WE DISCOVER TEDDY PARSONS IS LEFT BEHIND—I MAKE UP MY MIND—TO
THE RESCUE!—UNMANLY CONDUCT OF THE OTHERS—I GO ALONE—DISGUISE
—THE GARDE CHAMPÊTRE
“IT’S all over!” I cried to Lucy, as I stumbled in; “we’ve done it
beautifully! We’re all safe, without a scratch!”
And then, so overwrought was I with the long tension, I became quite
hysterical.
I went off into a fit of laughter, and at last, with the silly, happy
tears chasing one another like sheep down my face, I managed to tell her
she was free now to go back to Wharton Park with her father and
grandmother, that Bob Hines would have his swimming-bath and gymnasium,
that the ho-ho-hospitals would all open their closed wards again, and
Teddy Parsons breathe freely once more before his fierce old governor,
the colonel, at Southport.
“It was my idea!” I cried, “and we’ve done it with the greatest ease—I
knew we should!—and we’re all safe; and oh, Lucy! do just come into the
saloon and see how much we’ve got. It was my own idea, and the fools all
said it was impossible, and just look how simple it’s been, after all!
Why, we must have carried off sixty thousand pounds, at least!”
Lucy seemed scarcely to understand what I was talking about; but she saw
I was safe, and, feeling the yacht well under weigh, cared for very
little else; so she held my hand and soothed and calmed me, and then
followed with obedient laughter as I almost dragged her into the saloon.
There, neatly piled under the electric light on the table, lay the linen
bags, for all the world like the letter-bags in a mail-train; and there
was Brentin, with wet hair and tie all on one side, beginning to empty
them and arrange notes and gold in separate heaps. The silver was a
little deficient, for we had given the sailors orders more or less to
ignore the five-franc pieces.
Of the gallant band, Hines and Forsyth were lying on the sofas with
closed eyes, still slightly panting; my sister was looking on, leaning
up against one of the pillars, where Miss Rybot, seated at the table,
was unfolding the notes with her long, slim fingers, and arranging them
in bundles according to their respective values. She was doing it with
the greatest coolness, and, for some reason, a rather more haughty air
of displeasure than usual.
“Well, Master Vincent,” said Brentin, looking up at me with grim joy,
“here we all are, and here is the boodle. Come and help count.”
At that moment in came Masters. It appears he had fallen, getting down
off the railway line, and muddied his trousers; he had been changing
them, not caring to appear before his young lady with dirty knees.
Hines and Forsyth roused themselves, and, almost in silence, we sat down
to count; not a sound but a step or two on deck overhead and the throb
of the engines, the luxurious rustle of notes, the pleasing chink of
gold.
Suddenly my sister said, “Where’s Mr. Parsons?”
Miss Rybot murmured, “Two hundred and forty-seven thousand-franc notes.”
I looked round the saloon. “Yes, by-the-way, where’s Teddy?”
There was no answer, and Brentin stopped emptying the last bag. “In his
cabin, probably,” he said, carelessly.
“No, he’s not,” replied Masters, who shared it with him.
“He came in your boat,” said Brentin, looking across at me, startled.
“Indeed, he didn’t!”
There was dead silence while for a moment we looked in each other’s
frightened faces.
Then I got up and left the saloon. Outside I shouted for him; no answer.
I hurried on deck to find the captain; it was still raining hard, and
the captain was in his shelter up on the bridge. The light from the
binnacle struck up on the resolute face of Joyce at the wheel.
“Captain Evans!”
“Sir!”
“Did you see Mr. Parsons come on board?”
“Can’t say I particularly noticed him, sir.”
“Joyce, did you?”
“No, sir.”
“He wasn’t in our boat, was he?”
“No, sir.”
“Who rowed the second boat?”
“Bramber and Meikle, sir.”
I hurried away and at last found them in the galley with the cook,
eating a surreptitious supper, with tin plates on their knees.
“Who came in the boat with you men?” I asked.
“Mr. Brentin, Mr. Masters, Mr. Hines, and Mr. Forsyth,” said Bramber,
with his mouth full.
“That’s right!” said Meikle.
“You saw nothing of Mr. Parsons?”
“No, sir; we thought he was with you.”
I stumbled down the companion and almost fell into the saloon. They had
stopped counting and looked up at me anxiously. “Well?”
“He’s not on board!”
“Sakes alive!” murmured Brentin. “That’s awkward!—for Mr. Parsons,” he
considerately added.
My sister said “Good gracious, Vincent!” while with her silver pencil
Miss Rybot began to draw poor Teddy’s insignificant profile on the back
of one of the thousand-franc notes.
I took a perturbed turn or two up and down the saloon.
“He can’t have fallen overboard?” ventured Masters.
“How could he, if he didn’t even come off in either of the boats?” some
one replied.
There was another pause, and then I asked:
“How closely were you followed?”
“Why, not at all,” said Brentin. “After we loosed off the guns they all
ran back.”
“Did anybody see Teddy after we got down the steps?”
Nobody answered. The fact was, I fear, we were all too busy looking
after ourselves to look after any one else.
“He may have fallen crossing the line. Did anybody notice whether any
one fell?”
Silence again. Then, with vague emphasis, Brentin said:
“Depend upon it, Mr. Parsons is ay gentleman of so much resource that,
wherever he is, he may safely be left to extricate himself from
embarrassment. Let us resoom the counting.”
