A BOX OF CIGARS
On the way up to Rome Hillard and his pupil had a second-class
compartment all to themselves. The train was a fast one; for the day of
slow travel has passed in Italy and the cry of speed is heard over the
land. The train stopped often and rolled about a good deal; but the
cushions were soft, and there was real comfort in being able to stretch
out full length. Hillard, having made this trip many times, took the
forward seat and fell into a doze.
Merrihew was like a city boy taking his first trip into the country. He
hung out of the window, and smoked and smoked. Whenever the train swept
round a curve he could look into the rear carriages; and the heads
sticking out of the thirds reminded him of chicken-crates. Never had he
seen such green gardens, such orange and lemon groves, such forests of
olives. Save that it was barren rock, not a space as broad as a man's
hand was left uncultivated; and not a farm which was not in good repair.
One saw no broken fences, no slovenly out-houses, no glaring
advertisements afield: nobody was asked impertinently if Soandso's soap
had been used that morning, nor did the _bambini_ cry for
soothing-syrups. Everything was of stone (for wood is precious in
Italy), generally whitewashed, and presenting the smiling countenance of
comfort and cleanliness. The Italian in the city is seldom clean; there,
it is so easy to lie in the gutters under the sun. Reared and bred in
laziness for centuries, dirt has no terrors, but water has. With his
brother in the country it is different. Labor makes him self-respecting.
Merrihew had seen so many dirty Sicilians and Neapolitans working on
American railways that he had come to the conclusion that Italy was the
most poverty-stricken country in the world. He was now forming new
opinions at the rate of one every hour.
How pretty were the peasants in the fields with their bright bits of
color, a scarlet shawl, a skirt of faded blue, a yellow kerchief round
the head! And the great white oxen at the plows! Sometimes he saw a
strange, phantom-like, walled town hanging to some cliffs far away. It
disappeared and reappeared and disappeared again. Never a chimney with
the curling black smoke of the factory did he see above any of these
clustered cities. When he recalled to mind the pall of soft-coal smoke
which hangs over the average American city, he knew that while Italy
might be cursed with poverty she had her blessing in fine clear skies.
And always, swinging down the great roads, he saw in fancy the ghosts of
armies, crusaders, mercenaries, feudal companies, crossbowmen, and
knights in mail.
It amused him to see the buxom women flagging the train at crossings.
And the little stations, where everybody rushed out to buy a drink of
bottled water! Suddenly the station-master struck a bell, the conductor
tooted a horn, and the engine's shrill whistle shrieked; and off they
flew again. No newsboy to bother one with stale gum, rank cigars,
ancient caramels and soiled novels; nothing but solid comfort. And oh!
the flashing streams which rushed under bridges or plunged alongside.
Merrihew's hand ached to hold a rod and whip the green pools where the
fallen olive leaves floated and swam like silver minnows. Half a dozen
times he woke Hillard to draw his attention to these streams. But
Hillard disillusioned him. Rarely were there any fish, nor were these
waters drinkable, passing as they did over immense beds of lime.
There was a change of cars at Rome and a wait of two hours. Hillard led
the way to a popular cafe in the Piazza delle Terme, near the station.
Here they lunched substantially. In that hour or so Merrihew saw more
varied uniforms than he had seen in all his past life; perambulating
parrakeets which glittered, smoked cigarettes or black cigars with
straws in them, and drank coffee out of tumblers. He readily imagined
that he was surrounded by enough dukes and princes and counts to run a
dozen kingdoms, with a few left over for the benefit of the American
market. He was making no mistakes now; he could distinguish a general
from a hotel concierge without the least difficulty.
