But next day all was radiant happiness and good humour—indeed, the whole
atmosphere of the Lonely House seemed transformed. Even Mimi looked as
if it knew of Beppo’s arrival, for the cat walked about purring, and for
once left the birds alone.
The night before, during dinner, Beppo had overcome his mother’s dislike
to leaving La Solitude.
“I won’t ask you to come often,” he said coaxingly. “But to-morrow we’ll
just have a nice little luncheon—you, and papa, and our charming English
cousin! The Pescobaldis are going out to lunch.”
As Beppo uttered the long, peculiar Italian name the Countess frowned
for the first time since her son’s arrival “Have _they_ come with you?”
she exclaimed, in a surprised, annoyed tone. “You did not say that they
were the friends who are staying with you at the Hidalgo Hotel!”
“Surely I did, mamma?” said the young man uncomfortably. “That is the
reason why I am at the Hidalgo instead of here.”
There was a pause, and then Aunt Cosy turned to Lily.
“It will interest you to meet the Marchesa Pescobaldi,” she observed.
“She is a very charming and clever woman. It would, perhaps, be unkind
to add that the Marchesa has the unfortunate reputation of possessing
the evil eye.”
Now it was Beppo’s turn to frown, and a very angry look came over his
good-looking face and brilliant, piercing blue eyes.
“It is very wrong of you to say that to Lily!” he exclaimed. “You must
understand”—he turned rather quickly to the girl—“that in Italy any
person is said to have the evil eye who even for a moment is disliked by
the speaker. It is a malicious thing to say! Let us be frank, as you say
in England. Mamma does not like my friend; therefore she attributes to
her the evil eye—that is all!”
Poor Lily felt desperately uncomfortable, so she wisely said nothing. As
for the Countess, she burst out into some bitter laughter.
“Beppo does right to defend the Marchesa,” she said sarcastically, “for
the lady’s husband is his greatest friend.”
“Cosy, Cosy!” interposed Count Polda, “you forget that the Pescobaldis
are connections of ours.”
* * * * *
By eleven o’clock they were all three ready, Lily wearing her new coat
and skirt and becoming little hat. The Countess called Cristina to see
how pretty the girl looked, and Lily could not help feeling grateful and
touched. What a queer mixture Aunt Cosy was! A mixture of generosity and
meanness, of good humour and frightful temper, of kindliness and
spitefulness.
When Beppo arrived they were taken by surprise, for, according to his
mother, he was most unpunctual.
“Come quick!”, he called out. “The Pescobaldis are waiting for us in the
car. We shall all drive together to Eze, where they are going to lunch
with some friends who have a villa there, and then we four will go for a
delightful little drive, and end up at the restaurant of the Hôtel de
Paris.”
It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, the air was full of an
exquisite limpidity, and Lily, as she walked out of the drawing-room and
joined Beppo on the lawn, feeling perhaps a little self-conscious in her
new coat and skirt and smart hat, told herself that “all this” was great
fun!
She could not but be aware that Beppo was looking at her with a bolder,
franker admiration in his eyes than any Englishman or even Frenchman
would have done.
They hurried down through the orange grove, to see on the clearing,
which always recalled to the girl the dreadful morning when she had
found George Ponting’s body, a large open touring-car, in which were
seated a lady and a gentleman.
As they emerged from the wood, the lady stood up—and Lily gazed at the
most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
The Marchesa Pescobaldi was tall and slender, her face was a perfect
oval, and her complexion had a delicate, camelia-like bloom, while her
silvery grey hair was abundant, and beautifully dressed.
She looked neither old nor young. Her glorious beauty might almost have
been described as of an ageless type. As for her grey hair, it set off
her flawless complexion, and intensified the dark fire of her large
eyes. She made Lily feel curiously young and unimportant.
As the Count and Countess appeared she called out the English word
“Welcome!” and then she threw a long, intense, critical glance at Lily
Fairfield.
The English girl made a very dainty and delightful picture against the
dark-green, glossy leaves, and the Marchesa Pescobaldi noticed that she
walked with a graceful, assured carriage. For a long flashing moment
Lily’s hazel eyes and the full, dark, brilliant orbs of the older woman
crossed like swords, and Lily felt a queer thrill go through her as she
remembered what Aunt Cosy had said. Had the Marchesa really the evil
eye.
