VIOLETTE NURSES HER FATHER WITH ALARMING RESULTS
The comfort of a long railway journey is largely dependent on the
number of people travelling in the compartment. Two is the ideal
number, as one person can lie outstretched on each side. Two is company
but three is none, and is nearly as bad as four, in fact it verges on
misery for two out of the three, but five makes comfort impossible.
Such was the state of things in Monsieur Beaupaire's coupé. Monsieur,
Madame, and Mademoiselle Beaupaire were congratulating themselves on
travelling undisturbed, when a couple of English tourists clambered
in--or rather were pushed in just as the train was moving, in spite of
the protests and remonstrances of the Beaupaires.
The compartment became unbearably stuffy, all the windows being, as is
usual on the Continent, hermetically sealed.
It is the wonder of all Englishmen that 'Foreigners' insist on
travelling with all openings for ventilation persistently closed, and
equally incomprehensible to the foreigner how Englishmen can travel
with the windows open, and not catch their death of cold.
"Phew! this is awfully stuffy," exclaimed the elder of the two
Englishmen who answered to the name of Ridgeway, "I can't imagine why
these foreigners always insist on having the windows closed. There's
not a breath of air in the place, Charley," he said to the younger of
the two, "do open the windows, there's a good chap." The young man
got up and tugged at the strap at the window--it gave way and he fell
backwards on to the feet of the passengers.
"Sorry," he said as he picked himself up, and he proceeded to open the
opposite window.
Madame Beaupaire looked daggers at him, and she rubbed the foot on
which he had fallen.
Charley suddenly uttered a cry of pain. In attempting to open the
second window, the frame had slipped and jammed his finger.
"Confound these carriages," said Charley, "why can't someone invent a
fool-proof window which will be provided with a strap that will not
come off, and that can be opened without reducing one's fingers to
pulp?"
Violette laughed at the wry face he made.
Charley turned round, and seeing her good-looking face lit up with
merriment, laughed in concert.
"Well, that's a funny way to introduce yourself," said Violette in good
English, but with rather a pretty foreign accent.
Violette evidently had the gift of humour, and Charley fell in with it
at once.
"I hope Mademoiselle does not mind the window being open," he said.
"Not in the least as far as I am concerned," she replied. "I only hope
papa and mamma will not catch cold."
"Oh, there's no fear of that. May I ask if you are going to Monte Carlo
to play?"
"We are going there, certainly, but I don't think we are going to play
at the Casino, if that's what you mean."
"Well, we are going there, and you bet we are going to have a shy at
the tables."
Violette wondered what the expression could mean.
"How do you shy at the tables?" she asked.
"Surely you know what 'shy' means?" he said.
"Of course I do," she replied, nettled to think he imagined she didn't
know English. "I know," she continued, "a girl is shy when she hangs
down her head and blushes and simpers when a gentleman speaks to her,
but I cannot see how one can shy at the tables at Monte Carlo--unless
the crowd is so great that it makes one nervous," she added
reflectively.
"Oh," said Charley, who was warming up and becoming very communicative,
"shy is one of our wonderful English words, like 'box,' and 'shot' and
'go' and 'make.' They may mean anything and everything."
"But, monsieur, how is one to know what a word means if it may imply
anything and everything?"
"That's the beauty of our language. It's a perfect joy. It's so
tremendously expressive. If you can't get at the meaning by the context
you have to guess it by the tone of the voice, as one does when
speaking Chinese. Thus, if you were to say to me '_You're_ a nice young
man,' it would mean that I was _not_ a nice young man. Whereas if you
were to say 'you _are_ a nice young man' you imply the exact opposite,
namely that I _am_ nice."
"Are you fishing for compliments?" asked Violette, laughing.
"Not exactly, but I feel sure you will say that my last illustration
was correct in every respect."
"Oh, you men, you are as vain as peacocks, you think that every girl
you meet must at once fall over head and ears in love with you."
"And is not that a very delightful frame of mind to be in?" asked
Charley, wondering what she would say next.
Violette laughed heartily at the Englishman's egotism.
"But I assure you, mademoiselle, these little Anglo-Saxon words would
fill a dictionary with their shades of meaning. To take an example: the
word 'go' has at least a hundred different meanings. Thus we say, 'the
clock is going,' whereas it is standing still all the time. 'Go' may
mean 'to die,' as in the phrase (he is going)--to succeed (the scheme
did not go)--to fare (how goes it?)--to release (let go my hand)--it
may mean a misfortune (here's a pretty go)--or an attempt (let's have a
go at it)--or----"
"Please, that's enough," cried Violette, "my poor head is in a whirl
already. Let us conclude the whole matter by saying that with a dozen
of these elastic Anglo-Saxon words of yours one may write a book and
express every sentence in Macaulay, Milton and Shakespeare."
