In the crowd that strolled on the Promenade des Etrangers, enjoying the
morning sunshine, there were some who had come to Roville for their
health, others who wished to avoid the rigours of the English spring,
and many more who liked the place because it was cheap and close to
Monte Carlo.
None of these motives had brought George Albert Balmer. He was there
because, three weeks before, Harold Flower had called him a vegetable.
What is it that makes men do perilous deeds? Why does a man go over
Niagara Falls in a barrel? Not for his health. Half an hour with a
skipping-rope would be equally beneficial to his liver. No; in nine
cases out of ten he does it to prove to his friends and relations that
he is not the mild, steady-going person they have always thought him.
Observe the music-hall acrobat as he prepares to swing from the roof by
his eyelids. His gaze sweeps the house. 'It isn't true,' it seems to
say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'
It was so with George Balmer.
In London at the present moment there exist some thousands of
respectable, neatly-dressed, mechanical, unenterprising young men,
employed at modest salaries by various banks, corporations, stores,
shops, and business firms. They are put to work when young, and they
stay put. They are mussels. Each has his special place on the rock, and
remains glued to it all his life.
To these thousands George Albert Balmer belonged. He differed in no
detail from the rest of the great army. He was as respectable, as
neatly-dressed, as mechanical, and as unenterprising. His life was
bounded, east, west, north, and south, by the Planet Insurance Company,
which employed him; and that there were other ways in which a man might
fulfil himself than by giving daily imitations behind a counter of a
mechanical figure walking in its sleep had never seriously crossed his
mind.
On George, at the age of twenty-four, there descended, out of a dear
sky, a legacy of a thousand pounds.
Physically, he remained unchanged beneath the shock. No trace of hauteur
crept into his bearing. When the head of his department, calling his
attention to a technical flaw in his work of the previous afternoon,
addressed him as 'Here, you--young what's-your-confounded-name!' he
did not point out that this was no way to speak to a gentleman of
property. You would have said that the sudden smile of Fortune had
failed to unsettle him.
But all the while his mind, knocked head over heels, was lying in a
limp heap, wondering what had struck it.
To him, in his dazed state, came Harold Flower. Harold, messenger to the
Planet Insurance Company and one of the most assiduous money-borrowers
in London, had listened to the office gossip about the legacy as if to
the strains of some grand, sweet anthem. He was a bibulous individual
of uncertain age, who, in the intervals of creeping about his duties,
kept an eye open for possible additions to his staff of creditors. Most
of the clerks at the Planet had been laid under contribution by him in
their time, for Harold had a way with him that was good for threepence
any pay-day, and it seemed to him that things had come to a sorry pass
if he could not extract something special from Plutocrat Balmer in his
hour of rejoicing.
Throughout the day he shadowed George, and, shortly before closing-time,
backed him into a corner, tapped him on the chest, and requested the
temporary loan of a sovereign.
In the same breath he told him that he was a gentleman, that a
messenger's life was practically that of a blanky slave, and that a
young man of spirit who wished to add to his already large fortune
would have a bit on Giant Gooseberry for the City and Suburban. He then
paused for a reply.
Now, all through the day George had been assailed by a steady stream of
determined ear-biters. Again and again he had been staked out as an
ore-producing claim by men whom it would have been impolitic to rebuff.
He was tired of lending, and in a mood to resent unauthorized demands.
Harold Flower's struck him as particularly unauthorized. He said so.
It took some little time to convince Mr Flower that he really meant it,
but, realizing at last the grim truth, he drew a long breath and spoke.
'Ho!' he said. 'Afraid you can't spare it, can't you? A gentleman comes
and asks you with tack and civility for a temp'y loan of about 'arf
nothing, and all you do is to curse and swear at him. Do you know what
I call you--you and your thousand quid? A tuppenny millionaire, that's
what I call you. Keep your blooming money. That's all I ask.
_Keep_ it. Much good you'll get out of it. I know your sort.
You'll never have any pleasure of it. Not you. You're the careful sort.
