“I insist on knowing what is the matter, Beppo?” The Countess Polda
gazed apprehensively at her son. Not even when he had been going through
acute money trouble had he looked as moody and miserable as he looked
now.
He had just arrived at La Solitude to hear that Lily had gone off to the
Convalescent Home for the morning.
“I do not know that very much is the matter,” he answered deliberately,
“but perhaps I ought to tell you that I fear you are going to have a big
disappointment. As you are such a clever woman, as well as an
unscrupulous woman,” he laughed disagreeably, “very often what you
desire to happen _does_ happen. But as regards Lily Fairfield you are
destined to meet with failure.”
The Countess felt a shock go through her. Instinctively she put her hand
on her heart. But she answered him at once, in a calm, good-humoured
tone:
“You are such a child, Beppo! And like most young men you are vain and
impatient. I never supposed that Lily would fall into your arms at once,
as no doubt a great many pretty ladies have done ere now! Believe me,
when you are married to her you will be glad that she was not what you
want to find her now—eager and ready to be made love to. Perhaps without
knowing it you have startled her. English girls are sometimes very
prudish, you know.”
The Countess was looking fixedly at her son, and she saw that she had
guessed right. They had evidently had some kind of a scene yesterday.
“I allowed you to behave _à l’Anglaise_,” she went on—“I mean taking
those walks and drives together—because I thought I could trust to your
good sense. But I fear I was wrong, Beppo.”
“I lose my head when I am with Lily!” he exclaimed. “Her coldness
excites me! I do not want to make a mystery about it, mamma. I see you
have guessed that I was a fool!”
As he saw a look of keen dismay come over her face, he added lightly:
“Nothing very much happened. But yes, it is true that while we were out
yesterday we had something of a quarrel. I told her that if she refused
to let me kiss her I would send the car over the edge of the precipice!”
He saw the colour recede from his mother’s face. She suddenly looked
like an old woman—old, and desperately tired. He felt queerly touched.
“Come, come, mamma, don’t be frightened! Years ago, when I was younger,
I might have been so mad, but I am an older and a wiser man now.”
“Then you did not kiss her?”
“No, mamma; I could have done so, as, of course, she was at my mercy.
But—well,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I never have kissed an unwilling
woman.”
“Her conduct is strange,” said the Countess thoughtfully, “for she
certainly seems to like you.” The speaker still felt very shaky, but she
was trying to pull herself together.
“I wonder if it has ever occurred to you,” said Beppo, “that there is
already a man in Lily’s life? I taunted her—for, mamma, I quite lost my
head—and now, looking back, I remember that she said nothing. She did
not deny it—as a modest girl would have done.”
As the Countess remained silent, he went on:
“In one of your letters you said that Lily had solemnly assured you she
was not engaged, and that you believed this to be the truth. But mamma,
has it ever occurred to you that the curious, silent young man, that
Captain Stuart who is staying down at the Hôtel de Paris, may be in love
with her? If he were a Frenchman I would call him out,” added Beppo
fiercely. “We would have a duel, and I would kill him!”
“The girl hardly knows him,” she said slowly.
“I cannot help suspecting that I have a rival! Yet till yesterday I
would have sworn that she was as pure as the flower from which she takes
her name!”
“You can still swear that,” said the Countess firmly.
She made up her mind to remain absolutely silent as to the little she
knew about Angus Stuart and his friendship with Lily Fairfield. After
all, there was only that letter—that rather short, formal letter,
enclosing those notes on the writer’s life. Still, she had thought of
that letter and of those notes very often, as she had watched the girl
during the last few days, much as a big, wily cat watches an
unsuspecting mouse. She was fairly sure that Lily had not sent any
letter out of the house, apart from the one she had written to her
uncle. It was true that the girl went to meet the postman every morning,
but in Monaco postmen are not allowed to take letters to the post, and
the post-box was some way down the hill. The Countess was certain that
Lily had not been down there alone during the last few days.
Still, the thought that her carefully-laid plans for her son’s happiness
and prosperity might go wrong because of a silly flirtation between Lily
Fairfield and a casual train acquaintance made the Countess Polda feel
as if she would go mad with disappointment and rage. She began to hate
the girl whom only the previous morning she had almost loved.
“Beppo,” she said, and her voice trembled, “do you truly love Lily
Fairfield?”
“Yes, I love her,” he said sombrely. “And I have never wanted anything
so much, mamma. It is quite true that her money—if, indeed, she is
certain to have the fortune in which you so confidently believe—would
transform my life from that of an adventurer to that of a successful and
happy man,”—he was speaking very seriously now. “But, apart from that
fortune, even with only the few thousands we know she possesses, I would
accept her as a gift from Heaven, on my knees!”
