Once on level ground again, the car seemed to recover a little strength.
But night fell when we were still a long way from Paris, and our poor
oil-lamps only gave light enough to make darkness visible, so that we
daren't travel at high speed. There were uncountable belt-breakings and
heart-achings before at last, after eleven at night, we crawled through
the barriers of Paris and mounted up the Avenue de la Grande Armee to
the Arc de Triomphe. We drove straight to the Elysee Palace Hotel, and
let Rattray take the brute beast to a _garage_, which I _wished_ had
been a slaughter-house.
I couldn't sleep that night for thinking that I was actually in Paris,
and for puzzling what to do next, since it was clear it would be no use
going on with the car unless some hidden ailment could be discovered and
rectified. Our plan had been to stop in Paris for a week, and then drive
on to the beautiful chateau country of the Loire that I've always
dreamed of seeing. Afterwards, I thought we might go across country to
the Riviera; but now, unless light suddenly shone out of darkness, all
that was knocked on the head. What was my joy, then, in the morning,
when Rattray came and deigned to inform me that he had found out the
cause of the worst mischief! "The connecting-rod that worked the magnet
had got out of adjustment, and so the timing of the explosions was
wrong." This could be made right, and he would see to the belts and
chains. In a few days we might be ready to get away, with some hope of
better luck.
I was so pleased I gave him a louis. Afterwards I wished I hadn't--but
that's a detail. I sent you a cable, just saying, you'll remember:
"Elysee Palace for a week; all well"; and Aunt Mary and I proceeded to
drown our sorrows by draughts of undiluted Paris.
Crowds of Americans were at the hotel, a good many I knew; but Aunt Mary
and I kept dark about the automobile--very different from that time in
London, where I was always swaggering around talking of "my motor-car"
and the trip I meant to take. _Poor_ little me!
Mrs. Tom van Wyck was there, and she introduced me to an Englishwoman,
Lady Brighthelmston, a viscountess, or something, and you pronounce her
"Lady Brighton." She's near-sighted and looks at you through a
lorgnette, which is disconcerting, and makes you feel as if your
features didn't match properly; but she turned out to be rather nice,
and said she hoped we'd see each other at Cannes, where she's going
immediately. She expects her son to join her there. He's touring now on
his motor-car, and expects to meet her and some friends on the Riviera
in about a fortnight. Mrs. van Wyck told me he's the Honourable John
Winston, and a very nice fellow, but I grudge him an automobile, which
_goes_.
I just _couldn't_ write to you that week in Paris; not that I was too
busy--I'm never too busy to write to my dear old boy. But I knew you'd
expect to hear how I enjoyed the trip, and I didn't want to tell you the
bad news till perhaps I might have good news to add. Consequently I
cabled whenever a writing-day came round.
Well, at last Rattray vowed that the car was in good condition, and we
might start. It was a whole week since I'd seen the monster, and it
looked so handsome as it sailed up to the hotel door that my pride in it
came back. It was early in the morning, so there weren't many people
about, but I shouldn't have had cause to be ashamed if there had been.
We went off in fine style, and it was delicious driving through the
Bois, en route for Orleans, by way of Versailles. After all, I said to
myself, perhaps the car hadn't been to blame for our horrid experience.
No car was perfect, even Rattray admitted that. Some little thing had
gone wrong with ours, and the poor thing had been misunderstood.
We had traversed the Bois, and were mounting the long hill of Suresnes,
when "squeak! squeak!" a little insinuating sound began to mingle with
my reflections. I was too happy, with the sweet wind in my face, to pay
attention at first, but the noise kept on, insisting on being noticed.
Then it occurred to me that I'd heard it before in moments of baleful
memory.
"I believe that horrid crank-head is getting hot," said I. "Are you sure
it doesn't need oil?"
"Sure, miss," returned Rattray. "The crank-head's all right. That squeak
ain't anything to worry about."