Lily looked shyly at the man who was evidently the owner of the car. The
Marchese Pescobaldi was very thin and very yellow—much, indeed, Lily’s
idea of what an Italian nobleman would look like. He seemed in a great
hurry to be off, and they all settled down into the car very quickly,
the three ladies behind, the three men in front. The Marchesa sat
between the Countess and Lily, and soon they were whirling on, sometimes
zig-zagging along rather rough roads, Beppo driving with great skill and
judgment.
Lily sat well back, enjoying the drive, while her two companions talked
together, speaking very quickly in French. Now and again she caught a
word or two of what they were saying in the rushing wind.
But she was not thinking of the Countess Polda and of the Italian lady
who now sat next to her. She was wondering, with a touch of discomfort,
how she could manage, now that Beppo was here, to communicate with M.
Popeau and Captain Stuart. Somehow she felt that it would not be as easy
as it had been hitherto. Perhaps she might write M. Popeau a little
note, saying how very grateful she was for all his kindness over the sad
business in which they had been so curiously associated, and explaining
that, owing to Count Beppo’s arrival, she was likely to be a good deal
engaged the next few days.
Suddenly they came to a yellow marshy piece of ground, and the motor
sank in the quaking mud. Beppo stopped the motor dead for a few moments.
Then it was that Lily heard the following little snatch of conversation
between the two who were sitting next to her.
“All I ask is, are you really satisfied about the only thing that
matters—the money?” asked the Marchesa in French, “Can you swear this on
the head of the person in whom we both take an interest? If yes, then
instead of hindering you, I shall try in every way to further the
affair.”
The question, or series of questions, were uttered in a low and quick
but very clear voice.
There was a pause, and then came the answer, uttered solemnly, “I swear
to you that the money is assured, Livia.”
It was the first time Lily Fairfield had ever heard the woman she called
Aunt Cosy give a short, direct reply to any question, but it was not the
first time by any means that she had been as if compelled to note the
extraordinary importance foreigners seemed to attach to the possession
of money! Lily could never get accustomed to this peculiarity in either
Aunt Cosy or Uncle Angelo. And how this haughty and evidently very rich
Italian lady was talking in just the same way—as if money was the only
thing that mattered in life.
The motor started off again, and after a few more minutes’ delicious
rush through the scented air it drew up before the gates of a large
villa.
Everyone stood up: the Countess Polda, indeed, stepped out of the car in
order that the Marchesa might get down more comfortably.
And then once more Lily told herself that she had never seen such a
beautiful woman as was this Marchesa Pescobaldi! She was dressed in a
severely simple black cloth coat and skirt, but that only emphasised the
graceful, supple lines of her tall figure. There was also a wonderful
look of health and of power about her whole appearance. Yet she did not
look happy, or at ease. She looked bored and cross, and while she waited
for the two men she tapped her arched right foot impatiently.
Beppo Polda accompanied his friends a few yards up the path which led to
the villa, and Lily, as she gazed at the group, could not help thinking
what a fine, strong young man he looked compared with his thin,
dried-up-looking Italian friend.
At last he stayed his steps, and, turning, said something to the
Marchesa. She held out her hand, and he lifted it up to his lips, and
respectfully kissed it.
Then he hurried back to the car.
Waiting till the Pescobaldis were well out of earshot: “Now, Lily,” he
cried out gaily, “come and sit by me, pretty cousin! I’m going to take
you all just a little round before we go to the Hôtel de Paris for
luncheon. Papa, do you mind sitting by mamma?”
The Count got into the back of the car by his wife, and Lily took the
place in front. Somehow she now felt exhilarated and pleasantly at ease.
The Marchesa’s personality had affected her disagreeably.
As they drove along, Beppo talked to her with eager animation, telling
her all sorts of curious, interesting, and yet, amusing things, about
the places they passed. She learnt more from him in half an hour about
this quaint and beautiful part of the Riviera than she had learnt from
his father and mother all the time she had been at La Solitude.
At last they turned round, and swept down into Monte Carlo. “The
Marchesa’s chauffeur will take over the car and then come back for us in
an hour,” said Beppo.
“Have you ordered luncheon?” his mother inquired.
“Mamma! Of course I’ve ordered a very nice luncheon, including the
lobster _à la sauce verte_ of which you are so fond! Neither have I
forgotten papa’s spaghetti. But as something tells me that cousin Lily
and I have the same tastes, we are going to share a delicious _sole à la
Monte Carlo_.”
When the little party walked through into what has become one of the
most famous restaurants in the world, it was clear that Count Beppo
Polda enjoyed there a high reputation as host. The head waiter himself
marshalled them to a light, well-placed table, where they could see
everything without being themselves overlooked or overheard.