You'll put it into Consols, _you_ will, and draw your three-ha'pence
a year. Money wasn't meant for your kind. It don't _mean_ nothing
to you. You ain't got the go in you to appreciate it. A vegetable--that's
all you are. A blanky little vegetable. A blanky little gor-blimey
vegetable. I seen turnips with more spirit in 'em that what you've got.
And Brussels sprouts. Yes, _and_ parsnips.'
It is difficult to walk away with dignity when a man with a hoarse
voice and a watery eye is comparing you to your disadvantage with a
parsnip, and George did not come anywhere near achieving the feat. But
he extricated himself somehow, and went home brooding.
Mr Flower's remarks rankled particularly because it so happened that
Consols were the identical investment on which he had decided. His
Uncle Robert, with whom he lived as a paying guest, had strongly
advocated them. Also they had suggested themselves to him
independently.
But Harold Flower's words gave him pause. They made him think. For two
weeks and some days he thought, flushing uncomfortably whenever he met
that watery but contemptuous eye. And then came the day of his annual
vacation, and with it inspiration. He sought out the messenger, whom
till now he had carefully avoided.
'Er--Flower,' he said.
'Me lord?'
'I am taking my holiday tomorrow. Will you forward my letters? I will
wire you the address. I have not settled on my hotel yet. I am popping
over'--he paused--'I am popping over,' he resumed, carelessly, 'to
Monte.'
'To who?' inquired Mr Flower.
'To Monte. Monte Carlo, you know.'
Mr Flower blinked twice rapidly, then pulled himself together.
'Yus, I _don't_ think!' he said.
And that settled it.
The George who strolled that pleasant morning on the Promenade des
Strangers differed both externally and internally from the George who
had fallen out with Harold Flower in the offices of the Planet
Insurance Company. For a day after his arrival he had clung to the garb
of middle-class England. On the second he had discovered that this was
unpleasantly warm and, worse, conspicuous. At the Casino Municipale
that evening he had observed a man wearing an arrangement in bright
yellow velvet without attracting attention. The sight had impressed
him. Next morning he had emerged from his hotel in a flannel suit so
light that it had been unanimously condemned as impossible by his Uncle
Robert, his Aunt Louisa, his Cousins Percy, Eva, and Geraldine, and his
Aunt Louisa's mother, and at a shop in the Rue Lasalle had spent twenty
francs on a Homburg hat. And Roville had taken it without blinking.
Internally his alteration had been even more considerable. Roville was
not Monte Carlo (in which gay spot he had remained only long enough to
send a picture post-card to Harold Flower before retiring down the
coast to find something cheaper), but it had been a revelation to him.
For the first time in his life he was seeing colour, and it intoxicated
him. The silky blueness of the sea was startling. The pure white of the
great hotels along the promenade and the Casino Municipale fascinated
him. He was dazzled. At the Casino the pillars were crimson and cream,
the tables sky-blue and pink. Seated on a green-and-white striped chair
he watched a _revue_, of which from start to finish he understood
but one word--'out', to wit--absorbed in the doings of a red-moustached
gentleman in blue who wrangled in rapid French with a black-moustached
gentleman in yellow, while a snow-white _commere_ and a _compere_
in a mauve flannel suit looked on at the brawl.
It was during that evening that there flitted across his mind the first
suspicion he had ever had that his Uncle Robert's mental outlook was a
little limited.
And now, as he paced the promenade, watching the stir and bustle of the
crowd, he definitely condemned his absent relative as a narrow-minded
chump.
If the brown boots which he had polished so assiduously in his bedroom
that morning with the inside of a banana-skin, and which now gleamed
for the first time on his feet, had a fault, it was that they were a
shade tight. To promenade with the gay crowd, therefore, for any length
of time was injudicious; and George, warned by a red-hot shooting
sensation that the moment had arrived for rest, sank down gracefully on
a seat, to rise at once on discovering that between him and it was
something oblong with sharp corners.
It was a book--a fat new novel. George drew it out and inspected it.
There was a name inside--Julia Waveney.
