He hesitated, but Paul understood. 'Have you heard from her? Were you
invited?' 'Oh, dear, no,' he answered. 'No such luck. Not to the
Château, only to the gates--the East Gate.' (The principal entrance to
the home park of Granjolaye is the South Gate, which opens upon the
Route Départementale.) 'I stood respectfully outside, and looked
through the grating of the grille. I walked through the forest, by the
Sentier des Contrebandiers.'
'Ah,' said André.
'And on my way what do you suppose I met?'
'A--a viper,' responded André. 'The hot weather is bringing them out.
I killed two in my garden yesterday.'
'Oh, you cruel thing! What did you want to kill the poor young
creatures for? And then to boast of it!--But no, not a viper. A lady.'
'A lady?'
'Yes--a real lady; she wore gloves. She was riding. I hope you won't
think I'm asking impertinent questions, but I wonder if you can tell
me who she is.'
'A lady riding in the Sentier des Contrebandiers?' André repeated
incredulously.
'She looked like one. Of course I may have been deceived. I didn't
hear her speak. Do you think she was a cook?'
'I didn't know any one ever rode in the Sentier des Contrebandiers.'
'Oh, for that, I give you my word of honour. A lady--or say a
female--in a black riding-habit; dark hair and eyes; very pale, with
red lips and things. Oh, I'm not trying to impose upon you. It was
about half a mile this side of where the path skirts the road.'
'You might stop in the Sentier des Contrebandiers from January to
December and not meet a soul,' said André.
'Ah, I see. There's no convincing you. Sceptic! And yet, twenty years
ago, you'd have been pretty sure to meet a certain couple of small
boys there, wouldn't you?'
'_Si fait_,' assented André. 'We went there a good deal. But we were
privileged. The only boys in this country now are peasants' children,
and they have no leisure for wandering in the wood. When they're not
at school, they're working in the fields. As for their elders, the
path is rough and circuitous; the high road's smoother and shorter, no
matter where you're bound. Since our time, I doubt if twenty people
have passed that way.'
'That argues ill for people's taste. The place is lovely. Underfoot,
it's quite overgrown with mosses; and the branches interlace overhead.
Where the sun filters through, you get adorable effects of light and
shadow. It's fearfully romantic; perfect for making love in, and that
sort of thing. Oh, if all the women hereabouts hadn't such hawk-like
noses! You see, the Duke of Wellington was here in 1814.--No? He
wasn't? I thought I'd read he was.--Ah, well, he was just over the
border. But my lady of this morning hadn't a hawk-like nose. I can't
quite remember what style of nose she did have, but it wasn't
hawk-like. I say, frankly, as between old friends, have you any notion
who she was?'
'What kind of horse had she?'
'Ah, there!' cried Paul, with a despairing gesture. 'You've touched my
vulnerable point. I never shall have any memory for horses. I think
it was black--no, brown--no, grey--no, green. Oh, what am I saying? I
can't remember. Do--do you make it an essential?'
'She might have been from Bayonne.'
'Who rides from Bayonne? Fancy a Bayonnaise on a horse! They're all
busy in their shops.'
'You forget the military. She may have been the wife of an officer.'
'Oh, horror! Do you really think so? Then she must have been frowsy
and provincial, after all; and I thought her so smart and
distinguished-looking and everything.'
'Or perhaps an Englishwoman from Biarritz. They sometimes ride out as
far as this.'
'Dear André, if she were English, I should have known it at a
glance--and there the matter would have rested. I have at least a
practised eye for English women. I haven't lived half my life in
England without learning something.'
'Well, there are none but English at Biarritz at this season.'
'She was never English. Don't try to bully _me_. Besides, she
evidently knew the country. Otherwise, how could she have found the
Sentier des Contrebandiers?--She wasn't from Granjolaye?'
'There's no one at Granjolaye save the Queen herself.'
'Deceiver! Manuela told me last night. She has her little Court, her
maids-of-honour. I think my _inconnue_ looked like a maid-of-honour.'
'She has her aunt, old Mademoiselle Henriette, and a couple of German
women, countesses or baronesses or something, with unpronounceable
names.'
'I can't believe she's German. Still, I suppose there are _some_
Christian Germans. Perhaps....'
'They're both middle-aged. Past fifty, I should think.'
'Oh.--Ah, well, that disposes of them. But how do you know her Majesty
hasn't a friend, a guest, staying with her?'
'It's possible, but most unlikely, seeing the close retirement in
which she lives. She's never once gone beyond her garden, since she
came back there, three, four, years ago; nor received any visitors.
_Personne_--not the Bishop of Bayonne nor the Sous-Préfet, not even
_feu_ Monsieur le Comte, though they all called, as a matter of
civility. She has her private chaplain. If a guest had arrived at
Granjolaye, the whole country would know it and talk of it.'
'Oh, I see what you're trying to insinuate,' cried Paul. 'You're
trying to insinuate that she came from Château Yroulte.' That was the
next nearest country-house.
'Nothing of the sort,' said André. 'Château Yroulte has been shut up
and uninhabited these two years--ever since the death of old Monsieur
Raoul. It was bought by a Spanish Jew; but he's never lived in it and
never let it.'
'Well, then, where _did_ she come from? Not out of the Fourth
Dimension? Who _was_ she? Not a wraith, an apparition? Why _will_ you
entertain such weird conjectures?'
'She must have come from Bayonne. An officer's wife, beyond a doubt.'
'Oh, you're perfectly remorseless,' sighed Paul, and changed the
subject. But he was unconvinced. Officers' wives, in garrison-towns
like Bayonne, had, in his experience, always been, as he expressed it,
frowsy and provincial.