THE NOAH’S ARK
FEBRUARY 16TH
_Ecoutez!_ I will tell you another little _histoire_.
Madame was _ultra-chic_ and _très intelligente_.
As I stood for inspection before her in her private sitting-room at the
Savoy Hotel in London, I noted that she was but little more than thirty,
with clean-cut features, wide-open, fearless eyes, dark brows and lashes,
pretty bronze hair, a straight nose slightly _retroussé_ at the tip, a
firm mouth, but still kissable, and rather prominent rounded chin—_une
jolie figure, une jolie taille_.
She was dressed in a well-cut, tailor-made gown of cinnamon brown,
and as she looked at me she struck me as a _femme du monde_ of strong
independent spirit, determined to go her own way, and have a good time.
Mrs. Ashley-Bond was her name. Not until after she had seen me and
engaged me at the _bureau de placement_, did I discover, to my joy,
that Madame had let her house somewhere in North Devon—and she and her
husband lived always in hotels, travelling hither and thither.
“You are used to travelling, you say?” Madame asked, as she concluded her
inspection. “We are on the Continent about six months in the year, and
spend each season in London.”
“_Oui_, Madame. I have travelled a great deal. I went to India and
Australia with Madame Henshaw, an American lady. I gave you her
testimonial.”
“Perfectly satisfactory,” she replied. “But, Mariette, what I want to
impress upon you from the very first is that I forbid all flirtations.
Constantly moving as we do, I know quite well that a smart French girl
like yourself must have many admirers in the housekeeper’s room. You will
be proof against all flattery, I sincerely hope.”
“I have had sufficient experience, Madame. I am fully able to take care
of myself,” was my rather dignified reply.
“Then I hope I shall never have occasion to utter reproof,” she said. “My
husband is just now in Germany. He will join me next week.”
And then I entered upon my duties.
From the first I realised that Madame was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan.
She spoke French and German fairly well, and by the labels with which
her luggage was plastered, it was plain that they stopped at only
first-class hotels. They had evidently wandered from Lisbon across to
Budapest, and from Constantinople up to Stockholm.
_Vraiment_ I had secured just the situation for which I had been longing!
If a mistress never travels and never goes to country-houses, then
the life of her _femme-de-chambre_ soon becomes unbearable. My ideal
life is Monte Carlo in spring, London in the season, Aix afterwards, a
short spell in Paris, Trouville in July, then Scotland, and Paris for
Christmas, and this apparently was just the kind of nomad existence led
by the Ashley-Bonds.
We occupied one of the most expensive suites in the Savoy, and on the
first day I was with Madame I saw a bill of Shepherd’s in Cairo for four
thousand francs. _Ma foi_, there was no lack of money. They practically
rolled in it!
Madame had many friends, both in the hotel and out of it. She was very
intimate with a lady staying in the hotel, a Madame Courtenay, who had a
suite on the same floor. She was rather older, very dark, slightly given
to stoutness and of Hebrew type, yet of quite good style. But her husband
was a short, podgy, round-faced man with a pair of sharp black eyes and a
turned-up moustache.
Each evening I dressed my mistress in a different _toilette_, and she
went out to dine, or to the theatre, usually returning to take supper in
the gay restaurant with Monsieur and Madame Courtenay.
As the days went by I realised that between my mistress and Madame
Courtenay a very close friendship existed. She was ever closeted in
Madame’s room, and often their conversation was in an undertone so that I
should not overhear.
Madame usually spoke with me in French. It kept her in practice, she
said. She had imbibed all the true _chic_ of the Parisienne, and
by living so much on the Continent she knew and used all the most
fashionable perfumes and adjuncts to the toilette. Quickly I realised
that I could tell her little that she did not know. Her hats were mostly
from Lewis, in Monte Carlo, and her demi-toilettes from Sert Migno, in
Nice. She knew the Riviera as well as I did, and she wore her gowns
perfectly.
No woman in the restaurant of the Savoy had greater success than she, for
each evening when after supper she went forth into the lounge to enjoy
her cigarette with Madame Courtenay, all eyes were upon her. Her figure
was superb; her smartness unequalled.
