"But is it possible, my dear Miss Randolph," I was mad enough to exclaim
(I, who had never before risen above the level of a humble "miss"),
"that you and Miss Kedison believe in that flimsy excuse? The
castles----"
"Yes, the _castles_," she repeated, very properly taking the word out of
my mouth; and the worst of it was that she was completely right in
setting me in my place, setting me down hard. "I am surprised at you,
Brown. You are a splendid mechanic, and--and you have travelled and read
such a lot that you are a very good guide too, and because I think we're
lucky to have got you I treat you quite differently from an ordinary
_chauffeur_." (If you could have heard that "ordinary" as she said it!
There was hope in it in the midst of humiliation; but I dared not let a
gleam dart from my respectful eye.) "Still, you must remember, please,
that you are engaged for certain things and not for others. If I need a
protector besides Aunt Mary, I may tell you."
I could have burst into unholy laughter to hear the poor child; but I
bottled it up, and only ventured to say, with a kind of soapy meekness
which I hoped might lather over the real presumption, "I beg your
pardon, miss, and I hope you won't be offended; but, as you say, I have
travelled a little, and I know something of Frenchmen. They don't always
understand American young ladies as well as----"
"'As well as Englishmen,' I suppose you were going to say," snapped she,
that dimpled chin of hers suddenly seeming to assume a national
squareness I'd never observed. "But Monsieur Talleyrand, though a
Frenchman, is a gentleman."
That's what I had to swallow, my boy. The inference was that a French
gentleman was, at worst, a cut above an English mechanic, and with that
she turned her back on me and ran upstairs with such a rustling of
unseen silk things as made me feel her very petticoats were bristling
with indignation.
I could have shaken the girl. And the things I said to myself as I
stalked over to my own hotel won't bear repeating; they might set the
mail-bag an fire; combustibles aren't allowed in the post, I believe. I
swore that (among other things) one such snubbing was enough. If Miss
Randolph wanted to get herself in the devil of a scrape, she could do
it, but I wasn't going to stand by and look complacently on while that
smirking Beast made fools of her and her aunt. I'd clear out to-morrow;
didn't care a hang whether she found out the trick I'd played or not.
That mood lasted about ten minutes, then I began to realise that,
talking of beasts, there was something of the sort inside my own leather
coat, and that if anyone deserved a shaking, it was Jack Winston, and
not that poor, pretty little thing. I was bound to stop on in the place
and protect her, whether she knew she wanted any protection except Aunt
Mary's (oh, Lord!) or not. Besides, I wanted the place, since it was the
best I could expect for the present, and where Talleyrand (?) was, there
would I be also, so long as he was near Her.
Bath and dinner brought me once more as near to an angelic disposition
as I hope to attain in this sphere; and, while I was supposed to be
earning my screw by cleaning the loathsome car, and making new
fastenings for spare belts, I was complacently watching poor Almond in
the throes of these Herculean labours. N.B.--It's only fair to myself to
tell you that Almond is getting double wages, and is quite satisfied,
though I'm persuaded he thinks he has a madman for a master.
About half-past nine next morning (that's yesterday, in case you're
getting mixed) I was hanging round the German chariot with a duster,
pretending to flick specks off it, though Almond had left none, when
Miss Randolph, Aunt Mary, and the alleged Talleyrand came out of the
coffee-room, laughing and talking like the best of friends. Talleyrand
was now in ordinary clothes, perhaps to point the difference between
himself and a mere professional _chauffeur_. Miss Randolph looked
adorable. She'd put off her motoring get-up, and was no end of a swell.
This I saw without seeming to see, for we had not met since our scene.
I didn't know where I stood with her, but thought it prudent meanwhile
to wear a humble air of conscious rectitude, misunderstood.
Talleyrand was swaggering along without a glance at the _chauffeur_ (why
not, indeed?) when Miss Randolph hung back, looked round, and then
stopped. "Oh, Brown, do you know as much about the Chateau of Blois as
you did about Chambord?" asked she, in a voice as sweet as the Lost
Chord.