There were comparatively few people lunching, for Monte Carlo, like the
rest of the Continent, gets later and later each year as to its hours
and habits. But all at once Lily’s heart gave a leap, for she saw some
way off, seated at a little table for two, the man whom she by now
always affectionately called in her own mind “Papa Popeau.” He was with
a stranger, and she felt just a little disappointed.
Yet Lily was not particularly anxious that Count Beppo and Captain
Stuart should meet. They were so very different—something seemed to tell
her that they would not get on together, and, after all, Beppo’s visit
to Monte Carlo was to be only for a few days.
Little by little the great room began to fill, and the Countess was soon
making shrewd and not over-kindly remarks about some of the people
coming in.
Lily was amused to notice how interested Aunt Cosy was in
everybody—their appearance, their jewels, their clothes, their manners!
She was evidently much enjoying her little outing, and Beppo’s knowledge
of her taste was well shown by the eager satisfaction with which she ate
the lobster he had thoughtfully ordered for her.
But though the Countess ate heartily, she also talked a great
deal—indeed, most of the conversation was carried on by her and by her
son.
Count Polda remained quite silent, though his observant eyes often
became closely fixed on some individual who in Lily’s eyes looked
particularly uninteresting, for almost always the person in question was
a man. Once he stared with a strange intentness at a rather
curious-looking individual.
“Look,” he exclaimed, and it was the first time he had broken
silence—“Look, Cosy! There is the great Chicago Sausage King! He is one
of the richest men in the world!”
Aunt Cosy glanced sharply at the individual in question. Then she looked
away, and began talking of something else.
As for Lily, she was now feeling quite gay and quite cheerful. Her share
of the luncheon was proving delicious, and the brilliance and lightsome
charm of the scene about her delighted all her senses. Also, she could
not help feeling just a little happier for the proximity of good Papa
Popeau. Now and again she would find his eyes fixed on their little
party, always with a benevolent, inquiring, kindly, interested glance.
She hoped, with all her heart, that he would come up and speak to them.
At last they reached the coffee stage of their déjeuner and at the same
moment the man who had been Hercules Popeau’s guest got up and, shaking
hands with his host, left the restaurant. M. Popeau signed his bill, and
then he threaded his way slowly between the now very crowded tables to
where Count Beppo’s party were seated.
The Countess greeted him effusively. “Let me present my son to you,” she
cried. “Beppo! This is a gentleman who was remarkably kind to Lily on
her long and disagreeable journey from Paris.”
Count Polda and Count Beppo, who had both risen courteously from their
seats, exclaimed almost together: “Do have your coffee with us—or have
you already had it?”
“I have had my coffee,” said M. Popeau amiably. “But I will, with your
permission, sit down for a few minutes. It is a pleasure to see Miss
Fairfield again. We met last under such very different circumstances!”
Lily saw a look of apprehension and unease come over both the Count and
Countess’s faces, and she thought it a little tactless of her French
friend to remind them all at such a pleasant moment as this of poor
George Ponting and his piteous fate.
All? No, of course, Beppo knew nothing about that tragic Ponting affair.
“I suppose Mademoiselle is the first lady who has ever stayed for as
long as a fortnight at Monte Carlo without going into the Casino,” said
M. Popeau, smiling.
“Have you never been to the Rooms?” exclaimed Beppo. He seemed quite
shocked. “What a pity it is that I cannot take you in there this
afternoon. But, alas! I have to go back to Eze. I promised my friends
that I would do so.”
“I can go to the Casino any time,” said Lily, laughing. “There’s no
hurry at all—though, of course, I should be sorry to leave Monte Carlo
without having seen anything of the famous gambling-rooms.”
“I was going to propose,” said M. Popeau, quietly, “that _I_ escort
Mademoiselle to the Casino this afternoon. I know that the Count and
Countess, being residents, cannot have the privilege.”
Lily looked eagerly at Aunt Cosy, and, to her secret astonishment, the
latter nodded quite amiably. M. Popeau offered Count Polda a cigar, and
then Beppo took something out of his pocket and held it out, smiling, to
Lily. “Even a baby,” he said, “could smoke one of these cigarettes!”
Lily bent forward eagerly, and then her face changed utterly, and, with
a gasp of amazement, she uttered a low, involuntary “Oh!”
Yes, she could not be mistaken. What lay on the white tablecloth before
her was surely the exquisitely-chased little gold box which she had last
seen held out to her by George Ponting?