And if rather ashamed of the emotion he had shown, he added in a lighter
tone: “It is time that I settled down. Livia Pescobaldi is always urging
me to do so! She was disappointed that I did not marry that ugly
American girl last winter.”
There was a pause, and then the Countess said solemnly:
“Has your mother ever failed you, Beppo?”
He was startled, and again he felt oddly moved.
“No, mamma. You’ve performed wonders! And I’ve often racked my brains to
know how you did it!”
“I promise you that Lily Fairfield will _in time_ be your wife. But do
not be in too great a hurry, my son. Carry out your plan of going to
Rome in two or three days, and stay away a little longer than you at
first intended to do. Then come back, but not to La Solitude; go to the
Hôtel Hidalgo——”
“I am sick of the Hidalgo!” he exclaimed. “If I do what you wish, mamma,
I shall ask Madame Sansot to put me up again at the Utrecht Hotel.”
“Not the Utrecht Hotel!” cried his mother hastily. “Surely you have
never stayed there? It is a very common, low kind of place.”
“I slept there last night,” said Beppo quickly. “And perhaps because,
thanks to you, I now have all that money, mamma, I have become a miser!
I want to take care of this money—to make use of it. I do not want it to
slip away in hotel bills!”
“It will not slip away,” said his mother quietly. “And thanks to this
money, there is no need for undue haste. I swear to you, Beppo, that if
you are patient you will win Lily at last.”
“Perhaps you are right, mamma—you are so often right! I will go back to
where I started with Lily. She told me not many days ago that I was
almost her ideal of—what do you think, mamma?”
“Tell me?” cried the Countess eagerly.
“Of a brother—only that!” he laughed rather harshly. “At any rate she
shall be my dear little sister till I go away the day after to-morrow.”
“And do not give a jealous thought to that dull Scotsman,” said his
mother lightly. “His French friend is going back to Paris very soon, and
I have an idea that he will then go away, too. Without being vain you
can tell yourself, Beppo, that you are very much more attractive than
Captain Angus Stuart!”
He was surprised to hear her pronounce so easily the curious Scottish
name.
“I am not really jealous of the man. She hardly knows him—I know that,”
he said in a satisfied tone.
And his mother was glad indeed that she had not told him the little that
she knew.
“You have made me feel quite happy again mamma! I know that you are
right, and that I was a fool to be so impatient. But it is hard to be
forced to go slow, as the English say, when one adores a woman!”
Beppo put his arms round his mother and gave her an affectionate kiss.
“There is no one in the world like my mamma.” He said contentedly. There
was a moment’s pause, then: “Would you advise me to go to the
Convalescent Home now, this morning, as I did the other day?”
“No,” said his mother, without hesitation. “I think that would be a
mistake.”
“By the way, there is something I can do to fill in the time till she
returns!” he exclaimed. “The Utrecht Hotel”—he did not see just a quiver
of discomfort and anxiety cross his mother’s face as he uttered the
name—“the Utrecht Hotel,” he repeated, “is in the most tremendous state
of excitement! There was an eccentric old man staying there who
disappeared mysteriously some days ago. Well, mamma, his body has been
found! I had a most interesting talk about the whole thing with
Bouton—you know, the Chief Commissioner of Police. He and that man
Popeau are much excited about the matter. For it appears that the old
man was no gambler. He was a strange old fellow, and always carried an
enormous sum of money about his person—some of it sewn up in his
clothes. Well, though Mme. Sansot swears she never told anyone the fact
it evidently became known to some band of robbers. He was waylaid——”
“A sadly common story,” observed the Countess. She was staring across
the lawn towards the sea, and she spoke in an indifferent tone of voice,
as if thinking of something else.
Beppo felt rather put out.
“The body was found very near _here_,” he said impressively.
“Near here?” she repeated mechanically.
“Yes, mamma, close to that place where there is a spring under the
ground. But for the accident that the owner of the land there had to
move some hurdles, the body might have lain undiscovered for months.”
“That is certainly curious!” exclaimed his mother. She had turned away,
and was obviously about to go indoors.
“Let me tell you the rest of the story,” pleaded Beppo eagerly. “It is
really very interesting—and full of curious, mysterious points.”
His mother turned and looked at him. “Tell me quickly, dear child, for I
have things to do this morning.”
He went on, eagerly: “Mme. Sansot did tell the police of the old man’s
disappearance; but he was so exceedingly eccentric, and paid his bill
from day to day—so the police made up their minds that he had slipped
off to Nice. The shabby portmanteau which he left at the hotel—I was
shown it this morning—was not worth more than thirty or forty francs and
only had a change of linen in it, and an old pair of boots.”
“Pray do not talk of this painful affair before your father,” said the
Countess in a low voice. “And I need hardly warn you not to say anything
about it before Lily either.”