George, from boyhood up, had been raised in that school of thought
whose watchword is 'Findings are keepings', and, having ascertained
that there was no address attached to the name, he was on the point, I
regret to say, of pouching the volume, which already he looked upon as
his own, when a figure detached itself from the crowd, and he found
himself gazing into a pair of grey and, to his startled conscience,
accusing eyes.
'Oh, thank you! I was afraid it was lost.'
She was breathing quickly, and there was a slight flush on her face.
She took the book from George's unresisting hand and rewarded him with
a smile.
'I missed it, and I couldn't think where I could have left it. Then I
remembered that I had been sitting here. Thank you so much.'
She smiled again, turned, and walked away, leaving George to reckon up
all the social solecisms he had contrived to commit in the space of a
single moment. He had remained seated, he reminded himself, throughout
the interview; one. He had not raised his hat, that fascinating Homburg
simply made to be raised with a debonair swish under such conditions;
two. Call it three, because he ought to have raised it twice. He had
gaped like a fool; four. And, five, he had not uttered a single word of
acknowledgement in reply to her thanks.
Five vast bloomers in under a minute! What could she have thought of
him? The sun ceased to shine. What sort of an utter outsider could she
have considered him? An east wind sprang up. What kind of a Cockney
bounder and cad could she have taken him for? The sea turned to an oily
grey; and George, rising, strode back in the direction of his hotel in
a mood that made him forget that he had brown boots on at all.
His mind was active. Several times since he had come to Roville he had
been conscious of a sensation which he could not understand, a vague,
yearning sensation, a feeling that, splendid as everything was in this
paradise of colour, there was nevertheless something lacking. Now he
understood. You had to be in love to get the full flavour of these
vivid whites and blues. He was getting it now. His mood of dejection
had passed swiftly, to be succeeded by an exhilaration such as he had
only felt once in his life before, about half-way through a dinner
given to the Planet staff on a princely scale by a retiring general
manager.
He was exalted. Nothing seemed impossible to him. He would meet the
girl again on the promenade, he told himself, dashingly renew the
acquaintance, show her that he was not the gaping idiot he had
appeared. His imagination donned its seven-league boots. He saw himself
proposing--eloquently--accepted, married, living happily ever after.
It occurred to him that an excellent first move would be to find out
where she was staying. He bought a paper and turned to the list of
visitors. Miss Waveney. Where was it. He ran his eye down the column.
And then, with a crash, down came his air-castles in hideous ruin.
'Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee. Lord Frederick Weston. The Countess
of Southborne and the Hon. Adelaide Liss. Lady Julia Waveney--'
He dropped the paper and hobbled on to his hotel. His boots had begun
to hurt him again, for he no longer walked on air.
* * * * *
At Roville there are several institutions provided by the municipality
for the purpose of enabling visitors temporarily to kill thought. Chief
among these is the Casino Municipale, where, for a price, the sorrowful
may obtain oblivion by means of the ingenious game of _boule_.
Disappointed lovers at Roville take to _boule_ as in other places
they might take to drink. It is a fascinating game. A wooden-faced high
priest flicks a red india-rubber ball into a polished oaken bowl, at
the bottom of which are holes, each bearing a number up to nine. The
ball swings round and round like a planet, slows down, stumbles among
the holes, rests for a moment in the one which you have backed, then
hops into the next one, and you lose. If ever there was a pastime
calculated to place young Adam Cupid in the background, this is it.
To the _boule_ tables that night fled George with his hopeless
passion. From the instant when he read the fatal words in the paper he
had recognized its hopelessness. All other obstacles he had been
prepared to overcome, but a title--no. He had no illusions as to his
place in the social scale. The Lady Julias of this world did not marry
insurance clerks, even if their late mother's cousin had left them a
thousand pounds. That day-dream was definitely ended. It was a thing of
the past--all over except the heartache.
By way of a preliminary sip of the waters of Lethe, before beginning
the full draught, he placed a franc on number seven and lost. Another
franc on six suffered the same fate. He threw a five-franc cart-wheel
recklessly on evens. It won.
