The Casino Gardens
The affair of the crocodile had by no means diminished the esteem in
which Mrs. Allonby held M. Isidore; nor, to judge from an incident
she witnessed from her window on the morning after the Carnival, had
it lessened the regard of the Bontemps family--to whom he was vaguely
supposed to be related, having been heard to address Madame as "Ma
tante"--for that gallant and gay little champion of distressed
damsels.
As she often did, Ermengarde had slipped that morning into a
dressing-gown, wound the thick plaits of her hair round her throat,
and gone to her open window to watch the sun rise and drink the fresh
morning air.
It was an hour of magical beauty; the deep quiet of dawn lay on
mountain, sea, and sleeping town; no one was yet stirring in house or
grounds. The sea was a dark peacock green as deep in tone as the
blue of the bird's neck, paling to the shore, but on the horizon a
firm dark line against a band of glowing orange sky, above which
floated crimson cloudlets over pale green. Great masses of shadow
were slowly leaving the gorges; the olives gradually brightened and
took clear form on the western slopes. Not a sound or a breath
stirred the deep peace of the windless dawn; flower-scents rose from
gardens and lemon-trees set with blossom and fruit; the sea scarcely
heaved in its sleep. Ermengarde leant on the balcony, lost in the
beauty and calm, and wondered at the depth of magnificent velvety
green beneath the orange sky. Some labourers came into the gardens
and turned the hose over the thirsty flower-beds with a pleasant
showering sound.
Suddenly a figure on the railed platform on the brink of the steep
stood out against the dark blue shadow of the gorge; then another and
another, and voices--quick, emphatic, French-Italian voices--rang out
in the stillness; the gardeners looked up at the group, and made
unintelligible comments. The tall form of Madame Bontemps, her
iron-grey hair glossy in morning light, appeared, followed by the
slight compact figure of M. Isidore full of eager gesture. M.
Bontemps lounged after them; the three voices grew in urgency and
rapid interchange to one common shout; the gestures increased to
frenzy. M. Bontemps seemed about to hurl M. Isidore, who had
suddenly become rigid and stood with folded arms glaring at him, over
the barrier; Madame intervened, with an action that threatened
annihilation to both but injured neither.
Then M. Bontemps rushed into the house, and quickly emerged again,
leading by the hand Mlle. Geneviève, reluctant, downcast, who
instantly turned her back on all three, and looked down the gorge in
gloomy silence, while the others declaimed, singly and in unison,
with gestures of entreaty, to the massive and glossy coils of her
back hair. At last she turned sharply and faced them with a fierce
energy, that almost precipitated them backwards down the ridge and
drove them to the balustrade, where the risen sun touched their faces
with ruddy gold. Mlle. Geneviève then wept bitterly; her father
placed his hand despairingly on his heart and groaned; her mother
stormed; M. Isidore covered his face with his hands, with a movement
of such despair as suggested the advisability of putting an end to
his sufferings by springing down the steep.
Instead of this, with an alarming suddenness that drove Mlle.
Bontemps back to the other side, he threw out his arms and sprang
forwards, directing what sounded like a torrent of abuse upon Mlle.
Geneviève, who shrank and quailed beneath it, and then lifted her
hands appealingly to Heaven with renewed weeping. A general
engagement--to witness which the gardeners left the hose to its own
discretion, with the unexpected result of very nearly drenching the
whole of the combatants--then took place with such energy and
apparent fury that Ermengarde, terror-stricken and in default of
police, was about to cry "_Au secours!_" when M. Isidore suddenly
hurled himself weeping upon the ample bosom of Madame Bontemps, who
tenderly embraced and kissed him; after which Monsieur fall upon his
neck in such wise that the two men represented an inverted V, when
they kissed on both cheeks and parted.
Then Mlle. Geneviève, with downcast eyes and reluctant step, led by
her mother and encouraged by her father, allowed M. Isidore to take
both her hands and respectfully salute her on both cheeks, and sudden
calm fell upon the quartette, now in full sunshine.