Unlike most of _les Anglaises_ I have served, she possessed a keen sense
of humour, and frequently she made me laugh. Yet somehow her friendship
with Madame Courtenay struck me as curious, even suspicious. _Tiens!_ I
do not know the reason, but I had a very strong feeling that Madame’s
friend and her husband were not exactly what they represented themselves
to be.
Perhaps it was because one afternoon, when out for a walk in Oxford
Street, I came across Madame Courtenay talking earnestly with a low
type of foreigner, who looked suspiciously like a second-class hotel
servant out of employment. She did not see me, and I was careful to
escape observation. Yet when she returned to the hotel she rushed in
at once to Madame, and for some time conversed with her in whispers.
_Extraordinaire? Ah! oui._
Monsieur returned from Berlin next day.
_Un bel type_, about forty—of military appearance, alert, well-set-up,
smart, with a heavy fair moustache.
Among the men in the hotel, and especially with the cosmopolitan crowd
in the American bar, he was highly popular. Without doubt he was a
gentleman, full of genuine _bonhomie_. Yet, though a week passed, he
never once went out with Madame.
She always went forth alone, or with her friend Madame Courtenay.
My master and Monsieur Courtenay seemed bosom friends. They went about
together, often out to Hounslow, in the suburbs, and each day lunching or
dining with men whose acquaintance they formed casually. What Monsieur’s
business was, if he had one, I failed to discover.
One afternoon, however, Madame gave me a surprise. She had been out to
luncheon, and on returning met Monsieur in the hall. He had been awaiting
her. They had a hurried conversation, and then Madame and I ascended
together in the lift. On gaining her room Madame Courtenay was there.
They spoke together quickly and excitedly. Then I was called in, and
Madame said—
“Mariette, we are going abroad. To-night you must leave Liverpool Street
by the Harwich route for Basle, and go on to Milan. You will take my two
big trunks—go to the Hôtel de Milan and await us there.”
“_Oui_, Madame.”
And then she set about her packing in frantic haste, being assisted by
Madame Courtenay.
_Bon Dieu!_ Had something happened? In a quarter of an hour Monsieur
burst into the room and swallowed a glass of brandy. Then he gave me two
ten-pound notes for my expenses, saying—
“Look here, Mariette, I’m doing some very important financial business,
and I don’t want the people in Italy to know who I really am. So when we
arrive, I shall be Captain Hugh Atherton, and my wife will be Lady Hylda
Atherton, daughter of the Earl of Ilfracombe. You understand—eh? You’re
a good girl, and you know how to keep a still tongue, I believe. You can
take one of your mistress’s trunks with you, and one of my kit-bags.”
“I am in Madame’s service. Is it not my duty to be silent?” I said.
_Mystère!_ Why did I not travel with Madame? I was her maid. Why was I
sent by a roundabout route? Did they intend to escape from the hotel in
secret?
And yet it is not the duty of a _femme-de-chambre_ to question the
motives of master or mistress. So I simply packed, and soon after eight
o’clock that evening left for Liverpool Street Station in a cab.
The North Sea was at its worst, and the crossing from Harwich
was _affreux_. _Heureusement_, I never suffer from _mal-de-mer_,
nevertheless, I was glad to enter the Basle express at Brussels,
and throughout the next day and night travelled by Strasburg into
Switzerland. From Basle I went on to Lucerne, and after dinner at the big
buffet proceeded, by the winding Gotthard, down to noisy Milan.
Milano! Ugh! Abominable! Tramways, dust, and ogling young men with six
sous in their pockets. The city is the most vulgar in all Europe.
According to instructions I engaged an expensive suite of rooms, and four
days after my arrival Monsieur and Madame came in great style. Their
personal appearance was so much altered that I stood aghast. Monsieur was
now clean-shaven, and wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, while Madame had lost
her _chic_, and presented the usual appearance of the blouse-and-skirt
tourist.
Tourists! _Bon Dieu!_ Have we not all met them! They carry two blouses
only, and wash their linen in the bath-rooms. _En pension_ by coupon!
The title of my mistress, combined with the remarks I had let drop in the
housekeeper’s room, caused the management to treat them with greatest
deference.
This sudden transformation of my master and mistress greatly puzzled me.
Had I met them in the street I probably should not have recognised them.
One thing, however, seemed clear, that they had for some very urgent
reason escaped from England.
