Orleans, _November 29_.
My dear Montie,
I have so many things to tell you I scarcely know where to begin. First
let me announce that I am in for an adventure--a real flesh and blood
adventure into which I plump without premeditation, but an adventure of
so delightful a kind that I hope it may continue for many a day. I know
you'll say at once, "That means Woman"; and you're right. But I won't go
to the heart of the story at once; I'll begin at the beginning. First,
though, a word as to yourself. I miss you enormously. It is a cruel
stroke of fate that you should have been ordered to Davos after you had
made all your plans to go with me on my new car to the Riviera. I still
think that a trip on which you would have been in the open air all day
was just as likely to check incipient chest trouble as the cold dryness
of Davos; but no doubt you were right to do as the doctors told you. I
shall look eagerly for letters from you with bulletins of your progress.
As I can't have you with me, the next best thing will be to write to you
often; besides, you said that you would like to have frequent reports of
my doings in France, with "plenty of detail."
Well, the new car is a stunner. I haven't so far a fault to find with
her. She takes most hills on the third, which is very good; for though
we are only two up--Almond and I--I have luggage in the _tonneau_ almost
equal to the weight of another passenger. Between Dieppe and Paris she
licked up the kilometres as a running flame licks up dry wood. She runs
sweetly and with hardly any noise. The ignition seems to work perfectly;
she carries water and petrol enough for 150 miles. I think at last in
the Napier I have found the ideal car, and you know I have searched long
enough. Almond timed her on the level bit at Acheres, and it was at the
rate of over forty-five miles an hour--not bad for a touring car.
It was between Dieppe and Paris (somewhere between Gisors and Meru) that
the adventure began. I was flying up a slope of perhaps one in fifteen,
when I became aware of Beauty in Distress. An antediluvian car, which
was recognizable by its rearward protuberance as something archaic, was
stationary on the hill; two ladies sat on an extraordinarily high seat
behind like a throne, and a mechanic was slouching towards a smith's
forge by the roadside. One motorist, of course, must always offer help
to another--to pass a stranded car would be like ignoring signals of
distress at sea; besides, one of the ladies looked young and seemed to
have a charming figure. So, having passed them, I pulled up and went
back.
The ladies said "America" to me as plainly as if they had spoken. They
were most professionally got up, the elder so befurred and goggled that
I could see only the tip of her nose; the younger with a wonderfully
fetching grey fur coat, a thing that I believe women call a "toque," and
a double veil, which allowed only a tantalising hint of a piquant
profile and a pair of bewildering grey eyes. They--or rather the younger
one--met my profferred help with a rather curt refusal, but the voice
that uttered it was musical to a point rare among the American women of
the eastern States, and these were New York or nowhere. There was
nothing for me to do except retire; but Almond, looking back as we sped
away, said, "Why, sir, blowed if they haven't got those three smiths
pushing them up the hill!" From which I argued that Beauty was very
jealous for the reputation of her car. This is the end of Chapter I.
Chapter II. opens at Suresnes, some days later. I was starting for
Cannes, and had just crossed the bridge when, in the yard of a _garage_
on the left-hand side at the foot of the hill, I detected again Beauty
in Distress--the same Beauty, but a different Distress. There was the
high and portly car, with Beauty perched up in it alone--Beauty in the
attitude appropriate to Patience smiling at Grief. Almost before I knew
what I did, I turned my car into the yard and pulled up near her, making
an excuse of asking for Stelline, though, as a matter of fact, Almond
had filled up the tank only half an hour before at the Automobile Club.
The manager of the _garage_ told me that Beauty's car was stranded with
a broken crank. Now Almond had caught sight of her _mecanicien_ the
previous time we met, and knew him for a wrong un in London; therefore
when I heard he had gone off to Paris with five hundred francs to buy a
new crank, I thought the situation serious. So, despite the former snub,
I again offered my services.
SHE had her veil up, and, by Jove! she was good to look upon! The eyes
were deep and candid; the curve of the red lips (a little subdued now)
suggested a delightful sense of humour; her brown hair rippled over the
ears and escaped in curly tendrils on her white neck. The girl was
delicately balanced, finely wrought, tempered like a sword-blade.