And still Americans, everywhere Americans; rich and poor Americans, loud
and quiet Americans; Americans who had taste and education, and some who
had neither; well-dressed and over-dressed, obtrusive and unobtrusive,
parvenu and aristocrat. Once Merrihew saw a fine old gentleman wearing
the Honor Legion ribbon in his buttonhole, and his heart grew warm and
proud. Here was an order which was not to be purchased like the Order of
Leopold and the French Legion of Honor. To win this simple order a man
must prove his courage under fire, must be the author of an heroic
exploit on the battle-field. And besides, there was this advantage: to
servants in Europe a button or a slip of ribbon in the lapel signifies
an order, a nobility of one sort or another, and as a consequence they
treat the wearer with studied civility.
"I wish I had remembered," sighed Merrihew, after gazing at the old
gentleman.
"Remembered what?"
"Why, I've got a whole raft of medals I won at college. I could wear
them quite handily over here."
"Buy an order. Any pawnshop will have a few for sale. You could wear it
in Switzerland or France, and nobody would be any the wiser."
"But I'm serious."
"So am I."
Merrihew brightened, reached into a vest pocket, and to Hillard's horror
produced a monocle, which he gravely screwed in his eye.
"Where the--"
"Sh! If you make me laugh I'll drop it."
Merrihew stared about calmly and coldly, as he had seen some Englishmen
do. A waiter, seeing the sun flash on the circle of crystal, hurried
over, firmly believing he had been heliographed.
"_Niente_," said Merrihew, waving him aside. "You see?" he whispered to
Hillard, who was rather amused at this tomfoolery. "Brings 'em without a
word. Hanged if I don't wear it the rest of the trip. There's a
certain--whatdyecallit?--eclaw about the demmed thing."
"Wear it, by all means. You'll be as amusing as a comic weekly. But if
you ever drop it, I'll step on it accidentally."
"I can keep it in my eye all right," said Merrihew, "so long as I don't
laugh. Now, while there's time, let us see some of the sights; the
Golden House of Nero, for instance, and the Forum, the Colosseum, St.
Peter's and the Vatican; just a passing glance at a few things, as it
were." Merrihew as he spoke kept a sober countenance.
It deceived Hillard, who eyed him with unfeigned wonder, marveling that
any rational mind should even think of such a thing, much less propose
it.
"Why not run up to Venice and back?" he inquired sarcastically.
"Is it as far as that?" innocently. "Well, we'll make it just St.
Peter's and the Vatican."
"Impossible! In the hour we have left we can see nothing, positively
nothing. And even now we had better start for the station to get a
compartment before the rush. St. Peter's and the Vatican! You talk like
the Englishman who wanted to run over to San Francisco and back to
Philadelphia in the morning."
A grin now spread over Merrihew's face. Hillard scratched his chin
reflectively.
"I'll pay for the luncheon myself," he said.
"You had better. It was great sport to watch your face. I'll be in a
happy frame of mind all day now."
After luncheon Merrihew secretly bought two boxes of cigars to carry
along. They were good cigars and cost him fifteen dollars. He covered
them with some newspapers, and at the station succeeded by some
legerdemain in slipping them into one of his cases. Hillard would have
lectured him on his extravagance, and this was a good way to avoid it.
But some hours later he was going to be very sorry that he had not made
a confidant of his guide. Merrihew had never heard of the town of
Ventimiglia, which straddles the frontiers of France and Italy. As they
were boarding the train they noticed two gentlemen getting into the
forward compartment of the carriage.
"Humph! Our friend with the scar," said Hillard. "We do not seem able to
shake him."
"I'd like to shake him. He goes against the grain, somehow." Merrihew
swung into the compartment. "I wonder why the Sandfords dropped him?"
"For some good reason. They are a liberal pair, and if our friend
forward offended them, it must have been something deliberate and
outside the pale of forgiveness. But I should like to know where old
Giovanni is. I miss him."
"Poor devil!" said Merrihew with careless sympathy. It is easy to be
sympathetic with persons whose troubles are remote from our own.
The train started, and again they had the compartment.
"Monte Carlo! Gold, gold, little round pieces of gold!" Merrihew rubbed
his hands like the miser in _The Chimes of Normandy_.