“I don’t see why I should not tell papa,” said Beppo quickly. “I think
it would interest him very much. There is nothing more exciting, mamma,
than a murder mystery. I confess that among the most interesting hours
of my life were those spent by me at the Murri trial. You will remember
that Livia was determined to go to it, and that I escorted her on that
occasion.”
“Yes, and I thought it horrible that a woman should wish to be in any
way associated with such an affair!” exclaimed the Countess. “It is one
of the things about our dear Livia that I have always remembered with
distaste and disapproval.”
The young man shrugged his shoulders. He was sorry he had mentioned the
Marchesa Pescobaldi.
“Your father is not well,” went on the Countess, “and I should not like
him to hear, even less to see, anything of a painful nature.”
“He is bound to hear of it,” said Beppo positively. “The whole of the
Condamine is ringing with the story. You see, it is not in any way mixed
up with the Casino, and therefore no great effort is being made to hush
the matter up. However, I will do as you wish—I will say nothing about
it. But you must permit _me_, mamma, to be interested in the affair! In
fact, with your permission, I shall go off now and investigate the spot
where the body was found.”
He waved his hand, and smiled at her, telling himself with a little pang
of concern, for he was an affectionate if a selfish son, that his mother
had grown very much older in the last two or three years. It was she who
looked ill to-day—not his good, easy-going papa.
And then, after he had disappeared round the edge of the terrace, the
Countess walked a little gropingly, as might have walked a blind woman,
through into the drawing-room.
There was no one there, and she gave an involuntary sigh of relief. She
had a disagreeable communication to make to her husband and to Cristina,
and she was glad that she would not have to make it at once. She was
going to propose something that she knew would annoy and frighten both
of her house-mates, and yet it was something which, though disagreeable,
had to be done. For the matter concerned Beppo—and would take a danger
and an obstacle out of her son’s way, make the future for Beppo smooth.
Surely Angelo would understand, and not involve her in a long, tiring
argument? Still, she would begin with Cristina.
She left the drawing-room, and went slowly to the tiny kitchen.
Cristina was sitting at the small table, doing nothing. She looked up
with unsmiling eyes at one whom she regarded as an intruder on her
domain.
And, on meeting that look, the Countess felt a pang of exasperation and
pain. It was not her fault that Cristina’s help was required! Often in
the past she had felt that she would have given anything in the world if
she could have carried through her schemes unaided. But there are things
which no woman, however clever, however determined, however physically
strong, can do alone. And the thing which the Countess had made up her
mind must be done within the next few days was one of those things in
which the co-operation of at least two other human beings was required.
Five minutes after the Countess had entered the kitchen she left it,
wiping a few drops from her forehead as she did so. She was not a
nervous woman, but the five minutes had tried her nerves severely. For
Cristina, to her horror and surprise, had begun by refusing to accede to
her wishes.
“I would rather kill myself!” the old woman had said. “And what is more,
I _will_ kill myself if you drive me too far! Whether I go to hell in
the next few days, or in the next few years, does not matter much to me.
For the matter of that, I am in hell already!”
And then, after the Countess had answered these wild, extravagant, and
foolish words very quietly, making an appeal to Cristina’s better
feelings, and to her love for Beppo, the other had bowed down her head
over the table, and, sobbing bitterly, had confessed herself conquered.
Yes, for one more time, she would do what was required of her. But it
must be the last time, for she was at the end of her strength.
“And what do you think _I_ feel?” the Countess had asked passionately.
And then she had gone into her own sitting-room and sat down.
Opening a drawer she took out of it a box of little heart pills, which
had been given her six years ago by the specialist at Marseilles whom
she had gone to consult about the state of her health. She took two of
these, waited for their effect to begin, and then, as she gradually
began to feel calmer, she got up and, opening the door, went upstairs to
find the Count. It had been her suggestion that the patience table
should be taken up there, so as to leave the drawing-room free for Beppo
and Lily to talk together in the odd English fashion.
Beppo would have been extremely surprised had he heard the words she
uttered as she entered the room where her husband sat playing patience.
Those words were:
“The body of Vissering has been found, Angelo. And we must be prepared
for some kind of interrogation. I do not feel we can absolutely trust
Mme. Sansot. She has been most sensible and most loyal up to now, but
still, one never knows——”
Count Polda got up—a sure sign of agitation with him—and came towards
her.
“It is no use to build a bridge for trouble,” he said slowly. “Unlike
you, I am not afraid of Leonie Sansot. I think she will keep faith with
us. The more so that it would only be a complication were she now to
admit she had not told the truth at first! Also, she knows so very
little. Only that the old brute dined here the night he disappeared.”
His words consoled the Countess considerably. She suddenly made up her
mind that she would not tell him yet of the perilous task which lay just
in front of them. There would be time for that a little later on.
By the time her son and Lily came back to La Solitude, she was her own
genial, rather garrulous self again.