that it must have been distinctly audible to
the ladies in the adjoining room, the door of which was open. "Isn't
that rather a mad idea? You were vaguely engaged to meet your pal, I
believe you said, on the night after your arrival, at the Hotel de
Paris, for dinner. But considering the fact that, if you'd walked down
as you then intended, instead of motoring, you would have been a
fortnight on the way, isn't it fantastic to expect that he'll turn up?"

"Not quite as fantastic as you think," I retorted, remembering the
terms of the Boy's letter, which had not been confided to Jack, in
their exactness. "Anyhow, I'm going on the off chance."

"You apparently credit the youth with clairvoyance, my dear chap.
Supposing he has come down here, how could he know that you'd
arrived?"

"I wired him from Digne, telegraphing to the Poste Restante at Monte
Carlo, where he would certainly think of enquiring, if he took much
interest in my movements. In that message I made it very clear that I
should expect him to stick to our bargain, and I have an impression
that he will."

"He may. But, look here, my dear fellow,"--Jack now had the decency to
lower his voice,--"have you no red blood in your veins? Mercedes--the
real Mercedes--nearly restored to health and spirits by her run with
us through splendid air and scenery, is to unveil her charms this
evening at dinner. You have irreverently nicknamed her the Perpetual
Mushroom. To-night, you will see--but you don't deserve to be told
what you will see, if you haven't the curiosity to find out at the
first opportunity for yourself."

"Second opportunities, like second thoughts, are better than first,"
said I. "I shall he delighted to take the second opportunity of
meeting Miss Mercedes--by the way, what _is_ her other name? You
always seemed to take it for granted that I knew; but if it was ever
mentioned in the summer, I've forgotten."

"You should be ashamed to admit that you could deliberately and
stoically forget a charming young lady's name, and you don't deserve
to have your memory jogged. You shall be told the heiress's name when
you meet her, and not before."

"I must possess my soul in patience until to-morrow, then," I replied,
"for to me one pal in the bush is worth twenty heiresses in the hand,
and I am now going out to scour the said bush."

"Which means the Casino, no doubt."

"I shall stroll in, when I've got rid of the dust. The Rooms are the
place to come across people."

"All right, gang your ain gait, my son, and I suppose I must wish you
luck. Daresay we shall see each other before bedtime."

A few hours later, I was walking down through the gardens, on my way
to the Casino. The young grass, sown last month, had already become
green velvet, and the flowers were as fresh as if they had been
created an hour ago. The air smelled of La France roses and orange
blossoms, though I saw neither. Some pretty Austrian girls were
walking about in muslin frocks and gauzy hats, though by this time,
in England, women were putting on their fur boas in deference to
autumn; and a few days ago I had been lost in a snowstorm on a
middle-sized mountain of Savoie.

As I drew near to the big white Casino, strains of music came to me
from the terrace, and thinking that the Boy might be there listening
to the band, I went through the tunnel and came out on the beautiful
flower-decked plateau overhanging the sea. Out of season though it
was, a great many people were sitting there, drinking tea or coffee,
and listening to "La Paloma."

The windows of the Casino were open, protected by awnings; birds were
taking their last flight, before going to bed in some orange or lemon
tree. The place was more charming than in the high season; but the
face I looked for was not to be seen, and I deserted the Terrace for
the Rooms.

I had not been to "Monte" since the Boer war; and when I had gone
through the formalities at the Bureau, and entered the first _salle_,
it struck me strangely to find everything exactly as I had left it
years ago.

The same heavy stillness, emphasised by the continuous chink, chink of
gold and silver, and broken only by the announcement of events at
different tables: "_Onze, noir, impair et manque";--"Rien ne va
plus";--"Zero!_"

The same _onze_; the same _rien n'va plus_; the same _zero_ heralded
in the same secretly joyous, outwardly apologetic tone, by the
croupiers fortunate enough to produce it. The same croupiers too;--(or
do croupiers develop a family likeness of face, of voice, of coat, as
the years go chinking zeroly on?). The same players, or their
_doppelgaengers_; the same pictured nymphs smiling on the ornate
walls. But there was no Boy, no Boy's sister; and suddenly it occurred
to me that I was foolish to expect him. He was too childlike in
appearance to have obtained a ticket of admission to the gambling
rooms.

Since it was useless to look for him here, and no other place seemed
promising at this hour, there was nothing to do but pass the moments
until time to change for dinner. Accordingly I watched the tables.
Once, like most men of my age, I had been bitten by the roulette fever
and had wrestled with "systems" in their thousands, not so much for
the mere "gamble," as for the joy of striving to beat the wily Pascal
at his own invention.