"Yes, miss, I think I do," said I, lifting my black leather cap.
"Then, are you too busy to come with us?"
"No, miss, not at all, if I can be of any service."
"But, you know, you needn't come unless you like. Maybe it bores you to
be a guide."
Now, if I'd been a gentleman and not a _chauffeur_, perhaps I should
have had a right to suspect just a morsel of innocent, kittenish
coquetry in this. As it is with me--and with her--if there's anything of
the sort, it's wholly unconscious. But it's the most adorable type of
girl who flirts a little with everything human--man, woman, or
child--and doesn't know it. I take no flattering unction to myself as
Brown. Nevertheless I dutifully responded that it gave me pleasure to
make use of such small knowledge as I possessed, and was grateful to her
for not hearing Talleyrand murmur that he'd provided himself with the
_Guide Joanne_. After that I could afford to be moderately complacent,
even though I had to walk in the rear of the party, and no one took
notice of me until I was wanted.
That time came, when we'd wound round the path under the commanding old
Chateau, with its long lines of windows, and reached the exquisite
Gothic doorway. From that moment it was the Chambord business over
again; and I thanked my foresight for having stopped out of my bed half
the night, fagging up all the historical details I'd forgotten. These I
brought out with a naturalistic air of having been brought up on them
since earliest infancy.
Miss Randolph chatters pretty American French, but doesn't understand as
much as she speaks when it's reeled off by the yard, so to say;
therefore my explanations in English were more profitable than the
French of the official guide, who fell into the background. My
delightful American maiden has never travelled abroad before, and she
brings with her a fresh eagerness for all the old things that are so new
to her. It is a constant joy even for poor handicapped Brown to go about
with her, finding how invariably she seizes on the right thing, which
she knows by instinct rather than cultivation--though she's evidently
what she would call a "college girl."
I halted my little party before the Louis the Twelfth gateway, made them
admire the equestrian statue of the good King, drew their attention to
the beautiful chimneys and the adornments of the roof, with the
agreeable porcupine of Louis, the mild ermine and the constantly
recurring festooned rope of that important lady, Anne of Brittany. Then
I led them inside, rejoicing in Talleyrand's air of resentful remoteness
from my guidance. I scored, too, in his superficial knowledge of
English. In the midst of my ciceronage, however, I thought of you, and
how we had discussed plans of this trip together. You had looked forward
particularly to the Chateau; and as you've urged me to paint for you
what you can't see (this time), your blood be on your own head if I bore
you.
You would be happy in the courtyard of the Chateau, for it would be to
your mind, as to mine, one of the most delightful things in Europe. It's
a sort of object lesson in French architecture and history, showing at
least three periods; and when Miss Randolph looked up at that perfect,
open staircase, bewildering in its carved, fantastic beauty, I wasn't
surprised to have her ask if she were dreaming it, or if _we_ saw it
too. "It's lace, stone lace," she said. And so it is. She coined new
adjectives for the windows, the sculptured cornices, the exquisite and
ingenious perfection of the incomparable facade.
"I could be so _good_ if I always had this staircase to look at!" she
exclaimed. "It didn't seem to have any effect on Catherine de Medici's
soul; but then I suppose when she lived here she stopped indoors most of
the time, making up poisons. I'm sorry I said yesterday that Francis the
First had a ridiculous nose. A man who could build this had a right to
_have_ anything he liked, or _do_ anything he liked."
And you should have seen her stare when Talleyrand bestowed an
enthusiastic "_Comme c'est beau!_" on the left wing of the courtyard,
for which Gaston d'Orleans' bad taste and foolish extravagance is
responsible--a thing not to be named with the joyous Renaissance facade
of Francis.
When Miss Randolph could be torn away, we went inside, and throwing off
self-consciousness in the good cause, I flung myself into the drama of
the Guise murder. Little did I know what I was letting myself in for. My
one desire was to interest Miss Randolph, and (incidentally, perhaps)
show her what a clever chap she had got for a _chauffeur_--though he
_wasn't_ a gentleman, and Talleyrand was.