"What a pretty wit," said Ridgeway, laughing. "The remarkable thing
about the English language," he added, "is that all the words which we
use most are not to be found in any dictionary."
Violette opened her eyes in amazement.
"It's a fact, I assure you, mademoiselle."
"What a dreadful language," she replied, "I had no idea English was so
difficult. How on earth is the ordinary person to learn it?"
"One does not learn it," said Charley, "it just grows on one. If you
try to learn English you never will. The professors of English who are
paid to teach you don't know the words themselves, that is, the really
useful ones, such as, 'awful,' 'jolly,' 'ripping,' 'rot,' 'blooming,'
and thousands of others, and even in the very best French dictionaries
you will find the English equivalent which is given, as something which
has not the remotest connection with the word you have looked up."
"Surely you are joking, monsieur," she replied.
"Not in the least I assure you," he answered. "I see you have a Gasc's
pocket dictionary, mademoiselle, which is one of the very best. Do me
the favour to turn up the word 'cad.'"
Violette did so and read out, "cad--conducteur d' omnibus."
"There you are," he replied, "what did I tell you? Suppose an
unfortunate and harmless Frenchman arriving for the first time in
London, were to rely on the dictionary and address the conductor of
the first 'bus he entered as a cad, by George, he would probably find
himself the next moment rolling in the gutter with the conductor on
the top of him, and his only excuse would be that he trusted to the
dictionary."
Violette looked at him with a mingled expression of amazement and doubt
as to whether he was serious or not, and then glanced at her father who
was snoring in the corner of the carriage, with a night-cap tied over
his ears, while Madame Beaupaire was taking stock of Charley by the aid
of a gold-mounted pair of lorgnettes attached to a long tortoise-shell
handle.
"Evidently you zink ze English language ees vastly superior to ours,
monsieur," said madame, who had spent a summer in England, and picked
up enough English to understand the drift of what he had been saying.
"Well, to be candid I do. Just think of its range. Our new dictionary
contains a million and a half of words, whereas your language has
only----"
"Oh, come on, Charley, don't pull her leg," said Ridgeway.
"Sir!" said madame, sitting bolt upright, and surveying him through her
hand magnifiers, "you insult me."
"A thousand pardons, madame. What I said was only a colloquial
expression for pulling the long bow."
"Pulling ze vot?" she enquired somewhat suspiciously.
"Pulling the long bow--another colloquial expression much employed
by Englishmen. It merely implied a caution to my young friend not to
exaggerate so much. I assure you, my dear madame, the remark I uttered
had no reference whatever to your legs."
"My vot, sir? I think you are egstremely rude."
"Pray forgive me, madame, I crave your indulgence. May I substitute for
the word 'legs,' 'inferior extremities,' or lower limbs?"
Madame got very wrath and turned herself half round, and looked out of
the opposite window. Beaupaire had just woken up, and catching the last
sentence burst out into a hearty laugh, which had the effect of making
his better half still more angry.
"How can you be so cruel as to laugh at me, Jean," she said to her
husband, "when you see me insulted like this? Have you no feelings
left?"
"Pray calm yourself, my dear. Our friend has not the slightest
intention of insulting you. I know the expression well, it is perfectly
'en regle.'"
Madame tossed her head as much as to say "I don't believe you a bit."
"Besides," she added, "it is not your place to instruct me in English,
and I"--with rising voice--"I vill not sit here quietly vile those
impudent Englishmen are insulting me and my daughter."
Beaupaire looked at Ridgeway, and gave a wink and a little chuckle half
to himself.
"Don't mind her," he whispered to Ridgeway, as he offered him a
cigarette, "the old lady is first rate when you get to know her,
but she is a great stickler for etiquette--Spanish, you know--very
proud--sixteen quarterings--father a Don--seventh cousin of the King of
Spain--and all that sort of thing."
Ridgeway nodded.