Something in my inner workings seemed to cry out with pleasure at her
perfections; a very unusual nervousness got hold of me when I spoke to
her.
It ended in my flying off to the Avenue de la Grande Armee to search for
the missing man and another crank. You remember my earliest automobile
experiences were with a Benz, as so many people's have been, and I knew
where to go. Nothing had been heard of the man; I bribed a fellow to
take a crank out of another car, and on the way back a wild idea
occurred to me. I was obliged to sketch it to the astonished Almond,
commanded him to deadly secrecy, then offered my own services to the
beautiful American girl in place of her former _chauffeur_, absconded.
The whole thing came into my mind in a flash as I was spinning through
the Bois, and I hadn't time to think of the difficulties in which I
might get landed. I only felt that this was the prettiest girl I had
ever seen, and determined at any price to see a good deal more of her.
Only one way of doing that occurred to me. I couldn't say to her, "I am
Mr. John Winston, a perfectly respectable person. I have been seized
with a strong and sudden admiration for your beauty. Will you let me go
with you on your trip through France?" Even an American girl would have
been staggered at that. The situation called for an immediate
decision--either I was to lose the girl, or resort to a trick. You quite
see how it was, don't you?
In the first instant there came a complication. I had stopped my car a
minute in the Bois to scribble a character for my new self--James Brown,
from my old self--John Winston; but as soon as I presented this piece of
writing to back up my application for the place, Miss Molly Randolph (I
may as well give you her name) exclaimed that she knew my mother. Such
is life! It seems they met in Paris. But the die was cast, and she
engaged me. I trusted the Napier to Almond, giving him general
instructions to keep as near to us as he could, without letting himself
be seen, and for the last two days I have been _chauffeur_,
_mecanicien_, call it what you will, to the most charming girl in this
exceedingly satisfactory world.
By this time I know that your eyes are wide open. I can picture you
stretched in your _chaise longue_ at Davos in the sunshine reading this
and whistling softly to yourself. I have no time to write more to-night;
the rest must wait.
Your very sincere and excited friend,
Jack Winston.
Hotel de Londres, Amboise,
_December 3_.
My dear Montie,
The plot thickens. She is _Superb_. But things are happening which I
didn't foresee, and which I don't like. I have to suppress a Worm, and
suppressed he shall be. I am writing this letter to you in my bedroom.
It is three in the morning, and a lovely night--more like spring than
winter. Through my wide-open window the only sound that comes in is the
lapping of the lazy Loire against the piers of the great stone bridge. I
have not been to bed; I shall not go to bed, for I have something to do
when dawn begins. Though I have worked hard to-day, I am not tired; I am
too excited for fatigue. But I must give you a sketch of what has
happened during the last few days. It is a comfort and a pleasure to me
to be able to unburden myself to your sympathetic heart. You will read
what I write with patience, I know, and with interest, I hope. That you
will often smile, I am sure.
I sent you a line from Orleans, telling you that I had got myself
engaged as _chauffeur_ to Miss Molly Randolph at Suresnes. Well, the
_garage_ man and I managed to fit the new crank into my lovely
employer's abominable car, and about three or four in the afternoon we
were ready to take the road. As I tucked the rug round the ladies Miss
Randolph threw me an appealing look. "My aunt," she said, "declares that
it is quite useless to go on, as she is sure we shall never get
anywhere. But it _is_ a good car, isn't it, Brown, and we _shall_ get to
Tours, shan't we?" "It's a _great_ car, miss," I said quite truthfully
and very heartily. "With this car I'd guarantee to take you comfortably
all round Europe." Heaven knows that this boast was the child of hope
rather than experience; but it would have been too maddening to have the
whole thing knocked on the head at the beginning by the fears of a
timorous elderly lady. "You hear, Aunt Mary, what Brown says," said the
girl, with the air of one who brings an argument to a close, and I
hastened to start the car.