I pointed from a window to the spot where stands the house from which
the Duc de Guise was decoyed from the arms of his mistress; showed where
he stood impatiently leaning against the tall mantelpiece, waiting his
audience with Henri the Third; pointed to the threshold of the _Vieux
Cabinet_ where he was stabbed in the back as he lifted the arras; told
how he ran, crying "_a moi!_" and where he fell at last to die, bleeding
from more than forty wounds, given by the Forty Gentlemen of the Plot;
showed the little oratory in which, while the murderous work went on,
two monks gabbled prayers for its successful issue.
I got quite interested in my own harangue, inspired by those stars Miss
Randolph has for eyes, and didn't notice that my audience had increased,
until, at this point, I suddenly heard a shocked echo of Aunt Mary's
"Oh!" of horror, murmured in a strange voice, close to my shoulder. Then
I looked round and saw a man and a girl, who were evidently hanging on
my words.
The man was the type one sees on advertisements of succulent sauces;
you know, the smiling, full-bodied, red-faced, good-natured John Bull
sort, who is depicted smacking his lips over a meal accompanied by The
Sauce, which has produced the ecstasy. One glance at his shaven upper
lip, his chin beard, and his keen but kindly eye, and I set him down as
a comfortable manufacturer on a holiday--a Lancashire or Yorkshire man.
The girl might be a daughter or young wife; I thought the former. A
handsome creature, with big black eyes and a luscious, peach-like
colour; style of hairdressing conscientiously copied from Queen
Alexandra's; fine figure, well shown off by a too elaborate dress
probably bought at the wrong shop in Paris; you felt she had been sent
by doting parents to a boarding-school for "the daughters of noblemen
and gentlemen"; no expense spared.
It was she who had echoed Aunt Mary; and when I turned she bridled. Yes,
I think that's the only word for what she did. But it was the man who
spoke.
"I beg your pardon," he said, dividing the apology among the whole
party, and taking off his unspeakably solid hat to the ladies. "I hope
there's no objection to me and my daughter listening to this very
intelligent guide? She's learned French, but it doesn't seem to work
here; she thinks it's too Parisian for Blois, but anyhow, we couldn't
either of us understand a word the French guide said, so we took the
liberty of joining on to you, with a great deal of pleasure and profit."
He had a sort of engaging ingenuousness, mixed with shrewdness of the
provincial order, and I could see that he appealed to my American girl,
though I don't think she cottoned to the daughter. She smiled at the
papa, as if for the sake of her own; and in a few pretty words
practically made him a present of me, that is, she offered to let him
share me for the rest of the tour round the Chateau. I was not sorry, as
I hoped that the daughter might occupy the attention of Monsieur
Talleyrand; and as, under these new conditions, we continued our
explorations, I adroitly contrived to divide off the party as follows:
Miss Randolph, the Lancashire man (his accent had placed him in my
mind), and myself; Aunt Mary, the new girl, and our gentleman of the
eyelashes. This arrangement was satisfactory to me and the old man,
whether it was to anybody else or not; and so grouped, we went through
the apartments of Catherine de Medicis (Aunt Mary pronounced "those
little poison cupboards of hers _vurry_ cunning; _so_ cute of her to
keep changing them around all the time!"), and out on the splendid
balconies.
The Lancashire man, thanks to Miss Randolph's permission, made himself
quite at home with me, bombarding me with historical questions. But it
was evident that he was puzzled as to my status.
"You are a first-rate lecturer," said he. "I suppose that's your
profession?"
"Not entirely," said I, with a glance at Miss Randolph; but she was
enjoying the joke, and not minded to enlighten him. Probably he supposed
that leather jacket and leggings was the regulation costume of a
lecturing guide.
"Do you engage by the day," he inquired, "or by the tour?"
"So far, I have engaged by the tour, sir," I returned, playing up for
the amusement of my lady.
He scratched his chin reflectively. "Baedeker recommends several of
these old castles in this part of the country," said he. "Do you know
'em all?"