So I didn't worry, and we bowled along for twenty perfect minutes, then
something went smash inside, and we stopped dead. It _was_ the
crank-head, which was nearly red hot. The crank had snapped like a
carrot. I was too prostrate, and, I trust, too proud to say things to
Rattray, though if he had just made sure that the lubricator was working
properly, we should have been saved.
Fortunately we had lately passed a big _garage_ by the Pont de Suresnes,
and we "coasted" to it down the hill, although of course our engine was
paralysed. You couldn't expect it to work without a head, even though
that head _was_ only a "crank!"
For once Rattray was somewhat subdued. He knew he was in fault, and
meekly proposed to take an electric tram back to Paris, there to see if
a new crank could be bought to fit, otherwise one would have to be made,
and it would take two or three days. At this I remarked icily that in
the latter case we would not proceed with the trip, and he could return
to London. Usually he retorted, if I showed the slightest sign of
disapproval, but now he merely asked if I would give him the money to
buy the new crank if it were obtainable.
I had only a couple of louis in change and a five-hundred franc note, so
I gave that to him, and he was to return as soon as possible, probably
in an hour and a half. Aunt Mary and I found our way gloomily to a
little third-class restaurant, where we had coffee and things. Time
crept on and brought no Rattray. When two hours had passed I walked back
to the _garage_, but the proprietor had no news. The car was standing in
the place where they had dragged it, and I climbed up to sit in gloomy
state on the back seat, feeling as if I couldn't bear to go back to Aunt
Mary until something had happened. Then something did happen, but not
the thing I had wanted. The very car that had stopped when we were in
trouble on the hill of the blacksmiths, far on the other side of Paris,
more than a week ago, came gliding smoothly, deliciously into the
_garage_.
The same two leather-capped and coated men were in it, master and
_chauffeur_, I thought. The madame of the establishment was talking
sympathetically to me, but I heard the voice of the man who had asked me
if he could help (the one I had taken for the master) inquiring in
French for a particular kind of essence. Then I didn't hear any more. He
and the _garage_ man were speaking in lower tones, and besides, the
shrill condolences of madame drowned their murmurs. She was loudly
giving it as her opinion that my _chauffeur_ had run off with my money,
and that, unless I had some means of tracing him, I should never look
upon his face again. I did wish that she would be quiet, at least until
the fortunate automobilists rolled away like kings in their chariot; but
I couldn't make her stop, and I was certain they heard every word. I
even imagined that they had deserted the subject of petrol for my
troubles, because I could see out of a corner of an eye that the
proprietor in his conversation with them nodded more than once towards
my car, in which I sat ingloriously enthroned like a sort of captive
Zenobia.
They seemed to be a long time buying their petrol, anyway, and presently
my worst fears were confirmed. The man who had spoken to me on the fatal
hill came forward, repeating himself (like history) by taking off his
cap and wearing exactly the same half-shy, half-interested expression as
before.
He said "er" once or twice, and then informed me that the proprietor had
been telling him what a scrape I was in, or words to that effect. He
offered to drive into Paris on his car, which would only take a few
minutes, go to the place where my _chauffeur_ had intended to buy the
crank, see whether he had been there, and if so, what delayed him. Then,
if anything were wrong, he would come back and let me know.
I said that I couldn't possibly let him take so much trouble, but he
would hardly listen. He knew the address of the place from the _garage_
man, who had recommended it to Rattray, and almost before I knew what
had happened the car and the dusty, leather-clad men were off.
There was nothing for me to do but to go back to Aunt Mary, which I did
in no happy frame of mind.
That Napier must have tossed its bonnet at the legal limit of speed, for
in less than an hour it drew up before this restaurant. Out jumped _my_
one of the two men and came into the room where Aunt Mary and I had sat
so long reading old French papers.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you," said he in his nice voice, "that your
man appears to be a scoundrel. He hasn't been to Le Sage's, nor to
another place which I tried. I'm afraid he has gone off with your money,
and that your only hope of getting it will be to track the fellow with a
detective."