By Jove! The compression was strong! I wasn't prepared for it after the
simple twist of the hand, which is all that is necessary to start the
Napier, and the recoil of the starting-handle nearly broke my wrist. But
I got the engine going with the second try, jumped to my place in front
of the ladies (you understand that it is a phaeton-seated car), and
started very gingerly up the hill. Though I was once accustomed to a
belt-driven Benz (you remember my little 3-1/2 horse-power "halfpenny
Benz," as I came to call it), that had the ordinary fast and loose
pulleys, while this German monstrosity is driven by a jockey-pulley, an
appliance fiendishly contrived, as it seemed to me, especially for
breaking belts quickly. The car too is steered by a tiller worked with
the left hand, and there are so many different levers to manipulate
that to drive the thing properly one ought to be a modern Briareus.
I must say, though, that the thing has power. It bumbled in excellent
style on the second speed up the long hill of Suresnes; but when we got
to the level and changed speeds, I put the jockey on a trifle too
quickly, and snick! went the belt. I was awfully anxious that my new
mistress shouldn't think me a duffer, that she shouldn't lose confidence
in her car and me, and determine to bring her tour to an abrupt end; so
as soon as I felt the snap I turned round saying it was only a broken
belt that could be mended in no time. She smiled delightfully. "How nice
of you to take it so well!" she said. "Rattray seemed to think that when
a belt broke the end of the world had come."
Now to mend a belt seems the easiest thing going, and so it is when you
merely have to hammer a fastening through it and turn the ends over. But
in this car you have to make the joint with coils of twisted wire.
Simple as it is to do in a workshop, this belt-mending is a most
irritating affair by the roadside, and when done I found by subsequent
experiences that the wires wear through and tear out after less than a
hundred miles.
On this first day, not having the hang of the job, I found it
disgustingly tedious. To begin with, to get at the pulleys I had to open
the back of the car, and that meant lifting down all the carefully
strapped luggage and depositing it by the roadside. Then the wire and
tools were either in a cupboard under the floor of the car or in a box
under the ladies' seats, which meant disturbing them every time one
wanted anything. How different to my beautifully planned Napier, where
every part is easily accessible!
The mending of that third speed-belt took me half an hour, and after
that we made some progress; but dusk coming on, I suggested to the
ladies that as there was very little fun in travelling in the dark, I
thought they had better stay the night at Versailles, going on to
Orleans the next day. They agreed.
I had thought out plans for my own comfort. I knew that at some of the
smaller country inns there would be no rooms for servants, and that I
should have to eat with the ladies, which suited me exactly. In the
larger towns, rather than mess with the couriers, valets, and maids, I
should simply instal my employers in one hotel, then quietly go off
myself to another. That is what I did at Versailles. I saw the ladies
into the best hotel in the town, drove the car into the stable-yard, and
went out to watch for Almond. He had followed us warily and had stopped
the Napier in a side street two hundred yards away. I joined him, and we
drove to a quiet hotel about a quarter of a mile from Miss Randolph's. I
had my luggage taken in, bathed, changed, and dined like a prince,
instructing Almond to be up at six next morning and thoroughly clean and
oil the German car, making a lot of new fastenings in spare belts. Later
in the day he is to follow us to Orleans with the Napier. Thus I live
the double life--by day the leather-clad _chauffeur_; by night the
English gentleman travelling on his own car. The plans seem well laid;
I cover my tracks carefully; I don't see how detection can come.
With a good deal of inward fear and trembling I drove the car at eight
the next morning to the door of Miss Randolph's hotel. She and her
masked and goggled aunt appeared at once, and in five minutes the
luggage was strapped on behind.
"Now please understand," said the girl, with a twinkle of merriment, in
her eyes, "that this is to be a pilgrimage, not a meteor flight. Even if
this car's capable of racing, which I guess it isn't, I don't want to
race. I just want to glide; I want to see everything; to drink in
impressions every instant."
