The tidal wave of pines followed us as, having had one glance at the
Porte Dorée, we left Fréjus, old and new, behind. It followed us out of
gay little St. Raphael, lying in its alluvial plain of flowers, and on
along the coast past which the ships of Augustus Cæsar used to sail.
Not in my most starry dreams could I have fancied a road as beautiful as
that which opened to us soon, winding above the dancing water.
Graceful dryad pines knelt by the wayside, stretching out their arms to
the sea, where charming little bays shone behind enlacing branches, blue
as the eyes of a wood-nymph gleaming shyly through the brown tangle of
her hair. Pine balsam mingled with the bitter-sweet perfume of almond
blossom, and caught a pungent tang of salt from the wind.
What romance--what beauty! It made me in love with life, just to pass
this way, and know that so much hidden loveliness existed. I glanced
furtively over my shoulder at the couple whose honeymoon it is--our
master and mistress. Lady Turnour sat nodding in the conservatory
atmosphere of her glass cage, and Sir Samuel was earnestly choosing a
cigar.
Suddenly it struck me that Providence must have a vast sense of humour,
and that the little inhabitants of this earth, high and low, must
afford It a great deal of benevolent amusement.
All too soon we swept out of the forest, straight into a little town,
St. Maxime, with a picturesque port of its own, where red-sailed fishing
boats lolled as idly as the dark-eyed young men in cafés near the shore.
A few tourists walking out from the hotel on the hill gazed rather
curiously at us in our fine blue car; and we gazed away from them,
across a sapphire gulf, to the distant houses of St. Tropez, banked high
against a promontory of emerald.
I should have liked to run on to St. Tropez, for I knew his pretty
legend; how he was one of the guards of St. Paul in prison, and was
converted by the eloquence of his captive; but the chauffeur said that,
after La Foux (famed home of miniature horses) the coast road would lose
its surface of velvet. It would be laced in and out with crossings of a
local railway line, and there would be so many bumps that Lady Turnour
was certain to wake up very cross.
"For your sake I don't want to make her cross," said he, and turned
inland; but the way was no less beautiful. The pines were tired of
running after us, but great cork trees marched beside the road, like an
army of crusaders in disarray, half in, half out, of armour. Above, rose
the Mountains of the Moors, whose very name seemed to ring with the
distant echo of a Saracen war song; and here and there, on a bare, wild
hillside, towered all that was left of some ancient castle, fallen into
ruin. Cogolin was fine, and Grimaud was even finer.
Up a steep ascent, through shadowy forests we had passed, now and then
coming suddenly upon a little red-roofed village nestling among the
trees as a strawberry among its leaves, when abruptly we flashed out
where spaces of sky and silver sea opened. Between hills that seemed to
sweep a curtsey to us, we flew down an apple-paring road toward Hyères.
The Turnours had lunched, if not wisely, probably too well, at Valescure
about one o'clock, and it wasn't yet four; but the air at the beautiful
Costebelle hotels is said to be perpetually glittering with Royalties
and other bright beings of the great world, so her ladyship wouldn't
have been persuaded to miss the place.
Not that anyone tried to persuade her, for the two powers behind the
throne (and in front of the car) wanted to go--not to see the Royalties,
but the beauties of Costebelle itself.
We slipped gently through the town of Hyères, whose avenues of giant
palms looked like great sea anemones turned into trees, and then spurted
up a hill into a vast and fragrant grove that smelled of a thousand
flowers. In the grove stood three hotels, with wide views over
jade-green lagoons to an indigo sea; and at the most charming of the
trio we stopped.
Nothing was said about tea for the two servants, but while the "quality"
had theirs on an exquisite terrace, the chauffeur brought a steaming cup
to me, as I sat in the car.
"This was given me for my _beaux yeux_," he said, "but I don't want any
tea, so please take it, and don't let it be wasted."
I was convinced that he had paid for that cup of tea with coin harder
if not brighter than the _beaux yeux_ in question; but it would have
hurt his feelings if I had refused, therefore I drank the tea and
thanked the giver.
"You are being very kind to me," I said, "Mr. Bane or Dane; so do you
mind telling me which it is?"
"Dane," he replied shortly. "Not that it matters. A chauffeur by any
other name would smell as much of oil and petrol. It's actually my real
name, too. Are you surprised? I was either too proud or too stubborn to
change it--I'm not sure which--when I took up 'shuvving' for a
livelihood."
"No, I'm not surprised," I said. "You don't look like the sort of man
who would change his name as if it were a coat. I've kept mine, too, to
'maid' with. You 'shuv,' I 'maid.' It sounds like an exercise in a
strange language."
"That's precisely what it is," he answered. "A difficult language to
learn at first, but I'm getting the 'hang' of it. I hope you won't need
to pursue the study very thoroughly."
"And you think you will?"
"I think so," he said, his face hardening a little, and looking dogged.
"I don't see any way out of it for the present."