"Hard to get and heavy to hold!" quoted Hillard. "I suppose that you
have a system already worked out."
"Of course. I shall win if I stick to it."
"Or if the money lasts. Bury your system, my boy. It will do you no
good. Trust to luck only. Monte Carlo is the graveyard of systems."
"But maybe my system is the one. You can't tell till I have tried it."
Merrihew lighted a cigar, and Hillard smiled secretly. After some time
the conductor came in to examine the tickets. When the examination was
over he paused in front of Merrihew, who puffed complacently.
"Signore," the conductor said politely, "_e vietato fumare_."
Merrihew replied with an uncomprehending stare.
"_Non fumer!_" said the conductor, with his hand at the side of his
mouth, as one does to a person who is suddenly discovered to be hard of
hearing.
Merrihew smiled weakly and signified that he did not understand.
"_Nicht rauchen!_" cried the official in desperation.
Merrihew extended his hands hopelessly. He had nothing belonging to the
conductor. Hillard had the tickets.
"_Niet rooken! Niet rooken!_"
"I say, Jack, what the deuce does he want, anyhow?"
"_Cigare, cigare!_" The conductor gesticulated toward the window.
"Oh!" Merrihew took the cigar from his teeth and went through the
pantomime of tossing it out of the window.
"_Si, si!_" assented the conductor, delighted that he was finally
understood.
"You might have given me the tip," Merrihew grumbled across to Hillard.
He viewed the halfburnt perfecto ruefully and filliped it through the
window. "How should I know smoking was prohibited?"
"You had your joke; this is mine. Besides, I remained silent to the
advantage of your future education. The conductor has spoken to you in
four languages--Italian, French, German and Dutch." Hillard then spoke
to the conductor. "May not my friend smoke so long as ladies do not
enter?"
"Certainly, since it does not annoy you." Then the conductor bowed and
disappeared into the next compartment.
Merrihew inscribed on the back of an envelope, for future reference, the
four phrases, and in ten minutes had, with the assistance of his
preceptor, mastered their pronunciations.
"I wish I had been born a hotel concierge," he said mournfully. "They
speak all languages, and the Lord knows where they find the time to
learn them."
"The Englishman, the Parisian and the American are the poorest
linguists," said Hillard. "They are altogether too well satisfied with
themselves and their environments to bother learning any language but
their own, and most Americans do not take the trouble to do that."
"Hear, hear!"
"It is because I am a good patriot that I complain," said Hillard. "I
love my country, big, healthy and strong as it is; but I wish my people
would brush up their learning, so that these foreigners would have less
right to make sport of us."
"There's some truth in what you say. But we are young, and going ahead
all the time."
Soon the train began to lift into the mountains, the beautiful
Apennines, and Merrihew counted so many tunnels he concluded that this
was where the inventor of the cinematograph got his idea. Just as some
magnificent valley began to unfold, with a roar the train dashed into a
dank, sooty tunnel. One could neither read nor enjoy the scenery;
nothing to do but sit tight and wait, let the window down when they
passed a tunnel, lift it when they entered one. By the time they arrived
in Genoa, late at night, both compared favorably with the coalers in the
harbor of Naples.
The English and American tourists have done much toward making Italy a
soap-and-water tolerating country (loving would be misapplied). But in
Italy the State owns the railroads. There is water (of a kind), but
never soap or towels.
Early the next morning the adventurers set out for Monte Carlo, taking
only their hand-luggage. More tunnels. A compartment filled with women
and children. And hot besides. But the incomparable beauty of the
Riviera was a compensation. Ventimiglia, or Vintimille, has a sinister
sound in the ears of the traveler, if perchance he be a man fond of his
tobacco. A turbulent stream cuts the town in two. On the east side
stands a gloomy barn of a station; on the other side one of the most
picturesque walled towns in Europe, and of Roman antiquity. The train
drew in. A dozen steps more, and one was virtually in France. But there
is generally a slight hitch before one takes the aforesaid steps: the
French customs. A _facchino_ popped his head into the window.