It was enough. Thrusting his hat on the back of his head and wedging
himself firmly against the table, he settled down to make a night of
it.
There is nothing like _boule_ for absorbing the mind. It was some
time before George became aware that a hand was prodding him in the
ribs. He turned, irritated. Immediately behind him, filling the
landscape, were two stout Frenchmen. But, even as he searched his brain
for words that would convey to them in their native tongue his
disapproval of this jostling, he perceived that they, though stout and
in a general way offensive, were in this particular respect guiltless.
The prodding hand belonged to somebody invisible behind them. It was
small and gloved, a woman's hand. It held a five-franc piece.
Then in a gap, caused by a movement in the crowd, he saw the face of
Lady Julia Waveney.
She smiled at him.
'On eight, please, would you mind?' he heard her say, and then the
crowd shifted again and she disappeared, leaving him holding the coin,
his mind in a whirl.
The game of _boule_ demands undivided attention from its devotees.
To play with a mind full of other matters is a mistake. This mistake
George made. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he flung the coin
on the board. She had asked him to place it on eight, and he thought
that he had placed it on eight. That, in reality, blinded by emotion,
he had placed it on three was a fact which came home to him neither
then nor later.
Consequently, when the ball ceased to roll and a sepulchral voice
croaked the news that eight was the winning number, he fixed on the
croupier a gaze that began by being joyful and expectant and ended, the
croupier remaining entirely unresponsive, by being wrathful.
He leaned towards him.
'Monsieur,' he said. _'Moi! J'ai jete cinq francs sur huit!'_
The croupier was a man with a pointed moustache and an air of having
seen all the sorrow and wickedness that there had ever been in the
world. He twisted the former and permitted a faint smile to deepen the
melancholy of the latter, but he did not speak.
George moved to his side. The two stout Frenchmen had strolled off,
leaving elbow-room behind them.
He tapped the croupier on the shoulder.
'I say,' he said. 'What's the game? _J'ai jete cinq francs sur
huit,_ I tell you, _moi!_'
A forgotten idiom from the days of boyhood and French exercises came to
him.
'_Moi qui parle_,' he added.
'_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_,' crooned the croupier, in a
detached manner.
To the normal George, as to most Englishmen of his age, the one
cardinal rule in life was at all costs to avoid rendering himself
conspicuous in public. Than George normal, no violet that ever hid
itself in a mossy bank could have had a greater distaste for scenes.
But tonight he was not normal. Roville and its colour had wrought a
sort of fever in his brain. _Boule_ had increased it. And love had
caused it to rage. If this had been entirely his own affair it is
probable that the croupier's frigid calm would have quelled him and he
would have retired, fermenting but baffled. But it was not his own
affair. He was fighting the cause of the only girl in the world. She
had trusted him. Could he fail her? No, he was dashed if he could. He
would show her what he was made of. His heart swelled within him. A
thrill permeated his entire being, starting at his head and running out
at his heels. He felt tremendous--a sort of blend of Oliver Cromwell, a
Berserk warrior, and Sir Galahad.
'Monsieur,' he said again. 'Hi! What about it?'
This time the croupier did speak.
'_C'est fini_,' he said; and print cannot convey the pensive scorn
of his voice. It stung George, in his exalted mood, like a blow.
Finished, was it? All right, now he would show them. They had asked for
it, and now they should get it. How much did it come to? Five francs
the stake had been, and you got seven times your stake. And you got
your stake back. He was nearly forgetting that. Forty francs in all,
then. Two of those gold what-d'you-call'ems, in fact. Very well, then.
He leaned forward quickly across the croupier, snatched the lid off the
gold tray, and removed two louis.
It is a remarkable fact in life that the scenes which we have rehearsed
in our minds never happen as we have pictured them happening. In the
present case, for instance, it had been George's intention to handle
the subsequent stages of this little dispute with an easy dignity. He
had proposed, the money obtained, to hand it over to its rightful
owner, raise his hat, and retire with an air, a gallant champion of the
oppressed. It was probably about one-sixteenth of a second after his
hand had closed on the coins that he realized in the most vivid manner
that these were not the lines on which the incident was to develop,
and, with all his heart, he congratulated himself on having discarded
those brown boots in favour of a worn but roomy pair of gent's Oxfords.