I was silent for almost a whole minute--which can seem a long time to a
woman--half hoping that he meant to tell me something about himself; how
it was that he'd decided to be a professional chauffeur, and so on. I
was sure there must be a story, an interesting story--perhaps a romantic
one--and if he confided in me, I would in him. Why not, when--on my
part, at least--there's nothing to conceal, and we're bound to be
companions of the Road for weal or woe? But if he felt any temptation to
be expansive he resisted it, like a true Englishman; and to break a
silence which grew almost embarrassing I was driven to ask him, quite
brazenly, if he had no curiosity to know my name.
"Not exactly curiosity," said he, smiling his pleasant smile again. "I'm
never curious about people I--like, or feel that I'm going to like. It
isn't my nature."
"It's just the opposite with me."
"We're of opposite sexes."
"You believe that explains it? I don't know. Man may be a fellow
creature, I suppose--though they didn't teach me that at the Convent.
But tell me this: even if you have no curiosity, because you hope you
can manage to endure me, _do_ you think I look like an 'Elise'?"
"Somehow, you don't. Names have different colours for me. Elise is
bright pink. You ought to be silver, or pale blue."
"Elise is my professional name; Lady Turnour is my sponsor. My real
name's Lys--Lys d'Angely."
"Good! Lys _is_ silver."
"I wish I could coin it. Let me see if I can guess what you ought to be?
You look like--like--well, Jack would suit you. But that's too good to
be true. I shall never meet a 'Jack' except in books and ballads."
"My name is John Claud. But when I was a boy, I always fought any chap
who called me 'Claud,' and tried to give him a black eye or a bloody
nose. You may call me Jack, if you like."
"Certainly not. I shall call you Mr. Dane."
"Shuvvers are never mistered."
"Not even by the females of their kind? I always supposed that manners
were very toploftical in the servants' hall."
"We may both soon know."
"Elise, take that cup at once where you got it from, and come back to
your place. We are ready to start."
This from Lady Turnour. (Really, if she takes to interfering every time
we others have got to the middle of an interesting conversation, I don't
know what I shall do to her! Perhaps I'll put her transformation on
side-wise. Or would that be blackmail?)
Silently the chauffeur took the cup from my frightened fingers, and
marched off with it into the hotel, without a "by your leave" or "with
your leave."
"My word, your chauffeur might have better manners!" grumbled Lady
Turnour to Sir Samuel, as she climbed into the car; but there was no
scolding when the rude young man came briskly back, looking supremely
unconscious of having given offence.
"Now we must make good time to Marseilles, if we're to get there for
dinner," he said, when he had started the car, and taken his place. "We
shall stop there to-night, or rather, just outside the town, in one of
the nicest hotels on earth, as you will see."
"Whose choice?" I asked.
"Mine," he laughed, "but I don't think Sir Samuel knows that!"
Down to Hyères we floated again, on the wings of the Aigle, I looking
longingly across the valley where the old town climbed a citadeled
hill, and lay down at the foot of a sturdy though crumbling castle. If
this were _really_ my own tour, as I am trying to play it is, I would
have commanded a long stop at Costebelle, to make explorations of the
region round about. I can imagine no greater joy than to be able to stay
at beautiful places as long as one wished, and to keep on doing
beautiful things till one tired of doing them.
But life is a good deal like a big busybody of a policeman, continually
telling us to get up and move on!
Our world was a flower world again, ringed in like a secret fairyland,
with distant mountains of extraordinarily graceful shapes--charming
lady-mountains; and as far as we could see the road was cut through a
carpet of pink, white, and golden blossoms destined by and by for the
markets of Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna.
Before I thought it could be so near, we dashed into Toulon, a very
different Toulon from the Toulon of the railway station, where I
remembered stopping a few mornings (which seemed like a few years) ago.
Now, it looked a noble and impressive place, as well as a tremendously
busy town; but my eye climbed to the towery heights above, wondering on
which one Napoleon--a smart young officer of artillery--placed the
batteries that shelled the British out of the harbour, and gained for
him the first small laurel leaf of his imperial crown.
I thought, too, of all the French novels I'd read, whose sailor heroes
were stationed at Toulon, and there met romantic or sensational
adventures. They were always handsome and dashing, those heroes, and as
we threaded intricate fortifications, I found myself looking out for at
least one or two of them.
Yes, they were there, plenty of heroes, almost all handsome, with
splendid dark eyes that searched flatteringly to penetrate the mystery
of my talc triangle. They didn't know, poor dears, that there was
nothing better than a lady's-maid behind it. What a waste of gorgeous
glances!
I laughed to myself at the fancy, and the chauffeur sitting beside me
wanted to know why; but I wouldn't tell him. One really can't say
everything to a man one has known only for a day. And yet, the curious
part is, I feel as if we had been the best of friends for a long time. I
never felt like that toward any man before, but I suppose it is because
of the queer resemblance in our fates.
Beyond Toulon we had to slow down for a long procession of gypsy
caravans on their way to town; quaint, moving houses, with strings of
huge pearls that were gleaming onions, festooned across their blue or
green doors and windows; and out from those doors and windows wonderful
eyes gazed at us--eyes full of secrets of the East, strange eyes, more
fascinating in their passing glance than those of the gay young heroes
at Toulon.