This suited me exactly, for it gave me a chance of humouring and
studying the uncouth thing that I was called upon to drive. I had come
out to Versailles to avoid the direct route to Orleans by Etampes, which
is _pave_ nearly all the way, and practically impassable for
automobiles. From Versailles there is a good route by Dourdan and
Angerville, which, if not picturesque, at least passes through
agreeable, richly cultivated country. The road is exceedingly
_accidentee_ on leaving Versailles, and I drove with great care down the
dangerous descent to Chateaufort, and also down the hill at St. Remy,
which leads to the valley of the Yvette. Till beyond Dourdan the road is
one long switchback, and it is but fair to record that the solid German
car climbed the hills with a kind of lumbering sturdiness much to its
credit. At Dourdan we lunched, and soon after entered on the long, level
road to Orleans. The car travelled well--for it, and the day's record of
sixty-seven miles was only three breakages of belts. To my relief and
surprise we actually got to Orleans in time for dinner. I was a proud
man when I drove my employers into the old-fashioned courtyard of the
d'Orleans. Almond, I knew, was at the St. Aignan with the Napier, and
there I presently joined him, to hear that he had done the total run
from Versailles, with an hour's stop for lunch, in under the four hours,
the car running splendidly all the way. Almond does not at all
understand why he is left alone, and why I have gone off to drive two
ladies in an out-of-date German car which any self-respecting
automobilist would be ashamed to be seen on in France. He looks at me
queerly, and would like to ask questions; but being a good servant as
well as a good mechanic, he doesn't, and kindly puts up with his
master's whims.
My orders were to be ready for the ladies at ten the next morning, and
when punctually to the moment I drove the car into the courtyard, I
found them waiting for me. Miss Randolph volunteered the news that she
and her aunt had been round the town in a cab to see the sites connected
with the Maid, but that she had found it very difficult to picture
things as they were, so modernised is the town.
The morning we left Orleans was exquisite. The car went well; the
magnificent Loire was brimming from bank to bank, and not meandering
among disfiguring sand-banks, as it does later in the year; the wide,
green landscape shone through a glitter of sunshine; and here and there
in the blue sky floated a mass of tumbled white cloud. Our little party
at first was silent. I think the beauty of the scene influenced us all,
even Aunt Mary; and the thrumming of the motor formed a monotonous
undercurrent to our thoughts.
As I've told you, the German horror is phaeton-seated, and for me in
front to talk comfortably to any lady behind is not easy. In driving,
one can't take one's attention much off the road, so Miss Molly has to
lean forward and shout over my shoulder. A curious and delightful kind
of understanding is growing up between us. You know that the history of
this part of France is fairly familiar to me, and I've already done the
castles twice before. What I've forgotten, I've studied up in the
evenings, so as to be indispensable to Miss Randolph. At first she spoke
to me very little, only a kind word now and then such as one throws to a
servant; but I could hear much of what she said to her aunt, and her
comments on things in general were sprightly and original. She had
evidently read a good deal, looked at things freshly, and brought to
bear on the old Court history of France her own quaint point of view.
Her enthusiasm was ever ready--bubbling, but never gushing, and I
eagerly kept an ear to the windward not to miss the murmur of the
geographical and historical fountain behind my back.
"Aunt Mary," on the contrary, has a vague and ordinary mind, being more
interested in what she is going to have for luncheon than in what she is
going to see. The girl, therefore, is rather thrown back upon herself. I
burned to join in the talk, yet I dared not step out of the character I
had assumed. As it turned out, fortune was waiting to befriend me.
We were bowling along through Meung, when I suddenly spied on the other
side of the river the square and heavy mass of Notre Dame de Clery, and
almost without thinking, I pointed it out to Miss Randolph. "There is
Clery," I said, "where Louis the Eleventh is buried. You remember, in
_Quentin Durward_? The church is worth seeing. It's almost a pity we
didn't go that side of the river." Then I stopped, rather confused,
fearing I had given myself away. There was a moment's astonished
silence, and I was afraid Miss Randolph would see the back of my neck
getting red.
"Why, _Brown_!" she cried, leaning forward over my shoulder, "you know
these things; you've read history?"
"Oh yes, miss," I said. "I've read a bit here and there, such books as I
could get hold of. I was always interested in history and architecture,
and that sort of thing. Besides," I went on hastily, "I've travelled
this road before with a gentleman who knows a good deal about this part
of France."
I don't think that was disingenuous, was it?--for I hope I've a right to
call myself "a gentleman."
"How lucky for us!" cried Miss Randolph, and I heard her congratulating
herself to her aunt, because they had got hold of a _cicerone_ and
_chauffeur_ in one. After that she began to talk to me a good deal, and
now she seems to show a kind of wondering interest in testing the amount
of my knowledge, which I take care to clothe in common words and not to
show _too_ much. You must admit the situation grows in piquancy.