"Eight minutes for examination of luggage!" he cried.
He held out his arms, and Hillard piled the luggage upon him.
"Come, Dan; lively, if we want good seats when we come out. We change
trains."
The two men followed the porter to the ticket entrance, surrendered
their coupons, and passed into the customs. The porter had to go round
another way. After a short skirmish they located their belongings, which
unfortunately were far down toward the end of the barrier. They would
have to be patient. Hillard held in his hands his return coupons to
Genoa. Sometimes this helps at the frontier; and if one has a steamer
ticket, better still. Inspectors then understand that one is to be but a
transient guest.
Among the inspectors at Ventimiglia is a small, wizened Frenchman, with
a face as cold and impassive as the sand-blown Sphinx. He possesses
among other accomplishments a nose, peculiar less for its shape than for
its smell. He can "smell out" tobacco as a witch doctor in Zululand
smells out a "devil." Fate directed this individual toward the
Americans. Hillard knew him of old; and he never forgets a face, this
wizened little man.
"Monsieur has nothing to declare?" he asked.
Hillard made a negative sign and opened his cases. With scarce a glance
at their contents, and waving aside the coupons, the inspector applied
the chalk and turned to Merrihew.
"Monsieur has nothing to declare?" he repeated.
Merrihew shook his head airily. "_Niente, niente!_" he said in his best
Italian. He did not understand what the inspector said; he merely had
suspicions.
"Look!" suddenly exclaimed Hillard.
Passing out of the door which led to liberty and to France, their
luggage guaranteed by cabalistic chalk marks, were two women. One of
them was veiled, the other was not.
"Kitty Killigrew, as I live!" shouted Merrihew, making a dash for the
door.
But the inspector blocked the way, beckoned to a gendarme, who came
over, and calmly pointed to Merrihew's unopened cases.
"Open!" said the inspector, all his listlessness gone. He had seen
people in a hurry before.
"But--" Merrihew struggled to pass.
"For Heaven's sake!" cried Hillard, "be patient and open the cases at
once."
Merrihew handled his keys clumsily. The first key on the ring should
have been the last, and the last first. It is ever thus when one is in a
hurry. Finally he threw back the lids, feeling that in another moment he
must have spouted Italian or French out of pure magic, simply to tell
this fool inspector what he thought of him.
"Oho! Monsieur-in-a-hurry!" mocked the inspector. "Nothing, nothing!" He
took out the two boxes of cigars.
"Why the devil didn't you tell me you had them?" Hillard demanded
wrathfully. To find the women by this stroke of luck, and then to lose
them again for two boxes of cigars! It was maddening!
As a matter of fact, Merrihew had forgotten all about them, so far as
intentional wrong-doing was concerned.
The inspector went through Merrihew's possessions with premeditated
leisure. Everything had to come out. He even opened the shaving sets,
the collar box, the pin cases, and the tie bag. Other persons pushed by
toward the train, uttering their relief aloud. Still the inspector
doddered on. "Will you hasten?" asked Hillard. "We do not wish to miss
this train."
"Others follow," said the inspector laconically.
Hillard produced a five-franc piece. The inspector laughed without noise
and shook his head. This one inspector is impervious to money or smooth
speeches. He is the law personified, inexorable.
"Tell him to keep the cigars, but let us go!" Merrihew begged.
No, that would not do. Monsieur had not declared the cigars. If he
persisted, the government would confiscate the cigars, but in place of
duty there would be a large fine. Monsieur had better be patient and pay
the duty only, retaining his valuable cigars. It was very liberal on his
(the inspector's) part.
Hillard strained his eyes, but saw neither Kitty nor the veiled lady
again. Doubtless they were already on the train. Had Merrihew been an
old traveler he would have left him to get to Monte Carlo the best way
he could; but Merrihew was as helpless as a child, and he hadn't the
heart to desert him, though he deserved to be deserted.