After this, as if nothing had happened, they strolled, casually
chatting, about the little platform, M. Bontemps yawning and resuming
his interrupted cigarette, and Madame leaning over the railing; that
looked across the chasm towards the garden, and composedly issuing
commands to the gardeners before returning to the house. Thither she
was accompanied by her daughter, now restored to cheerfulness and
executing a graceful _pas seul_ to that mad Carnival tune of the day
before, as she went, while Ermengarde, unconscious of her deficient
toilet, remained petrified at her balcony, staring blankly at the
sunny sea and the hill-crest topped by the convent, every olive, pine
and cypress on which was now clear and distinct in a flood of
brilliant sunshine.
But Mrs. Allonby was not the only witness of this family drama. The
voices of the actors, penetrating through the open window of Miss
Boundrish, had roused the amiable girl from her slumbers, and caused
her, with much irritation and reluctance, conquered by curiosity, to
spring from her downy nest, classically dressed in the first thing
that came handy, and view the platform scene from her window with
appropriate mental comment.
A vivid imagination, capable of forging missing links in a chain of
evidence at a moment's notice, and then presenting them as veritable
parts of the original, enabled her to produce a version entirely her
own of what actually occurred. And not content with constructing a
consistent romance out of the pantomime enacted in the morning, she
insisted upon imparting the whole of it in the afternoon to a few
friends in the garden, in a voice that must have been heard all over
the grounds, if not by the whole house.
It was actually heard by Mrs. Allonby, who, under the mistaken
impression that she was writing letters, was basking in the sun among
the flowers, idly looking over the lemon-tops and across gorge and
ridge to the sea, and peacefully thinking of nothing at all. But,
roused from this pleasant occupation by the dulcet accents of her
favourite Dorris, she turned and engaged in a sharp verbal encounter
with the romancer, and contrived to give her such a severe snubbing
(though to snub Dorris was no child's work) as reduced her victorious
self to a state of pleasant exhaustion, that made sunshine and fair
scenes and _dolce far niente_ more enjoyable than ever.
"Surely," murmured the thin man, who had been a silent and apparently
unconscious auditor of the fray, in mortal terror lest either
antagonist should appeal to him, and who would have fled but for the
fear of attracting attention, "our young friend would be quite as
happy, and infinitely more charming, had she been born without a
tongue?"
"Oh, she'd have gurgled and giggled more than ever to make up. Such
people ought not to be let loose in civilized hotels."
"Poor girl," said the more merciful Agatha, who had just come up,
"are we not a little hard on her? An interest in her
fellow-creatures, perhaps more zealous than discreet, and a slight
congenital deficiency in tact----"
"Deficiency? A born cat!"
"But a good heart, dear Mrs. Allonby?"
"What's the good of a good heart if you don't sheathe your claws?"
The thin man and Miss Somers, meeting each other's eyes, smiled; for,
whatever she may have given, poor Dorris had undoubtedly received a
pretty good but strictly polite clawing before retreating in great
disarray from the fur-strewn field.
"Do you realize that all our characters are at the mercy of those
good-hearted claws, Miss Somers?"
The gentle observation in reply, that characters needing defence were
not of much account, filled Ermengarde with amazement. "What an
actress!" she reflected, rapidly marshalling the compromising events
of the Carnival in her memory, and looking at the lemons till they
mesmerized her and her eyelids began to close, then suddenly opened
to their widest extent.
For out of the dark lemon-leaves to the left there emerged a head--a
not unusual occurrence, one of the garden entrances from a terraced
path being just there--a handsome young head, followed by well-braced
shoulders and the whole figure of the Cyrano de Bergerac of the
Carnival. Having risen to the garden level, he stopped and looked
about as if considering the way to the house, while Ermengarde,
conscious through occult sympathy of nervous tension near, looked at
Agatha, who had made a slight quick movement, her hands clasped
tightly together, her face vivid, and then with a deep sigh had drawn
the mask of inexpression, now so familiar, over her features. It was
at this moment that Cyrano caught sight of her; and, taking a step
forward, paused doubtfully, took another step, smiled with nervous
hesitation, very different from his usual gay assurance, looked
appealingly at the sphinx-like face that was averted from him, gazing
straight before her, and raised his hat.
At this, she turned her head slightly, bowed frigidly, almost
imperceptibly, and turned away again.