At Mer we crossed the Loire by the suspension bridge and ran the eight
miles to Chambord, meaning to lunch there, and go on to Blois after
seeing the Chateau. It was a grand performance for the car to run nearly
three hours without accident. While luncheon was being prepared I filled
up the water-tanks (even this simple task involved lifting all the
luggage off the car), washed with some invaluable Hudson's soap, which I
had brought from my own car, and made myself smart for _dejeuner_. The
eating business will, I can see, be one of my chief difficulties. At
Chambord, for instance, in the small hotel, there is, of course, no
special room for servants. As I have no fondness for eating in stuffy
kitchens when it can be avoided, I wandered sedately into the _salle a
manger_, where Miss Randolph and her aunt were already seated, and took
a place at the further end of the same long table (we were the only
people in the room). Aunt Mary looked for an instant a little
discomposed at the idea of lunching with her niece's hired mechanic, but
Miss Randolph, noticing this--she sees everything--shot me a welcoming
smile. Then the paying difficulty is an odious one. Of course, at the
end of the meal my bill goes to her, and she pays for me: "_Mecanicien_,
_dejeuner_----" so much. Picture it! Of course, I can't protest, as this
is the custom; but I am keeping a strict account of all her expenses on
my account, and one day shall square our accounts somehow--I don't at
present see how. I have formed the idea that by-and-by I may offer to
act also as courier, relieving her of the bother of making payments, and
so on. If I can work that, I'll deduct my own lot and pay it myself, the
chances being that as she is careless about money she won't notice that
I've done so, only thinking, perhaps, that I am a clever chap to run
things so cheaply.
There's another thing which gives me the "wombles," as those delightful
Miss Bryants used to call the feeling they had when they were looking
forward to any event with a mixture of excitement, fear, and
embarrassment.
Well, I have the "wombles" when I think of the moment, near at hand,
when Miss Randolph will hand me my weekly wage, which I have put at the
modest figure of fifty francs a week; but I am getting away from the
_dejeuner_ at Chambord.
We had just finished the _croute au pot_, when there came a whirr!
outside, upon which Miss Randolph looked questioningly at me. "A little
Pieper," I said. "How wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Can you really tell
different makes of cars just by their sound?" "Anyone can do that," I
informed her, "with practice; you will yourself by the time you get to
the end of this journey. Each car has its characteristic note. The De
Dion has a kind of screaming whirr; the Benz a pulsing throb; the
Panhard a thrumming; a tricycle a noise like a miniature Maxim."
The driver of the Pieper came in. His get-up was the last outrageous
word of automobilism--leather cap with ear-flaps, goggles and mask, a
ridiculously shaggy coat of fur, and long boots of skin up to his
thighs--a suitable costume for an Arctic explorer, but mighty fantastic
in a mild French winter. You know these posing French automobilists. At
sight of a beautiful girl, he made haste to take off his hat and
goggles, revealing himself as a good-looking fellow with abnormally long
eyelashes, which I somehow resented. He preened himself like a bird,
twisted up the ends of his black moustache, and prepared for conquest.
Catching Miss Randolph's eye, he smiled; she answered with that
delightful American frankness which the Italian and the Frenchman
misconstrue, and in a moment they were talking motor-car as hard as they
could go. The poor _chauffeur_ was ignored.
It undermines one's sense of self-importance to find how quickly one can
be unclassed. I tasted at this moment the mortification of service. Once
in an hotel at Biarritz I gave to the _valet de chambre_ a hat and a
couple of coats that I didn't want any more. They were in good
condition, and he was overwhelmed with the value of the gift. "Monsieur
is too kind," the fellow said; "such clothes are too good for me. They
are all right for you, but for _nous autres_!"--the "others," who
neither expect the good things of life nor envy those who have them. The
expression implies the belief that the world is divided into two
parts--the ones and the other ones.
Now, as I heard my sweet and clever little lady babbling automobilism
with all the wisdom of an amateur of six weeks, I felt that I was
indeed one of the Others. Though the Frenchman was to me a manifest Worm
(in that he was supercilious, puffed up with conceit, taking it for
granted that women should fall down and worship him) and a ridiculous
braggart, I had to see her receive his open admiration with equanimity
and listen to his stories with credulity, _my_ business being to eat in
silence and "thank Heaven" (though not "fasting") that I was allowed in
the presence of my betters. Still, I would have gone through more than
that to be near her, to hear her talk, and see her smile, for frankly
this girl begins to interest me as no other woman has.