Full of natural curiosity I wrote to a chauffeur at the Savoy whose
acquaintance I had made, and from him received a reply saying that as far
as he could discover, there was nothing wrong. Mr. Ashley-Bond had simply
come down one evening, paid his bill, and within a quarter of an hour
had, with his wife, left the hotel.
Our rooms overlooked the busy Via Alessandro Manzoni, close to the shabby
but renowned La Scala, and Madame spent many hours reading at the window,
while Monsieur was absent the greater part of each day.
“I expect you regard it as strange why my husband and I have so altered
our appearance, Mariette,” Madame exclaimed one evening, while I was
brushing out her hair. “The fact is, a year ago I married without my
father’s consent. He does not know I am married, for he believes me
still to be in America with my aunt. But we fear that a detective he has
employed is now searching for us, and if he finds us, then he will, no
doubt, cut me out of his will. He is an invalid, and the doctors have
only given him six months longer to live.”
“But your aunt, will she not say that you are missing?” I suggested.
“Of course she will not. I have arranged with her. I left her in New
York, and crossed to California. Thence I went to Japan, and in Hong
Kong joined my husband. We were married there in assumed names, and for
over a year have been hunted from place to place. My aunt pretends that
I am down in Mexico, travelling with some friends, but we have reason
to believe that my father suspects the truth. If it is confirmed by this
private inquiry agent, then it means that the fortune I should inherit
will go to charity.”
I nodded, in pretence of believing the romantic story. It hardly
coincided with what she had told me regarding the house in Devonshire.
If you know Milan, you of course know Biffi’s great café in the Galleria
Mazzini, that huge glass-roofed arcade which is one of the finest in the
world. It was at Biffi’s where Monsieur seemed to spend his days idling
over cigarettes and vermouth in company with several rather elegant young
Italians.
More than once when out on errands for Madame to Bocconi’s, the great
emporium in the Piazza, I had passed the café and seen him seated there
with his newly-found friends.
Three weeks passed, and I noticed that Madame was daily becoming more
anxious. She went sometimes with Monsieur to the Lirico, the Manzoni, or
the Teatro dal Verme, but in the day-time she had her meals in private
and scarcely ever went out. She seemed to grow strangely nervous and
apprehensive, and consumed innumerable cigarettes. _Tant pis._
One afternoon, while I sat tacking in some lace in Madame’s gown, there
came a knock at the door, and to my surprise there entered an elderly,
rather shabbily-dressed, woman, who, next moment, I recognised as Madame
Courtenay.
Her appearance, too, had been completely altered!
The two ladies greeted each other with great enthusiasm, and then I was
sent from the room. I crept back and listened outside.
All I heard was much excited whispering.
And presently I learnt that Madame Courtenay, without her husband, had
taken up her abode at the Métropole, in the Piazza del Duomo.
_Extraordinaire!_ There was something in the wind, but what I could not
discover.
Madame and her friend became inseparable. Once, when I entered the room
suddenly, Madame Courtenay had a large, square, official-looking envelope
in her hand, which she quickly hid from my gaze. _Pourquoi?_
Two evenings each week I was allowed out, and upon one occasion after we
had been there nearly three weeks, an exciting incident occurred.
I was alighting from a tram in front of the cathedral, when a man
snatched my little bag-purse. In a moment a rather well-dressed man, who
had been my fellow-passenger, dashed after the thief, who dropped the bag
and managed to escape. The gentleman picked up my bag, and returned it
to me, when, to my surprise, I found he was French.
He began to chat, and as he was going in the same direction, walked at my
side.
He was a pleasant man, about forty-five, with a dark, pointed beard, and
of distinctly commercial appearance. Indeed, he told me that his name was
Pégard, and that he was traveller for a Lyons firm of silk-manufacturers
and that he came to Milan once each year. In reply, I explained my
position, and what had brought me to Italy. After a pleasant walk up the
broad Corso Venezia, we suddenly encountered Monsieur, who passed without
recognising me. I said nothing, for I was glad to have thus escaped.
Presently, it being time for my return, we retraced our steps to a snug
little café behind the Arcade, and there Monsieur Pégard would insist
upon me taking a grenadine.
While we sat together he asked me many questions concerning Monsieur and
Madame, how long I had been in their service, by what route did I come to
Italy, and why we were there in Milan. He seemed strangely inquisitive,
but I replied to the best of my knowledge, although somehow he hesitated
to believe me.