"Ha! ha!" continued Beaupaire, laughing, "what you were just saying to
madame reminds me of an anecdote of Philip the Second of Spain. It is
said that when his first wife was coming to Madrid to be married to him
she was met at the frontier by an escort of grandees, and was treated
with all the stiff ceremonies of the Spanish Court. The lady had
occasion to mention her legs during the conversation, and was at once
rebuked by the Grand Chamberlain appointed to wait on her. 'Madame,'
he said, 'the Queen of Spain is not permitted to have any legs.' On
hearing this the good dame burst into tears, thinking it would be
necessary to have them amputated. However, the Grand Chamberlain
explained to her with profound genuflexions and much bowing, that it
was highly impolite even to suggest that so exalted a personage as her
prospective Majesty could possibly possess such parts of her anatomy.
When this story was related to the King, it is said to have been the
only occasion when that fanatical and gloomy monarch was ever seen to
laugh."
Mr. Ridgeway was interrupted by the sudden noise of the brakes--z ... z
... z ... z ... z ... z ... Z ... Z ... Z ... sh ... sh ... sh ... sH
... sh ... SH ... H ... H ... H ... H.
The train pulled up in the station just two hours after leaving Paris.
"La Roche," shouted the guard. "Cinque minutes d'arrêt."
It was the first stop. Marcel was snoring vigorously notwithstanding
the noise.
Riche woke up with the sudden cessation of movement and the noise of
the brakes against the wheels. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with his
knuckles.
The door opened, and a man with his buxom wife and two children began
climbing into the compartment.
"Sh--h," said Riche stepping up to the door and putting his fingers to
his lips. "You can't come in, my friend down here has just had a fit.
He is subject to sudden outbursts of madness, and might kill you at any
moment."
Marcel had just awoke and managed to catch the last sentence of his
friend. A quiet smile flitted across his lips, and he closed his eyes
again.
The parents exchanged glances as the guard was pushing them in.
"Be quick and get in," said the guard.
"Mais, monsieur, we dare not. This gentleman says his friend is lying
down in a fit, and he is quite mad."
The guard hesitated for a moment, and was about to go and call the
station master, when Dr. Riche handed him his card. It bore the
inscription:--
[Illustration: DOCTEUR RICHE.
CHIRURGIEN A L'HOPITAL,
ALGER.]
engraved in bold letters. The card decided matters at once, and the
guard pushing the family away, closed the door and locked it at the
doctor's request.
"Riche," said Marcel the moment the guard had left, "you are a brick.
We can now sleep undisturbed until we get to Marseilles."
The next morning they arrived at Marseilles, and everybody got out to
stretch their legs and enjoy a good cup of café au lait at the buffet.
The party had a refreshing wash and brush up to enable them to enjoy
the delightful sea views of the Côte d'Azur.
It was the early part of the afternoon when the train pulled up at
Beaulieu. They drove to the Hotel des Anglais, somewhat tired but in
the best of spirits.
The feelings of Céleste and Renée on seeing the Côte d'Azur for the
first time cannot be described. The balmy air was filled with the
delicious perfumes of a million flowers and fields of new-mown hay.
They saw the deep blue sky paling to a delicate turquoise where it
touched the sea at the horizon. They saw the water scintillating with
the sunlight, and its placid surface broken by the white crests of the
countless waves. What delighted them most was the exquisite blending
of colours, the variations of light and shade, and the luxuriance
and wonderful variety of the foliage. Here they saw the loveliest
forms of tropical foliage side by side with the more familiar but not
less beautiful trees of central and northern Europe. The flowers of
the whole world seemed to contribute to the enchanting loveliness of
the scene. They saw dense forests of fragrant pine trees, woodland
footpaths lined with the sweet alyssum, resembling drifts of scented
snow, while the thyme and rosemary formed fragrant patches over the
stony sides of the mountains. Higher up the slopes luxuriant groves of
pistacia lentiscus or mastic trees could be seen, and bushes of the
members of the quassia family, such as the cneorum tricoccum, with its
curious triple clusters of berries. In the distance rose the beautiful
Mount Boron crowned with the Fort of Montalban, and its slopes covered
with tall cistus trees. Dotted here and there were charming villas
with delightful gardens, intoxicating the senses with the perfume of
lemon and orange. Occasionally the carouba tree could be seen with its
wonderful locust-bean pods credited with being the staple food of John
the Baptist.
Scattered up and down were olive trees, hoary with age, their trunks
knotted and gnarled and twisted like the limbs of caliban. Quite close
to Beaulieu they saw sheltered footpaths with hedges on either side
lined with roses and geraniums. To the west was the Bay of Villefranche
with small gunboats and yachts rocking placidly in the harbour.
"Surely," said the professor, "these must be the gardens of Alcinous
with their perpetual summer hemmed in by the mighty salient battlements
which form the vanguard of the Alpine chain."