"Ah, how I have travelled to-day!" the Frenchman said, throwing his
hands wide apart. "I left Paris this morning, to-morrow I shall be in
Biarritz. To-day I have killed a dog and three hens. On the front of my
car just now I found the bones and feathers of some birds, which
miscalculated their distance and could not get away in time." Miss
Randolph gave a little cry, translating for her aunt, who has no French.
"Shocking!" ejaculated Aunt Mary. "A regular juggernaut."
"Your car does not go as fast as that, mademoiselle?" the Frenchman went
on. "A little heavy, I should think; a slow hill-climber?"
"On the contrary," Miss Randolph fired up. "Though my car
has--er--_some_ drawbacks, it goes splendidly uphill, doesn't it,
Brown?"
"That is its strong point," I answered, grateful for the unexpected and
kindly word of recognition thrown to me, one of the Others; but the
Frenchman did not deign to notice the _chauffeur_.
"Capital!" cried he. "If mademoiselle be willing, and a hill can be
found in the neighbourhood, I should like to wager my Pieper against her
seven-horse-power German car. I had an odd experience the other day," he
went on. "My motor stopped for want of _essence_; luckily it was in a
village, but there wasn't a drop of _essence_ to be bought--all the
shops were sold out. What do you think I did, mademoiselle? I filled the
tank with absinthe from a _cafe_, and got home on that. Not many would
have thought of it, eh?"
"Few indeed," said I to myself, for it was news to me that his
carburetter could burn heavy oil. While I was reflecting that
automobiling, like fishing, is a pursuit whose followers are peculiarly
ready to sacrifice truth on the altar of picturesqueness, luncheon was
over, and we all rose. With what seemed to me detestable impertinence,
though clearly not understood as such by innocent Miss Randolph, the
Frenchman sauntered by the side of the ladies as if to go with them to
the Chateau. Perhaps my young mistress was touched by the look of gloom
that doubtless clouded my insignificant features, for she promptly and
cordially tendered me an invitation to go with them. "You know, Brown,"
she said, "we look on you as our guide as well as our _chauffeur_" ("and
I must be your watch-dog too, though it isn't in the contract," I
grumbled to myself, "if you are going to allow every automobilist who
claims the right of fellowship to thrust himself upon you").
Even Aunt Mary was impressed as we passed into the inner court of
Chambord, and Miss Randolph (whose sympathy and imagination throws her
at once into harmony with her surroundings) drew a quick breath of
half-awed astonishment at sight of this enormous structure, more like a
city than a single house, with its prodigious towers, its extraordinary
assemblage of pinnacles, gables, turrets, cones, chimneys and gargoyles.
The Frenchman minced along at her side, twirling his moustache, and
making great play with those long-lashed eyes of his. I divined his
intention to outdistance us, and get Miss Randolph to himself in the
labyrinth of vast, empty rooms through which our party was paraded by a
languid guide; but thwarted him by hastening Aunt Mary's steps and
keeping upon their heels in my new character of watch-dog. I was more
annoyed than I care to tell you when I saw that she seemed to like his
idiotic compliments; but when I heard him tell her airily that Chambord
was built by Louis the Fourteenth, and Miss Randolph turned
questioningly to me with a puzzled little wrinkle on her forehead, I
felt that my time had come.