“Mam’zelle will meet me again to-morrow—eh?” he asked at last. “Come, I
will take no refusal.”
_“Mais non!_ I shall not be out to-morrow, m’sieur.”
“Then the day after to-morrow—under Bocconi’s portico at seven o’clock,”
he urged.
So with some little reluctance I promised. He was refined, _très
gentil_—so unlike the valets and hotel servants whom I so constantly met.
Yet as I walked alone back to the hotel, I reflected that some of the
leading questions he had put to me were rather curious ones. They seemed
to betray an even greater knowledge of Monsieur and Madame than I myself
possessed!
On entering Madame’s room I found all in disorder. She and Monsieur were
busy packing—cramming everything into the trunks, without troubling to
fold them.
“Pack your box quickly, Mariette,” Madame said. “We have only forty
minutes for the train!”
In surprise I obeyed, and ere long we were all three in a cab on our way
to the station.
I was in the train, travelling first-class with them, ere I knew our
destination. It was Rome.
Through all that night and greater part of next day we went by way of
Bologna to Florence. There, instead of proceeding south to the Eternal
City, we alighted, and crossing the city took a slow train across the
Apennines to Faenza and old-world Rimini on the Adriatic, where we put
up at an ancient and uncomfortable place called the Aquila Nero.
“By Jove, Dolly!” I heard Monsieur say to Madame on the night of our
arrival, “we had a narrow squeak. It was fortunate I met Mariette. I
wonder what questions he asked her?”
“Better say nothing,” Madame said. “We’re safe. Surely that’s sufficient.
Maud got away all right. She’s in Venice long ago. After the little
business there she’ll nip over to Trieste, or to Abbazia.”
“Where’s Ted?”
“Oh, he’ll keep away from her. He’s waiting in Bordeaux to hear from us.
I’ll wire him in a couple of days.”
_Eh bien!_ I was not mistaken. _Evidemment_ the pleasant Monsieur Pégard
was an agent of the _sûreté_! The little attempt to rob me had, no doubt,
been arranged in order that he might make my acquaintance. I recollected
with what consummate ingenuity he had questioned me.
We remained in Rimini for two days to rest, then proceeded by that
long slow line of railway which runs the whole length of Italy by the
Adriatic shore through Ancona to Brindisi. There we remained for another
day’s rest, and Monsieur visited the bank; then on across to Reggio.
Thence we crossed the beautiful straits to Messina, scene of the recent
earthquake, on and on, still beside the sea, until at last we found
ourselves established in one of the most delightful hotels in all Europe,
the Villa Igiea, the broad terrace of which is lapped by the waves of the
bright-blue bay of Palermo.
On the evening of our taking up our quarters there, while Monsieur and
Madame were below dining in the restaurant, I found the stout leather
kit-bag of Monsieur unlocked—the one I conveyed from London to Milan. So
I opened it and peered within.
A suit of pink pyjamas lay on top, with a folded dressing-gown, but when
I drew them aside I started and held my breath.
The sight that met my eyes staggered me.
The bag was filled with large neat bundles of English, French and
Italian bank-notes. In that unlocked bag were hundreds of thousands of
francs—wealth enormous, such as I had never before gazed upon.
Surely it was gross carelessness to leave open in a hotel such a vast
fortune.
I took out one packet of English notes. They were fully two hundred, each
for ten pounds. Another packet was of French notes of _cinq-cent francs_.
_Mon Dieu!_ It was pleasant to feel them between one’s fingers!
Then, hearing a footstep, I reclosed the bag, and descended to have
my dinner, preferring not to remain alone there and court suspicion of
having discovered what that precious valise contained.
How foolish Monsieur was! He always allowed it to travel with the other
baggage!
When I returned, I found both Madame and Monsieur in the room. He had
evidently discovered that the bag had been left unlocked, for as I
entered his keys were in his hand.
They had both considerably altered their appearance since we had left
Milan, and on the following morning, as I stood at my window gazing out
upon the beautiful flower-adorned terrace with its roses and oranges and
the bright sunlit sea beyond, I fell to wondering why the Ashley-Bonds
carried their wealth about with them in that way instead of depositing it
in some bank.