In those old days the wheel had been like a populous town for me,
inhabited by quaint little people, each living in his own snug house;
the Little People of Roulette. Not a number on the board but his face
was familiar to me; I would have known him if I had met him in the
street. There was sly, thin, dark little Dix, always sneaking up on
tiptoe when you did not want him, and popping out behind your back.
Business-like, successful, bustling Onze; tactless but honest Douze;
treacherous yet fascinating Treize; blundering Seize; graceful,
brunette Dix-Sept; and the faithful, friendly Vingtneuf; feminine
Rouge; brusque, virile Noir; mean little, underbred Manque, and senile
Passe; priggish Pair with his skittish young wife; the Dozens,
_nouveaux-riches_, thinking themselves a cut above the humbler Simple
Chances in Roulette Society; the upright, unbending Columns; the
raffish Chevaux; the excitable Transversales, and the brilliant
Carres; charming on first acquaintance, but fickle as friends; the
twin, blind dwarfs, the Coups des Deux; these and many more, down to
the wretched, worried Intermittances, ever in a violent hurry to catch
a train but never catching it. I could see them all, still; but I saw
them pass with calmness now, for I wanted to find the Boy.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXXI

The Boy's Sister

"A little thing would make me tell
. . . how much I lack of a man."
--SHAKESPEARE.

The palace clock over in Monaco was striking eight as I reached the
steps of the Hotel de Paris. Eight had been the hour appointed. Now,
here were both the Hour and the Man: but where was the Boy?

I walked into the gay restaurant, with its window-wall, and the long
rank of candle-lit tables ready for dinner. Twenty people, perhaps,
were dining; but there was no slim figure in short black jacket, Eton
collar, and loose silk tie; no curly chestnut head; no blue-star eyes.
Cordially disliking everybody present, I marched down the length of
the room, and took a corner table, which was laid for four. On the
sparkling snow of the damask cloth burned a bonfire of scarlet
geraniums, and two red-shaded wax candles, of the kind which the Boy
used to call "candles with nostrils," made wavering rose-lights on the
white expanse.

I sat down, and an attentive waiter appeared at my elbow, having
apparently shot up from the floor like a pantomime demon.

"Monsieur desires dinner for one?" he deferentially enquired.

"I am expecting one or perhaps two friends," I replied. "I will wait
for them half an hour. If they do not come by the end of that time, I
will dine alone."

"Will Monsieur please to regard the menu?"

"Yes, thanks."

He put it in my hand with an appetizing bow, which would have been
almost as good as an _hors d'oeuvre_ had my mood been appreciative of
delicacies. But it was not; neither could I fix my mind upon the
ordering of a dinner. My eyes would keep jumping to the glass door at
the far end of the room. "I want the best dinner the house can serve,"
I said, meanly shifting responsibility. "Not too long a dinner,
but--oh well, you may tell the chef I depend upon his choice."

"I quite understand, Monsieur. A dinner to please a lady, is it not?"

"Yes. Something to please a lady." Was there not the Boy's sister to
be catered for in case she should come? In thinking of him I must not
forget her. But then, how improbable it was that my poor dinner would
be tasted by either!

"And for wine, Monsieur?"

I ordered at random the brand of champagne which had seemed like
nectar to the Boy and me that evening in far away Aosta, when the
compact of our friendship was first made. But yes, certainly, it was
to be had. And it should in an all little moment be on the ice.

The waiter glided away to make that little moment less, and I was left
to measure it and its brothers. One after another they passed. What a
pity the moment family is such a large one! I stared at the glass
door. Other men's friends came in by it, but not mine. I glared at
the window close to which I sat. The peculiarly theatrical effect of
daylight melting into night, as seen at Monte Carlo and nowhere else,
added to the sensation of suspense I felt, as when the curtain is
about to rise on the crowning act of an exciting play.

The scene out there in the Place was exactly like a setting for the
stage. The great white Casino, with the constant _va et vient_ to and
from the open doorway; the bubbly domes of the fantastically Moorish
cafe across the way; the velvet grass, unnaturally green in the
electric light; the flower beds in the garden a mosaic floor of
coloured jewels; the air blue as a gauze veil, with diamonds shining
through its meshes; and over all a serene arch of hyacinth sky,
pulsing with smouldering ashes-of-rose just above the purple line of
mountain-tops.

A carriage drove quickly past the window, and stopped, far on at the
main door of the hotel. More people for dinner; but not the Boy. I
indistinctly saw a tall man and two ladies in long evening cloaks step
out; then I turned my eyes elsewhere.

Over on the brightly lighted balcony of the Cafe de Paris opposite,
the "out-of-season" musicians were playing "Sole Mio," and the
yearning strains of that simple, hackneyed Italian love song stirred
my veins oddly.

The glass door down at the other end of the room opened, and the
movement there caught my eyes. A girl came in, alone, and stood still
as if looking for someone--her slender white figure, in its long
flowing cloak, clearly outlined against a darker background. She was
alone, and there was nobody to introduce us, no one to tell me who she
was, but the beautiful face as so marvellously like one I knew, that
I jumped up instantly. The Boy's sister! She must have come, with
friends, and be looking for him. Then, he was here, or would be!

I have a vague remembrance of treading on several trains as I went to
meet her, intending to introduce myself, as her brother had not
arrived. The restaurant seemed suddenly to have become a mile long,
and she was at the other end of it. So was I, at last, holding out my
hand to the white girl with a large black hat, and diamond pins
winking in the curly chestnut hair which they held in place.

She was so astonishingly like him! Now that I had come closer, the
resemblance was incredible. The hair; the soft oval of the little
face; the eyes--the great, star-eyes!