I began something reprehensively like a lecture on Chambord, putting
myself by Miss Randolph's side, and determined that the Frenchman should
get no further chance. I pointed out the constant recurrence of the
salamander, the emblem of Francis the First, the builder of the house,
and I told how he had selected this sandy waste to build it on, because
the Comtesse de Thoury had once lived near by, she having been one of
the earliest loves of that oft-loving King. I enlarged upon the
characteristics of French Renaissance architecture, pointed out the
unity in variety of the design of Pierre Nepveu, the obscure but
splendid genius who planned the house as something between a fortified
castle and an Italian palace; showed them the H entwined with a crescent
on those parts of the house that were built by Henry the Second; and
sketched the history of the place, talking about Marshal Saxe, Stanislas
of Poland, the Revolution of 1792, and the subsequent tenancy of
Berthier. I can tell you that when once I was started, the
absinthe-driver was bowled over. I simply sprawled all over Chambord,
talked for once as well as I knew how, directed all my remarks to Miss
Randolph, who--"though I say it as shouldn't"--seemed dazzled by my
fireworks. An English girl must have been struck with the incongruity of
a hired mechanic spouting French history like a public lecturer, but
she, I think, only put it down to some difference in the standard of
English education. Anyhow, the Frenchman was done for, and Miss Randolph
and I plunged into an interesting talk, shunting the new acquaintance
upon Aunt Mary. As she can speak no French and he no English, they must
have had a "Jack-Sprat-and-his-wife" experience.
For that happy hour while we wandered through the echoing-rooms of
Chambord, climbed the wonderful double staircase, and walked about the
intricate roof, I was no longer James Brown, the hired mechanic, but
John Winston, private gentleman and man at large, with a taste for
travel. There came a horrid wrench when I had to remember that I had
chosen to make myself one of the unclassed, one of the "others." The
autumnal twilight was falling; we had to get to Blois on a car that
might commit any atrocity at any instant. Yet, strange to say, it had a
magnanimous impulse, started easily, and ran smoothly. The somewhat
subdued Frenchman started just before us on his little Pieper, and soon
outpaced our solid chariot. We went back to St. Die, took the road by
the Loire, and as dusk was falling crossed the camel-backed bridge over
the great river, and went up the Rue Denis Pepin into the ancient city
of Blois. The Chateau does not show its best face to the riverside,
being hemmed in by other buildings, so I drove past our hotel and on to
the pretty green _place_ where the great many-windowed Chateau springs
aloft from its huge foundation. "The famous Chateau of Blois," I
remarked, waving a hand towards it. "The old home of the kings of
France." We all sat and looked up at the huge, silent building, the
glowing colours of its recessed windows catching the last beams of
departing day.
"I suppose its only tenants now are ghosts," said Miss Randolph. "I can
imagine that I see wicked Catherine de Medicis glaring at us from that
high window near the tower." It was an impressive introduction to one of
the greatest monuments of France, and after we had gazed a little longer
I turned the car and drove back into the courtyard of the Grand Hotel de
Blois, where tame partridges pecked at grain upon the ground, many dogs
gambolled, and foreign birds bickered and chattered in huge cages. At
the entrance was the Frenchman, all eyes and eyelashes, darting forward
to help Miss Randolph from her car.
I grew weary to nausea of this shallow, pretentious ass, with no
knowledge of his own land. It began to shape itself in my mind that
though a gentleman in exterior he was the common or garden
fortune-hunter, or perhaps worse. Finding a beautiful American girl
travelling _en automobile_, chaperoned only by a rather foolish and
pliable aunt, he fancied her an easy prey to his elaborate manners and
eyelashes. Knowing we were coming to the "Grand," I had directed Almond
to drive the Napier to the "France," and my duty for the day being over,
I was about to go across to change and dine, when I saw Miss Randolph in
the hall. She was annoyed, she told me, to find that the best suite of
rooms were taken by some rich Englishman and his daughter, and she had
to put up with second-rate ones. "Poor Monsieur Talleyrand," she ended,
"has little more than a cupboard to sleep in." Talleyrand, then, was the
name of the Frenchman. "Oh, is he stopping here?" I asked. "He said he
was going on at once to Biarritz."
"He's changed his mind," said she. "He's so impressed with Chambord that
he says it's a pity not to see all the other chateaux, which are so
important in the history of his own country. He asked Aunt Mary if we
should mind his going at the same time with us. So _of course_ she said
we wouldn't." All this, if you please, with the most candid air of
guilelessness, which I actually believe was genuine.
"She said _what_?" I demanded, quite forgetting my part in my rage.
"She said," repeated Miss Randolph slowly and with dignity, "that we
would not mind his seeing the chateaux when we see them. Why should we
mind? The poor young man won't do us any harm, and it's quite right of
him to want to see his own castles, because, anyhow, they're a great
deal more his than ours."