For a moment there was a pause and a silence of utter astonishment,
while the minds of those who had witnessed the affair adjusted
themselves to the marvel, and then the world became full of starting
eyes, yelling throats, and clutching hands. From all over the casino
fresh units swarmed like bees to swell the crowd at the centre of
things. Promenaders ceased to promenade, waiters to wait. Elderly
gentlemen sprang on to tables.
But in that momentary pause George had got off the mark. The table at
which he had been standing was the one nearest to the door, and he had
been on the door side of it. As the first eyes began to start, the
first throats to yell, and the first hands to clutch, he was passing
the counter of the money-changer. He charged the swing-door at full
speed, and, true to its mission, it swung. He had a vague glimpse from
the corner of his eye of the hat-and-cloak counter, and then he was in
the square with the cold night breeze blowing on his forehead and the
stars winking down from the blue sky.
A paper-seller on the pavement, ever the man of business, stepped
forward and offered him the Paris edition of the _Daily Mail_,
and, being in the direct line of transit, shot swiftly into the road
and fell into a heap, while George, shaken but going well, turned off
to the left, where there seemed to be rather more darkness than
anywhere else.
And then the casino disgorged the pursuers.
To George, looking hastily over his shoulder, there seemed a thousand
of them. The square rang with their cries. He could not understand
them, but gathered that they were uncomplimentary. At any rate, they
stimulated a little man in evening dress strolling along the pavement
towards him, to become suddenly animated and to leap from side to side
with outstretched arms.
Panic makes Harlequin three-quarters of us all. For one who had never
played Rugby football George handled the situation well. He drew the
defence with a feint to the left, then, swerving to the right, shot
past into the friendly darkness. From behind came the ringing of feet
and an evergrowing din.
It is one of the few compensations a fugitive pursued by a crowd enjoys
that, while he has space for his manoeuvres, those who pursue are
hampered by their numbers. In the little regiment that pounded at his
heels it is probable that there were many faster runners than George.
On the other hand, there were many slower, and in the early stages of
the chase these impeded their swifter brethren. At the end of the first
half-minute, therefore, George, not sparing himself, had drawn well
ahead, and for the first time found leisure for connected thought.
His brain became preternaturally alert, so that when, rounding a
corner, he perceived entering the main road from a side-street in front
of him a small knot of pedestrians, he did not waver, but was seized
with a keen spasm of presence of mind. Without pausing in his stride,
he pointed excitedly before him, and at the same moment shouted the
words, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_'
His stock of French was small, but it ran to that, and for his purpose
it was ample. The French temperament is not stolid. When the French
temperament sees a man running rapidly and pointing into the middle
distance and hears him shouting, '_La! La! Vite! Vite!_' it does
not stop to make formal inquiries. It sprints like a mustang. It did so
now, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing down
the road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band of
six, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven.
Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping the
first glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting _vin ordinaire_
while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixture
of English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping to
chase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely for
refreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had every
confidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues.
It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphed
over prudence in George's soul that the advisability of lying hid in
his hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediately
after breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for the
Hotel Cercle de la Mediterranee to hand over the two louis to their
owner.
Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politely
genial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers.
She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book.
'Good morning,' he said.
She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flush
was back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look of
astonishment in the grey eyes.
He held out the two louis.
'I couldn't give them to you last night,' he said.
A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before.
'I say,' he stammered--'I say, I hope you don't think I had run off
with your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn't give them up, you
know, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis.
You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake.
I--'
An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind a
parasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly into
speech.
'Who is this young man?'
George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of her
presence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother--or aunt. She
looked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, his
charging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat with
her daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justify
himself.
'I met your--this young lady'--something told him that was not the
proper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?--'at the
casino last night.'
He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable.
Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. She
stared at the girl.
'So you were gambling at the casino last night?' she said.
She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.
'I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financial
transactions with your--friend, I should like to speak to you. You will
find me in my room.'
George looked after her dumbly.
The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speaking
to herself.
'I don't care,' she said. 'I'm glad.'
George was concerned.
'I'm afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia.'
There was a puzzled look in her grey eyes as they met his. Then they
lit up. She leaned back in the seat and began to laugh, softly at
first, and then with a note that jarred on George. Whatever the humour
of the situation--and he had not detected it at present--this mirth, he
felt, was unnatural and excessive.
She checked herself at length, and a flush crept over her face.
'I don't know why I did that,' she said, abruptly. 'I'm sorry. There
was nothing funny in what you said. But I'm not Lady Julia, and I have
no mother. That was Lady Julia who has just gone, and I am nothing more
important than her companion.'
'Her companion!'
'I had better say her late companion. It will soon be that. I had
strict orders, you see, not to go near the casino without her--and I
went.'
'Then--then I've lost you your job--I mean, your position! If it hadn't
been for me she wouldn't have known. I--'
'You have done me a great service,' she said. 'You have cut the painter
for me when I have been trying for months to muster up the courage to
cut it for myself. I don't suppose you know what it is to get into a
groove and long to get out of it and not have the pluck. My brother has
been writing to me for a long time to join him in Canada. And I hadn't
the courage, or the energy, or whatever it is that takes people out of
grooves. I knew I was wasting my life, but I was fairly happy--at
least, not unhappy; so--well, there it was. I suppose women are like
that.'
'And now--?'
'And now you have jerked me out of the groove. I shall go out to Bob by
the first boat.'
He scratched the concrete thoughtfully with his stick.
'It's a hard life out there,' he said.
'But it _is_ a life.'
He looked at the strollers on the promenade. They seemed very far
away--in another world.
'Look here,' he said, hoarsely, and stopped. 'May I sit down?' he
asked, abruptly. 'I've got something to say, and I can't say it when
I'm looking at you.'
He sat down, and fastened his gaze on a yacht that swayed at anchor
against the cloudless sky.
'Look here,' he said. 'Will you marry me?'
He heard her turn quickly, and felt her eyes upon him. He went on
doggedly.
'I know,' he said, 'we only met yesterday. You probably think I'm mad.'
'I don't think you're mad,' she said, quietly. 'I only think you're too
quixotic. You're sorry for me and you are letting a kind impulse carry
you away, as you did last night at the casino. It's like you.'
For the first time he turned towards her.
'I don't know what you suppose I am,' he said, 'but I'll tell you. I'm
a clerk in an insurance office. I get a hundred a year and ten days'
holiday. Did you take me for a millionaire? If I am, I'm only a
tuppenny one. Somebody left me a thousand pounds a few weeks ago.
That's how I come to be here. Now you know all about me. I don't know
anything about you except that I shall never love anybody else. Marry
me, and we'll go to Canada together. You say I've helped you out of
your groove. Well, I've only one chance of getting out of mine, and
that's through you. If you won't help me, I don't care if I get out of
it or not. Will you pull me out?'
She did not speak. She sat looking out to sea, past the many-coloured
crowd.
He watched her face, but her hat shaded her eyes and he could read
nothing in it.
And then, suddenly, without quite knowing how it had got there, he
found that her hand was in his, and he was clutching it as a drowning
man clutches a rope.
He could see her eyes now, and there was a message in them that set his
heart racing. A great content filled him. She was so companionable,
such a friend. It seemed incredible to him that it was only yesterday
that they had met for the first time.
'And now,' she said, 'would you mind telling me your name?'
* * * * *
The little waves murmured as they rolled lazily up the beach. Somewhere
behind the trees in the gardens a band had begun to play. The breeze,
blowing in from the blue Mediterranean, was charged with salt and
happiness. And from a seat on the promenade, a young man swept the
crowd with a defiant gaze.
'It isn't true,' it seemed to say. 'I'm not a jelly-fish.'