"I don't want to track him," I said. "I never want to see him again, and
I don't care about the money. I'll engage another _chauffeur_. There
must be plenty in Paris."
As I said this he had rather a curious look on his face. I didn't
understand it then, but I did afterwards. "I'm afraid you'll find very
few who understand your make of car," he said, "which is German,
and--er--perhaps not up to the very latest date."
"I can believe anything of it," said I. "But now the crank's broken,
and----"
"I've taken the liberty of bringing another, which we took out of a
similar car," broke in the man. "The proprietor of the _garage_ across
the way thinks he can put it in for you; if not, I can help him, for I
once drove a car of the same make as yours, and have reason to remember
it."
I burst into thanks, and when I had used up most of my prettiest
adjectives I asked how long the work would take. He thought only a few
hours, and my car might be ready to start again in the afternoon.
I clapped my hands at this; then I could feel my face fall. (Funny
expression, isn't it?--almost as absurd as I "dropped my eyes"; but I
think I did that too.) "How lovely!" said I. And then, "But what good if
I can't get a _chauffeur_?"
The man's face grew red--not a bricky, ugly red; but as he was very
brown already, it only turned a nice mahogany colour, and made him look
quite engaging. "If you would take me," he said, "I am at your service."
I never was more astonished in my life, and I just sat and stared at
him. I was sure he must be making fun.
"Of course you'll think it strange," he went on in a hurry; "but the
fact is, I'm out of a job----"
"Why, are you a _real chauffeur_--a mechanic?" I couldn't help breaking
in on him. I _almost_ blurted out that I had taken him for the master,
which would have been horrid, of course, and suddenly I was ashamed of
myself, for I had been treating him exactly like an equal; and perhaps I
was silly enough to be a tiny bit disappointed too, for I'll confess to
you, Dad, that I'd had visions of his being someone rather grand, which
would have spread a little jam of romance over the stale, dry bread of
this disagreeable experience. Anyhow, this man was _much_ better looking
than his companion, whom I knew now was the master. He wasn't a gorgeous
person, like Mr. Cecil-Lanstown, but I'd certainly thought he had rather
a distinguished air. However, these Englishmen, even the peasants, are
sometimes such splendid types--clear-cut features, brave, keen eyes,
and all that, you know, as if their ancestors might have been Vikings.
While I was thinking, he was telling me that he was a _chauffeur_, sure
enough, and that this was the last day of his engagement with his
master, who didn't wish to take a mechanic any farther. His name, he
said, was James Brown. He had had a good deal of experience with several
kinds of cars--my sort was the first he'd ever driven; he knew it well,
and if I cared to try him, he could get me a very good reference from
his master, Mr. Winston.
"Mr. Winston!" I repeated. "Is your master the Honourable John Winston?"
"That is his name," he answered, though he looked so odd when he said it
that I thought it wise to mention that I knew Mr. Winston's mother, so
he would have a sort of warning if he weren't speaking the truth. But he
didn't look like a man who would tell fibs, and to cut a long story
short, he brought out a letter which the Honourable John Winston had
already given him. It was very short, as if it had been written in a
hurry, but nothing could have been more satisfactory. Brown, as I
suppose I must call him, said that he would be able to start with us as
soon as the car was ready, and when I mentioned where I wanted to go he
remarked that he had been all through the chateau country several times
on a motor-car. One can see from the way he talks that he's an
intelligent, competent young man (he can't be more than twenty-eight or
nine) and knows his business thoroughly. I think I'm very lucky to get
him, don't you?
_Now_ you will understand the address at the top of this long letter;
and I am writing it while James Brown and the _garage_ man fit the new
crank into the car. I must have been scribbling away for two hours, so
almost any minute my new _chauffeur_ may arrive to say that we can
start. I shall write again soon to tell you how he turns out, and all
about things in general; and when I don't write I'll cable.
Your battered but hopeful
Molly.