All next day they spent with Ottercove. Lord Ottercove habitually put up
at Nice, with the sole purpose, it would seem, of dining at Monte Carlo.
He came to the Riviera to relax after the strenuous social life of
London. And his relaxation, by the force of habit, took the form of
whizzing up and down the curved and much frequented road of the Côte
d’Azur to lunch at Cannes, to dine at Mentone, or hurrying off to play
golf, hurrying to get into bed and sleep hurriedly, to be wakened by
Gilbert to dress and hurry along to dine at Rapallo. After a month of
such relaxation, he would hurry back to London to rush from house to
house (mysteriously preceded by Mrs. Hannibal and his telephone
operator) and write hurried articles and print newspapers, and the news
boys were already hurrying out of the building carrying batches of them
and selling them at a run. Lord Ottercove privately claimed that since
his descent on London he had “gingered up” the public life of Great
Britain. His success was evidenced by his peerage; which is no guarantee
of anything more than success.
His own personality and the effect it produced on his time and
surroundings interested and stimulated him beyond all else. An American
reporter in Nice had referred in the local Press to Lord Ottercove’s
having the head of a musician, and he instantly sent out Gilbert to buy
an album with the portraits of all the notable composers, and left it in
his private drawing-room, and his friends (who had read the notice)
said: “Rex, that chap Beethoven has your head to a t.” And another said,
“Rex, upon my word you have mistaken your profession and we enjoin you,
ere too late, to turn musical. Then, in a couple of years’ time, they
will be saying: ‘Ottercove.... Who the hell is Ottercove?’--‘Oh, the man
who wrote the Symphony in B flat.’”
He smiled indulgently. He went down the steps (forgetting the existence
of the lift), whistling to himself and wondering ... really if ... and
_if really_ ... how nice.
In the car, since the question had been jarringly dropped as it seemed
to him, he turned to Eva.
“Eva, do you think,” he said from his reclining, hatless attitude in the
depth of the great car, “I look like a composer?”
“You look like an angel, Rex,” she said.
“Thank you, darling.”
“You’re not as beautiful as Ferdinand,” she added, “but you are very
clever.”
“Thank you, darling, thank you, dear, that’s comforting.”
So she already called him Rex. Frank was astonished at the rapidity of
progress possible to women; and even a little jealous.
“Chris,” said Ottercove, “how is your work getting on? Is it true I hear
you mean to blow us all up?”
“If I didn’t others would. Ideas like these never come singly. There
must be at least half-a-dozen men now harbouring this amiable idea.”
Lord Ottercove glanced at Frank and Eva. “I told you he was a lunatic.”
“It’s you who are lunatics. Any one could do and talk about doing it,
for no one would believe him, everyone would think he was a lunatic.” De
Jones looked away, detached.
“Let us change the conversation,” Eva said.
They were hurrying in the direction of Cagnes--a destination which at
all times that it is mentioned is accompanied by a sort of footnote that
it is a place other than, and therefore not to be confused with, Cannes.
“You speak French,” said Ottercove. “Tell him to go to Cagnes. Cagnes,
not Cannes.”
Frank took up the telephone tube and said to the chauffeur: “Cagnes.”
“Cagnes,” repeated Lord Ottercove. “Not Cannes.”
“Cagnes,” said Frank into the tube. “Not Cannes.”
“I understand perfectly,” said the chauffeur.
It seemed that the distinction was more familiar than generally
supposed. Still, the similarity was unfortunate, and many a passenger
for Cagnes must have found himself, unwittingly, in Cannes and, perhaps,
with profounder astonishment and reluctance, many a passenger for Cannes
must have discovered himself, with inward qualms and bitter
questionings, in Cagnes. But there it was, and even Ottercove could not
change this state of things.
They alighted on the green hillside by the sea, and Ottercove,
perennially the host, opened the basket with the eatables. “Damn!” he
said. “That jackass Gilbert has forgotten the glasses.” Inwardly they
all cursed Gilbert. “You speak French,” said Ottercove to Frank, “Go and
ask that peasant woman on the top of that hill to lend us a few glasses.
Here--” He held out a batch of notes.
“I’ve got some money.”
“Here, give her this.”
The old peasant woman who was sitting on the ground beside her donkey
could produce but two doubtful looking glasses, and Frank thrust the
batch of bank notes--some four hundred francs in all--into her hand.
“But, monsieur!” she cried bewildered. “All this for a couple of
glasses! No, no....”
They washed the glasses in champagne, drinking what was left of it and
eating delectable sandwiches delicately prepared by a luxurious hotel.
Then Lord Ottercove took his Bible out of his side-pocket and began to
read:
“‘And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, and, lo, there was a
great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth of hair, and the
moon became as blood;
“‘And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree
casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.
“‘And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together; and
every mountain and island were moved out of their places.
“‘And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and
the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every
free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains;
“‘And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and hide us from the
face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb:
“‘For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to
stand?’”
He shut the book, and for a while there was silence. De Jones took off
his glasses and wiped them pensively with his handkerchief; then quoted
softly:
“‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be
no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any
more pain: for the former things are passed away.’”
Frank waved away the flies. “If I were God I would consign all flies to
the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone. For don’t tell me that
they know not what they do!”
Eva looked at him reproachfully. “You are so stupid, darling. You wave
and shout at the flies.”
“But they do go away when I shout.”
“It’s not because you shout, but because you wave that they go away.”
“H’m, that’s possible. I never thought of that. I admit I am
impractical.”
The secret of a successful picnic, in view of its invariable discomfort,
is that it should be as short as possible. They--all of them towny
people--discovered this very soon and rose as if by mutual consent.
“You speak French,” said Ottercove to Frank. “Go and take these glasses
back to the old woman on the hill and tell her she can have all the
sandwiches and fruit and champagne--”
“Bottles,” qualified de Jones.
“Bottles--all we’ve left, in fact.”
Frank did as he was bid.
They stepped into the hired Rolls-Royce, and as they drove away, this
time in the direction of Cannes, on the hill-side, by the side of an old
donkey, stood an old wrinkled woman who looked in their direction till
they were lost to sight.
In the depth of the car, three men and a girl leaned back as far as it
is possible for three men and a girl to do so in a car. Lord Ottercove
was dozing, Eva gently playing the ukulele.
“I didn’t know you played the ukulele,” Frank remarked.
“There are things, Ferdinand, you do not know,” she said.
Ottercove opened one eye. “You are right, sweetie,” he said. “He is no
good: I’m the man for you.”
“‘I’m the man! I’m the man!’ This is from _Candida_,” chimed in de
Jones. “Let me quote, on my behalf, from the same work: ‘All the love in
the world is waiting to speak: but it is shy--shy--shy....’”
“Eva,” said Frank. “Eva....”
“What?”
“Eyes as blue as the Mediterranean....”
“Now, Eva, you must choose,” said Ottercove, “between this decrepit
Genius of the Untried who claims he can push up the grass but is only
fit to push up the daisies; the dubious heir to a, if possible, more
dubious throne; and a half-demented peer. Now come on, my love, and
choose your prize. Spot the winner.”
Eva smiled and played the ukulele dreamily. And the music seemed to say,
Why choose? when you are snug, at ease, sprawling in the depth of a
great car rushing softly by the edge of the blue sea.