So we flew on to the village of Ollioules, and into the dim mountain
gorge of the same musical name. The car plunged boldly through the veil
of deep blue shadow which hung, ghostlike, over the serpentine curves of
the white road; and out of its twilight-mystery rose always the faint
singing of a little river that ran beside us, under the steep gray wall
of towering rock.
At the top of the gorge a surprise of beauty waited for us as our way
led along a sinuous road cut into the swelling mountain-side. Far off
lay the sea, with an army of tremendous purple rocks hurling themselves
headlong into the molten gold of the water, like a drove of mammoths.
All the world was gold and royal purple. Hills and mountains stood up,
darkly violet, out of a golden plain, against a sky of gold; and it was
such a picture as only Heaven or Turner could have painted.
Nor was there any break in the varied splendor of the scene and of the
sun's setting until we came to the dull-looking town of Aubagne. After
that, the Southern darkness swooped in haste, and while we wound
tediously through the immense, never-ending traffic of Marseilles, it
"made night." All the length and breadth of the Cannebière burst into
brilliance of electric light, as if in our honor. The great street
looked as gay as a Paris boulevard; and as we turned into it, we turned
into an adventure.
To begin with, nothing seemed less likely than an adventure. We drew up
calmly before the door of a hotel whence a telephonic demand for rooms
must be sent to La Reserve, under the same management. It was the
chauffeur who had to go in and telephone, for the bridegroom is even
more helpless in French than the bride; and before Mr. Dane could stop
the car, Sir Samuel called out: "Keep the motor going, to save time. You
needn't be a minute in there. Her ladyship is hungry, and wants to get
on."
The chauffeur raised his eyebrows, but obeyed in silence, leaving the
motor hard at work, the automobile panting as impatiently to be off as
if "she" suffered with Lady Turnour.
No sooner was the tall, leather-clad figure out of sight than a crowd of
small boys and youths pressed boldly round the handsome car. Her
splendour was her undoing, for a plain, every-day sort of automobile
might have failed to attract.
Laughing, jabbering _patois_, a dozen young imps forced their audacious
attentions on the unprotected azure beauty. What was I, that I could
defend her, left there as helpless as she, while her great heart
throbbed under me?
It was easy to say "_Allez-vous en--va!_" and I said it, not once, but
again and again, each time more emphatically than before. Nobody paid
the slightest attention, however, except, perhaps to find an extra spice
of pleasure in tormenting me. If I had been a yapping miniature lap-dog,
with teeth only _pour faire rire_, I could not have been treated with
greater disdain by the crowd. I glanced hastily round to see if Sir
Samuel had not taken alarm; but, sitting beside his wife in the big
crystal cage, he seemed blissfully unconscious of danger to his splendid
Aigle. Instead, the couple looked rather pleased than otherwise to be a
centre of attraction.
"Perhaps," I thought, "they're right, and these young wretches can work
no real harm to the car. They ought to know better than I--"
But they didn't; for before the thought could spin itself out in my
mind, a gypsy-eyed little fiend of twelve or thirteen made a spring at
the driver's seat. With a yelp of mischievous glee he proved his daring
to his comrades by snatching at the starting-lever. He was quick as a
flash of summer lightning, but if I hadn't been quicker, the big car
might have leaped into life, and run amuck through the most crowded
street in busy Marseilles. I felt myself go cold and hot, horribly
uncertain whether my interference might work harm or good, but before I
quite knew what I did, I had sent the boy flying with a sounding box on
the ear.
He squealed as he sprawled backward, and I stood up, ready for battle,
my fingers tingling, my heart pounding. The imp was up again, in half a
breath, pushed forward by his friends to take revenge, and I could hear
Sir Samuel or her ladyship wrestling vainly with the window behind me.
What would have happened next I can't tell, except that I was in a mood
to fight for our car till the death, even if knives flashed out; and I
think I was gasping "Police! Police!" but at that instant Mr. Jack Dane
hurled himself like a catapult from the hotel. He dashed the weedy
youths out of his way like ninepins, jumped to his seat, and the car and
the car's occupants were safe.
"You are a trump, Miss d'Angely," said he, as we boomed away from the
hotel, scattering the crowd before us as an eddy of wind scatters autumn
leaves. "You did just the right thing at just the right time. It was all
my fault. I oughtn't to have left the motor going."
"It was Sir Samuel's fault," I contradicted him.
"No. Whatever goes wrong with the car is always the chauffeur's fault.
Sir Samuel wanted me to do a foolish thing, and I oughtn't to have done
it. I had your life to think of--"
"And theirs."
"Theirs, of course. But I would have thought of yours first."
It made my heart feel as warm as a bird in a nest to be complimented by
the man at the helm for presence of mind, and then to hear that already
I'd gained a friend to whom my life was of some value. Since my mother
died, there has been no one for whom I've come first.
I wanted badly to do something to show my gratitude, but could think of
nothing except that, by and by, when we knew each other better, I might
offer to sew on his buttons or mend his socks.