Ah! _ma foi!_ Life in Palermo La Felice, so called on account of its
delightful climate, was very agreeable. It was the height of the winter
season in Sicily, and as the Villa Igiea is the centre of gaiety the days
passed pleasantly enough.
Madame had resumed her smartness, and wore some of her most _chic_
toilettes at the evening concerts and dances, which were constantly being
given at one or other of the best hotels.
In the housekeeper’s room we were also a gay crowd, for few second-rate
servants find themselves at the Villa Igiea.
Each afternoon I was allowed out for a couple of hours, and generally
spent the time walking about the handsome streets with one or other of
the maids.
About ten days after our arrival I chanced to be passing along the busy
Corso Vittorio, when I saw Madame seated in an open cab outside the
Banca d’Italia. She was extremely well dressed, and was in the act of
acknowledging the salutes of two cavalry officers who were passing, and
whose acquaintance she had made at the dance on the previous evening.
Being accompanied by a young English chauffeur from the hotel, I drew
back and looked into a shop window in order not to pass her.
A few seconds later Monsieur emerged from the bank, entered the cab, and
the vehicle drove on. The incident would have passed at once from my mind
had not I, an hour later, seen Madame, still seated in the cab, before
the door of the Banca Commerciale in the Via Materassi. Again Monsieur
came forth, smiling happily, and again the cab drove on, stopping again
at a small private bank close to the busy cross-ways known as the Quattro
Canti.
It appeared as though Monsieur must be experiencing some difficulty with
his banking business.
Indeed, on the following afternoon, they visited the Bank of Sicily, for
I overheard Madame refer to it on their return about four o’clock.
No further word had been spoken regarding the flight from Milan, yet
apprehensions of the mysterious Pégard often arose within me. Monsieur
had now, I believed, deposited all his money in one or other of the
banks, for the kit-bag lay open and empty.
That evening Madame took great trouble with her hair and put on her
turquoise gown, one of Doeuillet’s latest creations, for there was a
smart dance at the Prefecture, and she and Monsieur had been invited. She
took a nip of eau de Carmes, and was in excellent spirits, laughing and
chatting the whole time I had been putting the ribbons in her _lingerie_.
I had been powdering her neck and arms, and after giving a final touch
to the laces upon the bodice, it being the first time the gown had been
worn, I stepped back to admire the effect.
“_C’est ça!_ Madame will be the best-dressed lady to-night,” I declared.
“This model has never yet been seen in Palermo.”
She smiled, being fond of a little flattery.
“Yes, Mariette, I want to be noticed by other women. It pleases me.”
I had noticed with much amusement how, because of her title of “milady,”
all the English visitors at the hotel buzzed about her. Indeed, she
herself had been laughing over it not half-an-hour before.
“And now, Mariette,” she said, suddenly growing serious, after admiring
herself in the glass, “listen. I want you to go on an important message
for me. You must leave by to-night’s boat for Naples. It sails at eleven
o’clock. You do not object to travelling?”
“To Naples, Madame!” I echoed.
“Yes. You will be there early to-morrow morning,” she said. “You know our
friend Mr. Courtenay—you saw him often at the Savoy?”
“_Parfaitement_, Madame.”
“Then go to Naples, and thence take the train to Genoa. You will find
him awaiting you at the Hôtel de Londres, opposite the station. I have a
parcel I wish you to deliver to him.”
She passed into the adjoining room, which was occupied by Monsieur, and a
few seconds later returned with a brown-paper parcel about half a metre
long and a quarter deep. As I took it I found it contained something
rather heavy, and by its feel was packed in straw.
“It will not break easily,” she remarked. “But be very careful of it. You
can place it in your trunk among your clothes.”
“Then I am to take my trunk?”
“Yes; we shall remain here a few days longer, then we shall come on to
Genoa. You will await us there, at the Londres.”
“_Bien_, Madame.”
At that instant Monsieur entered, and I thought I detected meaning
glances exchanged between the pair.
Monsieur handed me three hundred francs in Italian notes to pay my
expenses, and then wishing me _bon voyage_, the pair descended in the
lift as they were dining at the Hôtel des Palmes before going on to the
Prefecture.
In preference to placing the parcel in my trunk, I found it would just
go into my small black bag in which I generally take a few necessaries
for the night when travelling. Wherefore, just before ten, having packed
all my belongings, I drove down to the pier and went on board the
_Navagazione Generale_ steamer which sails nightly for Naples, and as I
stood on deck I was soon afterwards watching the myriad lights of Palermo
disappearing at the stern.