A flash of anger and mortification crimsoned Cyrano's face; turning
quickly, he walked up to the house, where he was distantly heard
entering into a prolonged misunderstanding with Heinrich, the
cheerful porter, the purport of which appeared to be that some one
asked for was not in the house, but that there was a restaurant
attached to the hotel where Monsieur would find excellent
refreshment. This appeared to fill Cyrano with the utmost fury and
indignation. "Did nobody keep the beastly place? Was there no
secretary or manager or anything?" he shouted, coming to the end of
his French.
The porter's vague reference to _fiançailles_ and the desirability of
leaving a message with the patron himself, who might possibly be
induced to appear in the office if perseveringly rung for, suggested
that Madame Bontemps and her daughter being both out, and M. Isidore
absent, and M. Bontemps left in temporary and reluctant charge,
anarchy reigned within.
But all this being entirely unintelligible to poor Cyrano, the
well-known national swear-word came rolling vigorously out, and after
some futile stamping on the gravel and further hopeless
misunderstanding with the ever affable Swiss, the visitor went into
the house with quick, angry steps, and was seen no more till soon
after sunset. At that hour Mrs. Allonby, idling cosily between her
wood-fire and the window, saw him walking and amicably talking with
the hostile crocodile of the Carnival--who, with the Bontemps ladies,
had come back half an hour before--from the private wing of the house
to the gate, where they parted with ceremony, leaving Ermengarde in
doubt as to whether it meant pistols and coffee or friendship and
apology. The thin man subsequently averred that the young Englishman
had been eating humble pie, and M. Isidore had graciously accepted
his explanation, and duly presented it and the apologist to M.
Bontemps, who had been equally gracious.
In the meantime Ermengarde put two facts together--that the woman of
mystery had received and furtively read a letter from the Cyrano on
one afternoon, and on the next had accorded him a recognition one
remove from a dead cut.
And upon this occasion of meeting M. Isidore in the Casino Gardens
walking with a woman of such distinguished appearance, with whom he
appeared to be on equal and friendly, almost affectionate, terms, she
remembered that the young Englishman's manner to him that afternoon
at Les Oliviers had been quite that of an equal. Who and what, then,
was this pleasant and mysterious youth, occupying a position so
palpably anomalous? In any case, it was a great convenience to have
such a delicate, Ariel-like being at hand as an attendant sprite,
especially on this unfortunate occasion, of being so completely
cleaned out at the tables as not even to have the price of a cup of
tea.
"You are always our guardian angel at Les Oliviers," she told him,
after imparting the history of the afternoon's ill-luck. "Evidently
you possess a sixth sense, by virtue of which you invariably turn up
whenever we come to grief. It was only yesterday that you saved Mr.
Welbourne from a broken neck."
"Ah! ce pauvre monsieur! Mais il vaut bien la peine, n'est-ce pas,
Madame?"
The sorrows of the roulette table vanished into the limbo of
forgetfulness; Mrs. Allonby found herself magically installed in a
cosy nook outside the café, with a full view of the craggy head of
the gorge, the Roman tower of Turbia outlined above it on the
sunset-flushed sky, and in the foreground the enchanted Armida
gardens, promenaders streaming in and out of avenues of dark exotic
trees, gorgeous parterres, the gleam of white masonry between palm
and olive boughs, and the tide of smart carriages and snorting motors
rolling along the main road under dark-leaved boughs. The band
played the Overture to Tannhäuser, and the Pilgrim's Chorus,
overpowered again and again by the scream of warring violins, surged
out solemn and triumphant again and yet again.
Tea of the perfect quality a brief experience leads the traveller to
expect in the better French restaurants, with dainty but appallingly
rich cakes, was before her, though how procured it was impossible to
conjecture, every table, chair, and waiter having been appropriated
or promised two deep a moment before--unless, as appeared probable,
M. Isidore exercised some mysterious influence over the harried
waiters, who fled at his nod and contrived to produce, and perhaps
manufacture on the instant, hitherto non-existent tea-tables and
seats in suddenly improvised corners. Her bag had been replenished
with small coin by the same enchanter, who gracefully accepted an
invitation to share the tea, and spiced it with much useful local
information and many bright and apposite remarks and condolences upon
the unfortunate experiences in the Casino.