She bent down, lower and lower, regardless of the people about her. Yes,
there was now no doubt at all, for inside the pale gold lid were
engraved the words: “Mon cœur à toi. Ma vie au Roi.”
But so little do those about us realise of what we are thinking that
only Hercules Popeau noticed the girl’s agitation. As for Beppo, he
laughed and said: “Yes, these are what would be called in England midget
cigarettes, are they not?”
It was clear that he had taken Lily’s exclamation of surprise as an
involuntary tribute to the daintiness of the quaint little cigarettes
which filled the one-time snuff-box. Lily was too surprised and
disturbed to speak: the sight of the gold box had brought with it a rush
of painful, distressing memories.
Hercules Popeau leant forward.
“You have there, my dear Count, a most delightful and valuable
cigarette-case,” he observed suavely. “If I mistake not, it is an
exquisite specimen of late eighteenth-century work. I remember once
seeing a curio extremely like this in a collection of pathetic little
objects which had belonged to Mme. du Barri. The snuff-box in question
had been given to her by King Louis the Fifteenth. May I look at it for
a moment?”
“Of course!” said Count Beppo courteously.
He pushed the box across the table, and M. Popeau took it up and
examined it closely.
“I see,” he said at last, “that it is not as I first thought! This box
is of rather later workmanship than I supposed. It was probably made
during the Revolution. Is it not strange to think that these costly and
exquisite objects were being fashioned even at such a time as that?”
He was obviously talking to give Lily time to recover her composure.
And then the Countess broke in: “My son is very clever at picking up
pretty things,” she said, smiling. “He bought that little box at an old
curiosity shop for a mere song—not that one gets very much nowadays
anywhere for a mere song! Is it not true,” she said, turning to Beppo,
“that the man who sold it to you said it was but silver gilt?”
Beppo looked surprised. “If I told you so, it is so, mamma. I cannot
remember,” he replied.
“I congratulate the Count on his find,” said M. Popeau gravely. “I
should like him to tell me in what shop in Monte Carlo he found such a
great bargain?”
The Countess answered for Beppo. “My son did not buy the box in Monte
Carlo,” she said quickly. “He got it—was it at Milan, Beppo?—last time
he was on his way to Monte Carlo.”
Lily felt bewildered but relieved. She had made a mistake, and so
obviously also had Papa Popeau. She felt sure that, like herself, he had
at first supposed this little gold box to have been the one belonging to
the unfortunate Ponting. If Beppo had bought what was now a
cigarette-case in Milan some time ago, its being exactly like Mr.
Ponting’s gold box was simply an amazing coincidence.
“While we are talking about the box we are forgetting the cigarettes,”
said Beppo. “Do allow me to tempt you, Cousin Lily!”
And Lily laughingly consented to be tempted. They were very mild little
cigarettes, far milder than those which she had occasionally smoked with
Uncle Tom—to Aunt Emmeline’s disapproval.
At last they all got up and began walking out of the restaurant, Beppo
leaving what seemed to Lily an enormous tip on the table. He explained,
smiling, that he had a bill, and so only paid once a week.
“That,” said M. Popeau civilly, “shows, M. le Comte, that your
reputation must indeed be high, for they have to be very careful here,
even with quite well-known people. Without being in the least dishonest,
it is so easy to find oneself cleared out at the tables, and then to
forget all about such an account as that of a restaurant.”
“They all know that my father is a native of Monaco,” said the young
man, rather shortly.
When they joined the others, M. Popeau said firmly: “I will now take
charge of Mademoiselle, and I promise to bring her back to La Solitude
at—shall I say—half-past four, Madame la Comtesse?”
“Yes,” said the Countess graciously, “that will do quite well. It is
very good of you to take my niece to the Rooms. I am sure that you,
Monsieur, will be quite as effective a guardian as I should be myself!
There are often very queer people in the gambling-rooms.”
“There are indeed,” said M. Popeau gravely, and there was no twinkle in
his eye. Frenchmen of his type are, as Captain Stuart had truly said,
extremely particular in this matter of a young girl’s surroundings and
reputation.
The big car was waiting for Count Beppo, and he put his parents into it
with great care and affection. “Now, I will drive you home,” he
exclaimed. Turning, he held out his hand to Lily. “I wish you and I
could meet later in the afternoon, after I have come back from Eze,” he
said hesitatingly. “About what time will you be leaving the Casino?”
But M. Popeau intervened. “I don’t think we can make any plan of that
sort,” he said; “we should only miss one another. I will take great care
of Miss Fairfield, and bring her up to La Solitude in good time.”