Half-an-hour later, however, it blew bitterly cold, therefore I went
below to my cabin, and took out the parcel in order to get at what I had
in my bag.
As it lay upon my narrow berth I became seized by sudden curiosity as to
what it might contain. That there was a straw wrapping was plain—and it
was rather solid, like earthenware.
At last, however, I could not resist the temptation to look within;
therefore I carefully untied the string, and, opening it with great
caution, made an amazing discovery.
It was a child’s Noah’s Ark, apparently of tin or sheet-iron. The roof
was painted vermilion, the sides white, with one small black window. Yet
it was closed in such a manner that I could discover no opening—a puzzle
_sans doute_.
Another mystery! For a full hour I sat examining it closely, but by no
means could I find the hidden spring, if one there was. It was, no doubt,
of German or Swiss make, for it differed in no other particular from the
thousands I had seen in shop windows, save that it was of iron, instead
of wood.
_Vraiment_, a strange present to send to a man!
With great care I replaced it in its straw wrappings, and tied it up just
as neatly as it had been when given to me. Then, pondering deeply, I
wrapped my head in a shawl and turned in, merely loosening my corsets.
As we went farther out the sea became more rough, until we were rolling
heavily, as is always the case on that mail route.
About seven o’clock we passed Capri, rising like a jewel from the soft
grey effect of sky and sea, while an hour later I landed at Naples and
drove at once to the station, whence the express for Rome was about to
start.
In the buffet I swallowed my _café-au-lait_, and very soon was seated
alone in a second-class compartment on my way northward.
A four-day-old copy of the _Matin_ was the only French paper I had been
able to buy, and I had very soon read it from end to end. Then, my eyes
falling upon my black bag on the seat before me, I sat plunged for a long
time in deep reflection.
At dawn on the following day, fagged out and dishevelled, I alighted
at the great bustling station at Genoa, and followed my luggage upon a
barrow across the piazza, past the great white statue of Christopher
Columbus, to the Hôtel de Londres.
Having secured a room, I inquired if Monsieur Courtenay were there, but
received a negative reply. No visitor of that name was known.
So I ascended to my room, made myself presentable, and waited. I had been
in Genoa twice before, therefore the town possessed no attractions for
me. With the exception of those in the Via Roma, there are few shops of
interest.
On the afternoon of the second day, however, as I was crossing the pretty
garden in the Piazza Corvetto, a man, who presented the appearance of an
Italian workman, raised his cap to me and halted.
I started, for next moment, to my surprise, I recognised our friend of
the Savoy Hotel, the Monsieur whom I was in Genoa to meet.
“Ah! Mariette,” he laughed. “I see you would have passed me by
unnoticed—eh?”
“I certainly would, m’sieur,” was my frank reply. “I have been awaiting
you at the Hôtel de Londres. I have a packet which I have brought from
Palermo.”
“Good,” he said. “I only arrived here this morning from Turin. I prefer
not to go to your hotel in these clothes. How did you leave your master
and mistress?”
“They were quite well,” I replied.
“They are in Tunis. I had a telegram from them to-day at the Poste
Restante.”
“In Tunis?” I cried, greatly surprised.
“Yes. They are going from there to Algiers, and will cross to Marseilles.
In the telegram they say they wish you to go to Marseilles and there
await them next week at the Hôtel Louvre et Paix. As for the parcel,
you had better bring it out to me. I will wait for you, say under the
portico of the church of the Annunziata—you know—at this end of the Via
Balbi.”
“_Certainement_, m’sieur. At what time?”
“In an hour—at five o’clock,” he said. And as I looked at him I could not
help expressing admiration of the perfect picture of the average Italian
workman he presented. I recollected, however, that he spoke Italian
wonderfully well.
But why, I wondered—why all that precaution and mystery? In ordinary life
Monsieur Courtenay was most elegant, even dandified.
I inquired after Madame, and he told me she was back in London, staying
at the Waldorf Hotel.
“I, too, shall return to London to-night,” he added.
“Not in those clothes!” I said, whereupon he laughed heartily, and we
parted.
At five o’clock we met again at the spot appointed. He was then dressed
differently, in a dark blue suit and soft grey hat of the approved
British tourist pattern.