"Fancy having tea in public with a hotel-manager at home," she
reflected complacently, forgetting that it is quite as possible to be
found out abroad as at home, and agreeably conscious of a slight
flavour of impropriety, or at least unconventionality, in the
adventure. Her spirits rose; she drew a pathetic picture of her
anguish at the loss of the white serge costume that brought tears of
laughter from M. Isidore's eyes. After two cups of tea and several
cream buns in the sweet air, perfumed by a great bush covered with
clusters of tea-roses overhanging this cosy corner, the Casino
mischance acquired a new aspect--it became a positive joy; it was
part of the game. After all, it was seeing life. It behoved the
mother of Charlie to know life--_real_ life. This was very real.
To leave off with a pile of winnings and buy the frock next day would
have been too obvious and commonplace. But to win so splendidly and
lose so fatally was to acquire a new thrill. The inconvenience of
having lost more than a fortnight of the holiday by this financial
mischance could be reserved for future consideration
and--_reparation_.
And this was the woman who had been severe on the poor painted
countess and her cavalier for daring to speak of their "sordid vices"
in that first mountain sunset, and had even looked down upon the thin
man's little innocent five franc flutters!
M. Isidore, on his part, was anything but depressed. Of course, he
was delighted with the luck of turning up just in time to be of
service to Madame. It was singular that he had chosen that
particular afternoon to call on friends staying in this place. The
lady Madame had been so kind as to compliment upon her chic
appearance was, in effect, the cause of his visit; she was his sister.
Ermengarde's eyes widened. _His_ sister? An early prejudice
regarding the veracity of foreigners, together with a memory of
Olympian leniency towards falsity on certain topics, led her to
condone this flagrant mis-statement of fact, and pass quickly to
other subjects. M. Isidore was a man of singular charm; his eyes
were liquid and soft, like a gazelle's. He could not even explain
that the vulgar atrocity of flaring white masonry, that formed the
centre of every picture of the mountains behind Monte Carlo, was
neither a prison nor a half-finished barrack, but only the Riviera
Palace Hotel, without some delicately allusive pleasantry, some
unavowed tribute to the fascination of her presence.
It was just when Mrs. Allonby had arrived at these favourable
conclusions respecting M. Isidore's eyes and conversation that the
Anarchist happened to pass the crowd of tables outside the café, and
Ermengarde, smiling softly and not untenderly upon the Frenchman,
happened to look up and meet the blazing ferocity of that baleful
person's eyes, with a start of apprehension and astonishment that
caused his truculent gaze to blanch before hers.
"That dreadful man again--he never can look me straight in the face!
That is the man I asked about the first day. Who is he?" she cried.
"Celui-la, l'homme à la barbe bleue? Ah! the Pole? Of him I know
nothing. He was at Les Oliviers, that is all, Madame. My friend, I
have done you no wrong that you should look pistol shots at me,
though my position is doubtless one to crack the heart with envy. He
would like my blood in a cup to drink, Madame, hein?"
"Perhaps he has the evil eye," she suggested, crimsoning with a
sudden ghastly suspicion that the Anarchist, in his dark and dreadful
fashion, might be in love with her; a suspicion chiefly based, it is
to be feared, upon the malevolence with which this mysterious man
glared upon M. Isidore, who appeared to enjoy it amazingly, and
twirled his moustache and flashed his eyes at the Pole with a
taunting insolence no Englishman can command. And dreadful as the
notion of being the object of the Anarchist's passion was, it still
held substantial compensation in the implied idea of being suspected
of a flirtation with a young and handsome foreigner of dubious social
status and admitted charm. It gave the proper Bohemian spice to the
whole adventure. This, she recognized with a thrill, certainly was
real life; the bon-bons M. Isidore offered her with an air of
respectful gallantry tinged with despair had the zest of forbidden
fruit.
Everybody must have some fun sometimes, once in a life-time at least.
The thin man was a most estimable person, with sound moral principles
and interesting views upon art and literature; his paintings were
charming--in the impressionist manner--but his presence was not
entirely necessary to the enjoyment of the moment; he would probably
turn up quite soon enough.