I forgot everything but that one figure, lily-white, and swaying like
a lily, as it stood. Luckily, there was no one near to see, or think
of us. The diners dined, as if this were an ordinary night, as if
there might be other such nights again.

"Who are you?" I said as if in a dream.

A wave of colour swept up from the small, firm chin, to the rings of
chestnut hair. "I--why, I'm the Boy's sister," a low voice stammered.
"He--sent me. I've a letter from him. My friends are outside. They
will be here soon, but I--I came. You are--I suppose you are Man----"

"And I know you are Boy, Boy himself. I mean, he never was--for
heaven's sake tell me--but no, I don't need to ask. I've got my Little
Pal back again, that's all."

"Oh, if I'd been sure you would guess--if I had known you would talk
to me like this, I should not have dared to come."

"Yes, you would. For you are brave; and you owed me this."

"I'm ashamed to look you in the face. What must you think of me?"

"Think? I'm past thinking. I'm thanking the gods. If I could think at
all it would be of myself, that I was a fool not to--and yet, _was_ I
a fool? You _were_ a boy then. Even the Contessa----"

"Oh, don't! Where can we sit? I must tell you everything--explain
everything. I can't wait. In a few minutes Molly and Jack will come."

"Good heavens!"

"Yes. Didn't you guess? I'm the Perpetual
Mushroom,--Mercedes--Roy--Laurence. Oh, Man, Man, how have I dared
everything--and most of all this meeting? To fight that duel would
have been easier. I think I would never have ventured after all, I
would have stayed a Mushroom always, and let the Boy be buried and
forgotten; but Molly wouldn't let me."

"God bless Molly."

I suppose I must have led her to my table, for at this juncture we
found ourselves there.

"Will Monsieur have dinner served?" breathed a voice out of the hazy
unrealities that shut us two in alone together.

"Dinner by-and-bye," I heard myself murmuring, as one brushes away a
buzzing insect. "Yes,--dinner by-and-bye--for four."

"Man," the Girl began; and then was silent.

"Little Pal," I answered, and she visibly gathered courage.

"You know what a great blow I had, and how it made me very ill," she
went on. "It was Molly Randolph who persuaded me that a complete
change, and living in the open air--the open air of other countries
where no one knew me or my troubles--would cure my heart, and mind,
too."

(Oh, what a Molly! What might she not do for this sad, bad, mad old
world, if she would but set up for a specialist in the mind and heart
line!)

"She didn't help me make the plan that--I finally carried out. You
see, she had to be married, and whisked off to England, when she had
half finished my cure. One night when I was lying awake, the thought
came to me--of a thing I might do. It fascinated me. It wouldn't let
me get away from it. At first, it was only a fantastic dream; but it
took shape, and reality, till it was able to plead its own cause and
argue its own advantages. A girl is handicapped. She can't have
adventures; she must have a chaperon. A boy is free. Besides--I wanted
to get away from men. As a boy, I could take Molly's advice, and
travel, and be a regular gipsy if I liked.

"My hair had been cut short when I was ill. That made me feel as if
the thing really was to be. One day I sent out and bought some--some
clothes, ready made, and put them on. That settled it, for I was sure
no one would ever know me, or the truth. One thing suggested another.
I thought of travelling with a caravan--then I changed my mind to
donkeys, and that led to Innocentina. I'd gone out with her up into
the mountains, donkey-back, every day from Mentone two years ago. She
had talked to me about Aosta. Her mother's people came from there.
Always since, I had wanted to go. I wrote her. I began to make
preparations for a long journey."

"You got the bag!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, that bag! I should have _died_ if any English-speaking person had
found it, and read my diary, which was to be used--partly--as notes
for a book--if I should ever write it. I would have offered even a
bigger reward, if you had let me. But I must go on:--they will
come--Molly and Jack. I went out to Lucerne, where Innocentina joined
me with the donkeys; but it wasn't till we were away in the wilds
that--that the Boy appeared. I didn't mean to visit any very big towns
afterwards, for it wasn't civilisation I wanted; but--you came into
the story, and I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do--because of
you, Man."

"And I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do--because of you, Boy."

"It was doing different things from what I planned that worked all the
mischief. If we hadn't gone to Aix, we wouldn't have gone up Mont
Revard; and if we hadn't gone up Mont Revard, the Prince wouldn't have
had to vanish."

"If he hadn't, would the Princess have appeared--for me? Or would she
always have been passing--passing--I not dreaming of her presence,
though she was by my side?"

"Who can tell? Each event in life seems to be propped up against all
the others, like a tower of children's bricks. Anyway, we did go, and
Something had sent up to the snowy top of that mountain in Savoie the
very last man in the world--except one--I would have chosen to meet.
It was--_his_ brother--the younger brother of the man I had found out.
He wasn't sure of me, I could tell: for he had never seen me with my
hair short; and I had got so thin, and my face so brown; but he
suspected, and he is a gossiping sort of fellow. If he had had a
chance to see me by daylight, he would have been sure, and then there
would be some wild story flashing all over America. That is why I ran
away. But it hurt me to leave you like that, Man."

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