I gave him the precious parcel containing the mysterious Noah’s Ark, and
after thanking me he hurried off down the Via Balbi, in the direction of
the railway station. It was also my way, but as he did not invite me to
accompany him I sauntered on after him, wondering what that Noah’s Ark
could contain. _Quel drôle de type!_
Next morning, in accordance with my instructions, I left Genoa for
Marseilles, there to await Madame.
_Oh, mon Dieu!_ What a railway! One hundred and fifty tunnels between San
Pier d’Arena and the frontier at Ventimiglia. Then a glorious run along
the Côte d’Azur, past Mentone, Monte Carlo, Nice and Cannes, under the
Estrelles, and out at last to Marseilles, the Liverpool of France.
On arrival on the Monday I was handed a letter from Madame, telling me to
wait there, as she and Monsieur would arrive next Saturday.
Next morning, having been for a stroll up that lively thoroughfare of
handsome shops, the Cannebière, I returned to the big Hôtel Louvre et
Paix—where half the visitors were English from the arriving mail-boats
from India—and ascended in the lift.
Hardly had I entered my room when there came a tap at the door, and on
opening it I was confronted by two rather meanly-dressed men, one of whom
explained that he was an officer of the brigade mobile of police, and
that I must consider myself under arrest.
_Diable!_ Imagine my feelings! I protested in violent indignation; but,
nevertheless, I was quietly driven to the dépôt, where, on being ushered
into the bureau of the chief of police, I was amazed to find my friend,
Monsieur Pégard, the commercial traveller from Lyons.
“Well, mam’zelle!” he laughed, as I was given a seat. “I’m very sorry
to have given you a fright like this. I’ve only had you brought here to
ask you just a few questions. If you are honest in your replies you may
afterwards go.”
“But, m’sieur!” I cried, “why am I brought here?”
“Have patience, and you shall know,” he said. Then he put a great number
of questions to me concerning the recent movements of Monsieur and
Madame, who, he added, had slipped through his fingers in Milan.
“Where have you been recently?” he inquired.
I told him how I had been sent from Palermo to Genoa in order to meet
Monsieur Courtenay, and deliver to him a parcel.
“Did you know what it contained?” asked the agent of the _sûreté_.
“A curious present—a Noah’s Ark?”
“And what was within?”
I declared my ignorance.
“Well, the fact is,” he said, “I arrested the Englishman at the frontier
at Modane two days ago, and he fortunately had the Noah’s Ark in his
possession. On opening it I found one hundred and seventy thousand francs
in French and Italian bank-notes.”
“_Eh, bien?_”
“The truth is, mam’zelle,” he said, “we are extremely anxious to find
your master and mistress, who are wanted by half the police of Europe.”
“Wanted,” I gasped. “What for?”
“Monsieur Ashley-Bond—or Captain Atherton, as he calls himself—is an
expert forger of ten-pound Bank of England notes, one of the most expert
we know. The London police have discovered the house in Hounslow, near
London, where great quantities of spurious notes have been manufactured
by him. Their mode of operating was to print a large number, and
distribute them to the Courtenays and two other persons, and then, taking
some themselves, they would set out across Europe, visiting various
banks and money-changers, exchanging the spurious notes—which are most
remarkable imitations—for the smaller paper currency of other countries.
This was duly conveyed to London, and there again changed into English
gold and banked. Various devices were resorted to in order to conceal the
great quantities of bank-notes passing through the Customs, the child’s
Noah’s Ark being one of them.”
I related to Monsieur Pégard the ingenious and romantic story told me by
Madame, and explained that the pair were due in Marseilles on Saturday.
_J’ai trop mal à la tête, et je crois que j’en deviendrais folle._
Though we waited, however, they never came.
_Malheureusement_, I lost my wages, for I have never since seen or heard
of Madame or Monsieur. No doubt that in Milan, Palermo, Algiers and
elsewhere they reaped such a rapid and golden harvest that they have
sufficient for their wants for a long time to come.
As for Monsieur Courtenay, I afterwards read in my _Matin_ that he was
sentenced by the Assize Court of the Seine to fifteen years forced
labour, and that in evidence there was produced the child’s Noah’s Ark.
_Ah, malheur! Retournons à mes souvenirs._