The Anarchist passed on, turning once to inflict a final murderous
glance upon the guileless Frenchman, who twirled his moustache with a
more deadly insolence than ever in return. Mrs. Allonby went on
enjoying real life, bon-bons and sunshine, quite peacefully, till the
sound of a familiar gurgling chuckle made her turn her laughing eyes
to the passing crowd, in the midst of which sailed the slender figure
of Miss Boundrish, in a frock due to the genius of a renowned Paris
maker, and accompanied by a tall and stiffly-carried youth, whose
accent and bearing alike confessed him a Prussian officer--a fact of
which he was, to do him justice, anything but ashamed.
An air of possession on the lady's part, and of reluctant submission
on the man's, proclaimed the situation clearly and afforded
Ermengarde much quiet enjoyment. This was succeeded by a thrill,
rather too keen this time, at the expression, or rather succession of
expressions, on Miss Boundrish's face when her roving glance took in
gradually the whole inwardness of the group of two in the
rose-covered corner. Life was becoming almost too real now; for
Ermengarde knew perfectly well that before slumber fell upon the
household at Les Oliviers that night, every creature in it would
possess some version, with variations and embroideries, of the
present meeting in the gardens.
Dorris gave Ermengarde one of the little patronizing nods she was
fond of bestowing on her betters, ignoring M. Isidore, whose serenity
was nevertheless undisturbed. Ermengarde's acknowledgment of the
fair girl's salute was a trifle ceremonious, a circumstance that
possibly impelled Dorris to penetrate to the rose-embowered corner,
and promptly present her captive, who drew his heels together and
saluted with unmitigated melancholy.
"Fancy finding _you_ here!" she graciously gurgled. "Rather noisy
for you? Of course, you didn't attempt the Casino? You wouldn't
like it at all. The evening is the right time for the _Salle du
feu_. Such dresses--such diamonds--there's nothing like it. I must
get the mater to take you one evening. The lieutenant will escort
us----"
"Doch," was the humble rejoinder with clicked heels.
"It will be quite a ploy for you--as Mr. Welbourne says. You ought
to see a little life. I'm glad you are resting here instead of at
that dull old mountain place; a nice change for you--odd place to
rest in though," with an arch look, for which Ermengarde could have
murdered her without remorse.
"You had a pleasant day at Nice, Miss Boundrish? and found your aunt
better?" she asked sweetly.
"My aunt? Nice? Oh, quite better," she gurgled with temporary
confusion. "But, I say, Mrs. Allonby, don't you give me away. The
mater doesn't know everything. Wouldn't do at all, you know.
Auntie's _quite_ better, thank you. Ta ta."
M. Isidore, always standing, and raising his hat at the proper time,
listened to this colloquy with a smile of pleased interest, and when
the pair had gone he laughed a droll little laugh.
"Figure to yourself, Madame," he said, in the only tongue he ever
cared to speak, "that it is possible for me to detest one of your
charming sex. In that case I avenge myself by giving her to a German
husband. _Hein?_"
"But the poor German?"
"Ah! One still remembers Alsace-Lorraine. Yes?"
"Surely there are limits even to a patriotic vengeance. But I must
catch this train, and please do you try to catch me Mr. Welbourne."
"Perfectly."
Pleasant to wind slowly through the enchanted gardens to the sea in
the last sunglow, pleasanter still to find on the way a quiet nook by
a rippling stream, and sink upon a bench, half hidden in
geranium-trees and quite hidden from the public, and look round at
the gay and fragrant flower-bands, and--see the woman of mystery
seated on another bench in earnest colloquy with Cyrano, the very
same Cyrano whose acquaintance had been as good as repudiated by her
at Les Oliviers a few days since.