Ding-ding! went the bell. Toot-toot! went the horn. Whee-whee! went the
whistle. The train for Monte Carlo was drawing out, and they were being
left behind. Hillard swore and Merrihew went white with impotent anger.
If only he could hit something! The inspector smiled and went on with
his deadly work. When he was certain that they could not possibly catch
the train, he chalked the cases, handed the cigars to their owner, and
pointed to a sign the other side of the barricade.
"What shall I do now, Jack?" Merrihew asked.
"I refuse to help you. Find out yourself."
So Merrihew, hopeless and subdued, went into the room designated, saw
the cigars taken out and weighed, took the bill and presented it with a
hundred-lire note at the little window in the off-room. The official
there pushed the money back indifferently.
"_Francaise, Monsieur, francaise!_"
Merrihew blinked at him. What _was_ the matter now? Was the note bad?
"_Change, cambio!_" said the official testily. Would tourists never
learn anything?
Merrihew got it through his head somehow where the difficulty lay. He
went out again, remembering the sign _Cambio_ hanging in front of the
news-stand. He lost half a dollar in the exchange, but for the time
being his troubles were over.
Meanwhile Hillard had made inquiries at the door. No, the official there
told him, he had not noticed the lady in the veil. So many passed; it
was impossible to recollect.
And Merrihew found him sitting disconsolately on the barricade.
"I hope you are perfectly satisfied," said Hillard, with an amiability
which wouldn't have passed muster anywhere.
"Oh, I'm satisfied," answered Merrihew. He stuffed his pockets with
cigars, slammed the boxes into the case, and locked them up. He
collected his belongings and repacked the other case, keeping up a
rumbling monotone as he did so. "Oh, yes; I am damned satisfied."
"I warned you about tobacco."
"I know it."
"You should have told me."
"I know that, too; but I didn't want you to lecture me."
"A lecture would have been better than waiting here in this barn for
three hours."
"Three hours?" despondently.
"Oh, there's a restaurant, but it's not much better than this. It's bad;
flies and greasy plates."
Conversation died. For the first time in the long run of their
friendship there was a coolness between them. However, their native
sense of humor was too strong for this coolness to last. Merrihew was
first to break the silence.
"Jack, I _am_ an ass!" penitently.
"I admit it," said Hillard, smiling.
"Let's hunt up the restaurant; I am hungry and thirsty."
And by the time they had found the Ristorante Tornaghi--miserable and
uninviting--they were laughing.
"Only, I wish I knew where they were going," was Hillard's regret.
"They?" said Merrihew.
"Yes. The woman with Kitty is the woman I'm going to find if I stay in
Europe ten years. And when I find her, I'm going to marry her."
"Sounds good," said Merrihew, pouring himself a third glass of very
indifferent Beaune.
"And they may be going anywhere but to Monte Carlo--Paris, Cherbourg,
Calais. In my opinion, Monte Carlo is the last place two such women are
likely to go to alone."
"Have a cigar," Merrihew urged drolly. "I paid fifteen cents apiece for
them in Rome. They are now four for a dollar. And I suppose that I'll
have to smoke them all up in Monte Carlo, or the Italian end of this
ruin will sink the harpoon into me for fifty more francs. I'd like to
get that blockhead over the line. I'd customs him."
"Don't blame him. He is to be admired. He is one of the rarities of
Europe--an honest official."
So they sat in the dingy restaurant, smoking and laughing and grumbling
till the next train was announced. At four that afternoon they arrived
without further mishap at the most interesting station of its size in
Europe--Monte Carlo. And Merrihew saw gold whichever way he looked: in
the sunshine on the sea, in the glistening rails, in the reflecting
windows of the many-terraced hotels, in the orange trees; gold, gold,
beautiful gold napoleons.
And then, into the omnibus adjoining, came the man with the scar.