As the members of the party were retiring for the night, Monsieur
Beaupaire, who had caught a slight chill on the chest, in spite of what
Charley had told him the day before, developed a fit of uncontrollable
coughing accompanied with a feeling of oppression on the chest. Dr.
Villebois immediately offered his services, which were accepted with
gratitude. He prescribed a cough mixture, and ordered a mustard plaster
to be applied for five minutes over the whole of the chest.
"Doctor," said Violette, putting her arms in a coaxing way on his
shoulders, "may I prepare the plaster myself, as I have done it many
times before, and I know so well how to do it."
"Certainly," said Villebois, "nobody could do it better, get it by all
means, and put it on as soon as your father is comfortably settled in
bed."
Violette, as soon as she had obtained the ingredients, set to work to
prepare the plaster. It was quite late by this time, and the messenger
had great difficulty in finding a chemist's shop open, to have the
medicine made up.
Violette loved nursing and felt a keen pleasure in doctoring her
father. She acted on the principle that if one dose will do a
certain amount of good, two doses ought to do twice the benefit, and
accordingly she spread a very liberal amount of mustard on the linen.
When all was ready she went upstairs to his bedroom, but by this
time all the lights were turned off, and she crept cautiously along
the passage to his room. She opened the door, and a faint light just
enabled her to see where her father was sleeping. He was snoring away
apparently in a delightful dream, and Violette, unwilling to awake him,
did not turn up the light. So in the semi-darkness she tenderly laid
bare his chest, and carefully spread the plaster over the surface. The
sufferer uttered a groan, but did not wake. Violette wrapped him up
snugly and bent down and gave her father a kiss on his forehead, when
the light becoming suddenly brighter, she perceived to her horror that
it was not her father at all, but Marcel. Terrified at her mistake
she gave a little scream, and ran out of the room, the perspiration
streaming from her forehead.
"Oh! dear, oh! dear," she exclaimed, "whatever shall I do? Here I have
gone into Marcel's room, and kissed him on the forehead and put a huge
mustard plaster on his chest, and now I dare not take it off again for
fear of waking him up. Oh! what will become of me?" Violette was in
despair. Heartily wishing the ground would open and swallow her up, she
walked up and down the passage wringing her hands in an agony of mind,
and wondering what the end of it all would be. At length Violette went
to her bedroom, and falling on her knees burst into a flood of tears.
But her tears were soon over as the absurdity of the situation dawned
on her. A few minutes later she undressed and was soon in the arms of
Morpheus, quite oblivious of the mischief she was creating. Violette
had not been in bed more than half an hour when she was awakened by
hearing the most appalling noise. Somebody was shouting at the top of
his voice, "Help! Help! Murder! Fire! Thieves!" Hastily putting on her
slippers and dressing-gown, she ran into the passage. By this time
the entire establishment was aroused, and men and women attired in
all sorts of costumes came hurrying up the stairs to see what all the
row was about. Mine host flew to the fire alarm and rang up the fire
brigade without waiting to ascertain the real cause of the mischief.
At the same time the portier telephoned to the police. The hubbub and
confusion increased every moment. Waiters flew wildly up and down
stairs, each one asking his neighbour what all the noise was about.
A few minutes later a fire engine came dashing up and half a dozen
firemen with their hatchets and brass helmets ran up the stairs
followed by three or four gendarmes in uniform. The proprietor ran
towards them with his arms outstretched gesticulating wildly. Violette,
who was standing in front of her door, looked up and saw the gentleman
who was the author of all the scene rush past her clad in pajamas with
an embroidered cap ornamented with a gold tassel, and almost flinging
himself into the arms of the landlord. "Voilà!" he shouted, "see
what some miscreant has done to me," and he laid bare his chest all
blazing red and fearfully inflamed with the mustard, while he shook
the offending plaster in monsieur's face. Violette caught sight of his
face. Oh, horror, it was Marcel sure enough, his eyes gleaming, his
face flushed, and shouting with a voice almost inarticulate with rage
and pain.
"If I can only lay my hands on the scoundrel who has done it, I will
flay him alive no matter who he may be."
Violette turned scarlet and looked away for fear he should see her. She
hurried back to her bedroom and sank down on the sofa, asking herself
how she ever dare face him again, and wondering whether he would ever
forgive her if he found her out. What added to her misery was that she
felt in her heart she really cared for him. At length a feeling of
weariness overcame her, and crawling into bed she soon fell asleep.