Agatha's face was turned from Ermengarde; Cyrano's, full of emotion,
was in the same direction, bent upon the lady's; one arm lay along
the back of the bench behind her; his other almost encircled the
figure turned from him; his hand was upon hers clasped on her lap;
every line and gesture of the two figures indicated a situation of
extreme poignancy; he was speaking in low tones of strong feeling,
interrupted by sharp retorts of pain and indignation from her; there
was clearly no place for a third person. But the superfluous third
hardly knew how to remove herself without attracting attention; she
had just risen for the purpose when Agatha, turning with quick anger
to Cyrano, saw her. Ermengarde, wondering why everybody's invalid
aunts should just then be staying clandestinely at Monte Carlo, bowed
instinctively, and would have passed on, but that Agatha, with one of
her sudden transitions to marble, came towards her with some calm and
commonplace phrase, and obliged her to stop and reply.
"Yes. This is the last train in time for dinner," Agatha said, as if
nothing mattered more than missing a meal; "and it's growing cold.
May I introduce Mr. Paul, my--my--that is, a--a----"
"A connexion by marriage," Cyrano suggested, with what Ermengarde
thought an odd expression.
"Quite so; a connexion by marriage," she echoed, as if greatly
relieved by this definition. "Mrs. Allonby travelled from Calais
with me, Ivor. She has been most kind. We are--luckily for me--in
the same pension."
"Really? Awfully nice for you."
Ermengarde was stunned. Here was the woman of mystery introducing
and explaining _her_ to this disreputable young villain, whom she had
scarcely acknowledged before, and appearing to welcome her intrusion
on a too intimate _tête-à-tête_ with her "connexion by marriage," as
an excuse for ending it.
"I hope you found your invalid aunt better, Miss Somers," she
murmured, with civil interest, when she recovered breath after Cyrano
had been summarily dismissed.
"My _aunt_!" she echoed, puzzled.
"Or connexion--by marriage. You were to lunch with her in Mentone,
you remember."
"Oh, of course! I had forgotten. She--she was engaged; she only
sees one person at a time. So I came on here."
A flush came and quickly passed from the woman of mystery's
statuesque features. Ermengarde marvelled at the readiness of her
inventive powers, and reflected that a connexion by marriage
sometimes means a good deal.
"Your connexion," she said, "has not had the best luck this
afternoon, did he tell you? It was he I overheard on that first
evening at Les Oliviers talking to the thing with the black-leaded
eyes. She was in the Casino with him to-day. He asked me to play
for him, seeing I was new and lucky."
"Yes? And you gave him luck?"
"Only for that once. And the creature with the orange-coloured hair
clawed it."
"Poor boy! What a pity! Did you win much, Mrs. Allonby?"
"Not on the whole," she replied diplomatically, turning very red at
the sudden apparition of the thin man, who had laboured up, panting,
from behind them.
"Well," he gasped, "I hope you got a decent cup of tea somewhere. I
promenaded Giro's from end to end in vain, and imagined the most
terrible disasters befalling you. So I had to have seven cigars and
an ice. I pictured you shot in heroic attempts to rescue wounded
pigeons at the Tir, or to snatch pistols from would-be suicides, or
yielding to the fascinations of jewellers' shops, and being run in by
mistake for adroit thefts, or robbed of that dainty little bag, and
here I find you, safe under Miss Somers' angel wing all the time."
"Not all the time. But I thought you said Café de Paris. So sorry."
The thin man was in great spirits. He observed that few things were
more enjoyable than the walk through the Gardens to the train at that
evening time, as he handed the ladies into their carriage, while
Ermengarde silently gave the palm to other incidents of an enjoyable
afternoon.
In the carriage they discovered, one by one, Miss Boundrish,
"returning from Nice," she gurgled confidentially; M. Isidore,
unobtrusively polite as usual; and, glaring fiercely at them from a
remote corner, the Anarchist. The latter suddenly discovered, just
as the train was beginning to move, that he had taken the wrong one,
and got out again, to Ermengarde's immense relief--for the creature
snorted and puffed intolerably. Probably, she reflected, he knew his
own weakness, and doubted his ability to refrain from assassinating
M. Isidore, if compelled any longer to witness his proximity to
herself--a reflection not entirely devoid of charm.
"Why," Mr. Welbourne murmured in his most melancholy voice at her
ear, as the train rolled slowly in the direction of Italy--"why
choose the loveliest spot on earth for all this devilry, when it
could be done quite as well in a disused coal-mine?"
"Why," she whispered, with reddening cheeks, in reply; "why hit a man
when he is down?"