MY SECOND MEETING WITH THE BARON
(_From Mr. Bickerdike’s Manuscript_)
It might have been somewhere near the anniversary of my first
meeting with the Baron when I came upon him again--in London this
time. I had been lunching at Simpson’s in the Strand, and, my meal
finished, had gone up into the smoking-room for a coffee and liqueur.
This is a famous corner of a famous caravansary, being dedicate, like
no other smoking-room I know, to the service of the most ancient and
most royal game of chess, many of whose leading professors forgather
therein, as it were, in an informal club, for the mixed purposes of
sociability and play. There one may watch astounding mental conflicts
which leave one’s brain in a whirl; or, if one prefers it, may oneself
join issue in a duel, whether for glory or profit; or, better still,
like Gargantua, having a friend for adversary, for the mere serious
diversion of the game, and for its capacity for giving a rare
meditative flavour to one’s tobacco. The room, too, for such a haunt
of gravity, is a cheerful room, with its large window overlooking the
Strand, and one may spend a postprandial hour there very agreeably,
and eke very gainfully if one takes an idler’s interest in other
people’s problems. That I may confess I do, wherefore Simpson’s is, or
was, a fairly frequent resort of mine.
Now, on this occasion I had hardly entered the room when my eyes fell
on the figure of M. le Baron sitting profoundly absorbed over a game
with one in whom I recognised a leading master in the craft. I knew
my friend at once, as how could I fail to, for he sat before me in
every detail the stranger of the Café l’Univers--bland, roomy,
self-possessed, and unchanged as to his garb. I would not venture to
break into his preoccupation, but passed him by and took a convenient
seat in the window.
“Stothard has found his match,” remarked a casual acquaintance who
lounged near me, nodding his head towards the pair.
“Who is it?” I asked. “Do you know?”
“I know his name,” was the answer. “Le Sage, an out-of-pocket French
Baron; but that’s all.”
“O! out of pocket, is he?”
“I’ve no right to say it, perhaps, but I only surmise--he’ll play you
for a half-crown at any time, if you’re rash enough to venture. He
plays a wonderful game.”
“Is he new to the place?”
“O, no! I’ve seen him here frequently, though at long intervals.”
“Well, I think I’ll go and watch them.”
Their table was against the wall, opposite the window. One or two
devotees were already established behind the players, mutely following
the moves. I took up a position near Le Sage, but out of his range of
vision. He had never, to my knowledge, so much as raised his face
since I entered the room; intent on his game, he appeared oblivious to
all about him. Yet the moment I came to a stand, his voice, and only
his voice, accosted me,--
“Mr. Bickerdike? How do you do, sir?”
I confess I was startled. After all, there _was_ something
disconcerting about this surprise trick of his. It was just a
practised pose, of course; still, one could not help feeling, and
resenting in it, that impression of the preternatural it was no doubt
his desire to convey. I responded, with some commonplace
acknowledgment, to the back of his head, and no more was spoken for
the moment. Almost immediately the game came to an end. M. le Baron
sat back in his chair with a “My mate, I think?”--a claim in which his
opponent acquiesced. Half the pieces were still on the board, but that
made no difference. Your supreme chess expert will foresee, at a
certain point in the contest, all the possible moves to come or to be
countered, and will accept without dispute the inevitable issue. The
great man Stothard was beaten and acknowledged it.
M. le Baron rose from his seat, and turned on me with a beaming face.
“Happy to renew your acquaintance, Mr. Bickerdike,” he said. “You are
a student of the game?”
“Not much better, I think,” I answered. “I am still in my novitiate.”
“You would not care----?”
“O, no, I thank you! I’m not gull enough to invite my own plucking.”
It was a verbal stumble rather than a designed impertinence on my
part, and I winced over my own rudeness the moment it was uttered, the
more so for the composure with which it was received.
“No, that would be foolish, indeed,” said M. le Baron.
I floundered in a silly attempt to right myself.
“I mean--I only meant I’m just a rotten muff at the game, while
you----” I stuck, at a loss.
“While I,” he said with a smile, “have just, like David, brought down
the giant Stothard with a lucky shot.”
He touched my arm in token of the larger tolerance; and, in some
confusion, I made a movement as of invitation, towards the table in
the window.
“I am obliged,” he said, “but I have this moment recalled an
appointment.” “So,” I thought, “in inventing a pretext for declining,
he administers a gentle rebuke to my cubbishness.” “You found your
friend, I hope,” he asked, “when you left the Montesquieu on that
occasion?”
“Kennett? Yes,” I answered; and added, moved to some expiatory
frankness, “It is odd, by the bye, M. le Baron, that our second
meeting should associate itself with the same friend. I am going down
to-morrow, as it happens, on a visit to his people.”
“No,” he said: “really? That is odd, indeed.”
He shook hands with me, and left the room. Standing at the window a
moment after, I saw him going Citywards along the Strand, looking,
with his short thick legs and tailed morning coat, for all the world
like a fat jaunty turtle on its way to Birch’s.
Now I fancied I _had_ seen the last of the man; but I was curiously
mistaken. When I arrived at Waterloo Station the next day, there,
rather to my stupefaction, he stood as if awaiting me, and at the
barrier--_my_ barrier--leading to the platform for _my_ train, the two
o’clock Bournemouth express. We passed through almost together.
“Hullo!” I said. “Going south?”
He nodded genially. “I thought, with your permission, we might be
travelling companions.”
“With pleasure, of course. But I go no further than the first
stop--Winton.”
“Nor I.”
“O, indeed? A delectable old city. You are putting up there?”
“No, O no! My destination, like yours, is Wildshott.”
“Wildshott! You know the Kennetts then?”
“I know Sir Calvin. His son, your friend, I have never met. It is odd,
as you said, that our visits should coincide.”
“But you must have known yesterday--if you did not know in Paris. Why
in the name of goodness did you not----” I began; and came to a rather
petulant stop. This secrecy was simply intolerable. One was pulled up
by it at every turn.
“Did I not?” he said blandly. “No, now I come to think of it---- O,
Louis, is that an empty compartment? Put the rugs in, then, and the
papers.”
He addressed a little vivid-eyed French valet, who stood awaiting his
coming at an opened door of a carriage. Le Sage climbed in with a
breathing effort, and I followed sulkily. Who on earth, or what on
earth, was the man? Nothing more nor less than what he appeared to be,
he might have protested. After all, not himself, but common gossip,
had charged him with necessitousness. He might be as rich as Crœsus,
for all I knew or he was likely to say. Neediness was not wont to
valet it, though insolvency very well might. But he was a friend of
Sir Calvin, a most exclusive old Bashaw; and, again, he was said to
play chess for half-crowns. O! it was no good worrying: I should find
out all about him at Wildshott. With a grunt of resignation I sank
into the cushions, and resolutely put the problem from me.
But the fellow was an engaging comrade for a journey--I will admit so
much. He was observant, amusing, he had a fund of good tales at his
command, and his voice, without unpleasant stress, was softly
penetrative. Adapted to anecdote, moreover, his habit of secrecy, of
non-committal, made for a sort of ghostly humour which was as
titillating as it was elusive; and the faint aroma of snuff, which was
never absent from him, seemed somehow the appropriate atmosphere for
such airy quibbles. It surrounded him like an aura--not disagreeably;
was associated with him at all times--as one associates certain
perfumes with certain women--a particular snuff, Macuba I think it is
called, a very delicate brand. So he is always recalled to me, himself
and his rappee inseparable.