I looked at him reproachfully.
“Mr. Brentin, it was agreed we stood by each other, I believe?”
“You were the first to get ahead, sir,” he replied, with what was meant
for withering sarcasm, “and be off in the wrong boat.”
“Because I understood we were all safe.”
“So we were. So, no doubt, is Mr. Parsons.”
“And if at this moment he is in the hands of the police?”
The base Brentin shrugged his shoulders.
“_Tong pee pour louee_,” he said, in New York French. “Gentlemen, let us
resoom the counting.”
“No!” I cried, banging the table, “not till we have decided what is to
be done.”
Brentin frowned and looked across at me sourly. I couldn’t have believed
success would so utterly change a man; but so it often is.
“Good chap, Teddy Parsons,” murmured Forsyth. “I’m sorry.”
“I do not know, sir,” scowled Brentin, “whether you propose to imperil
the safety of five gentlemen, three elegant and refined ladies, and—”
“Was it, or was it not, understood we stood by each other?” I cried,
impatiently. “See here, you fellows, you can’t be seriously thinking of
leaving that poor little snipe in the lurch like this?”
“Parsons never was any particular friend of mine,” growled Hines.
“Besides, I expect he’s all right,” said Masters, evasively. “He knows
people over at Mentone; he’ll be off over there, you bet.”
“Don’t you excite yourself, old boy,” murmured Forsyth. “Parsons is one
of the cleverest chaps I know. He’ll get out of it all right, you take
your oath. Besides, we can scarcely turn back now.”
“Turn back!” snarled Brentin. “This vessel is mine and under my orders.
There will be no turning back, except over my dead body; and that’s all
there is to it! Come, gentlemen,” he cried, impatiently, “resoom the
counting.”
And such was their incredible baseness that they actually began counting
again, just as though poor Teddy Parsons had never been born. Only the
ladies looked shocked, while Lucy kept her frightened eyes fixed on my
face. As for me, my mind was soon made up.
“Well,” I said, resolutely, “if you won’t any of you come, I shall go
back alone.”
“What’s the matter with walking on the waters?” sneered Brentin.
“In a few moments,” I continued, “we shall be off Cap Martin. Mr.
Brentin, you will be good enough to give orders to have me put ashore
there.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” he jeered.
“I shall make my way back to Monte Carlo alone—_alone!_” I cried, with
pathetic emphasis, “and not rest till I have discovered what has become
of our poor lost friend.”
“As you please,” said Brentin, sharply; “only if _you_ are caught you
mustn’t expect any one of us to come to your rescue. It’s simply sending
good money after bad.”
Poor Lucy began to cry as, before leaving the saloon, I turned to them
and fired my parting shot. I forget now precisely what it was, but I
know it was both dignified and touching; feeling, as I did, rather more
sorry for myself than even for poor Teddy. But it had no effect whatever
in rousing any of them to accompany me on my perilous journey.
Then I went back to my cabin to change my clothes, for I was still in my
smoking-suit with the torn pocket, and, so attired, could scarcely
venture ashore. Disguise of some sort was clearly imperative before
trusting myself again on the scene of our so recent successful labors.
Now, most providentially, before we left London, Brentin and I had gone
off one morning to Clarkson’s, the wig-maker. It was quite possible, we
had argued, we might have to fly, more or less closely pursued, and for
that unpleasing eventuality had hired half a dozen wigs, among them two
gray ones, for what are known, I believe, as “character old men.” I had
at the same time bought a pair of gray whiskers, and, with my old
regimental theatricals make-up box, packed them away, along with a
quiet, elderly suit. I was always intrusted with the old men’s parts in
our regimental theatricals, and invariably played them in a dress-coat,
frilled shirt, and a bunch of seals with moiré antique ribbon, bending
myself almost double and rapping with a crook stick in a manner so
natural as to deceive even the men of my own company at the back of the
hall. So that, unless I overacted, or a whisker came off, I felt pretty
sure of not being recognized by comparative strangers.
The quiet elderly suit I rapidly dressed myself in, and with my
mackintosh cape, an umbrella, and the make-up box under my arm, went
back to the saloon.
I was so offended at their pusillanimity I would look at no one but
Brentin, who, with glittering eye and long cigar, was jotting down the
amounts of our capture on a piece of paper.
“You have given the necessary orders?” I asked him, coldly.
“Aye, aye, sir!” he sneered. “The yacht is now slowing down.”
Lucy had gone to her cabin with my sister, in great distress, and Miss
Rybot was sitting there with arms folded, rubbing her silver pencil
between her lips.
“Good-bye, Mr. Blacker,” she said, “and good luck to you. I admire your
sense of loyalty. You are the only _man_ among the party!” she was good
enough to add.
“Pop, pop!” jeered the irrepressible Brentin.
Arthur Masters turned pale, and from a generous fear of making him feel
his inferiority by my presence, I bowed to them all in silence, and went
up on deck.
By this time the yacht had stopped, and off the port-beam I could just
distinguish the dark woods of Cap Martin looming. It was about half-past
eleven, and still slightly raining, though, fortunately, quite warm.
Lucy came running up, and, sobbing, threw her arms round my neck. My
sister kissed me affectionately, and said:
“We shall see you at Venice, Vincent dear; take care of yourself!”
And the next minute I was over the side and in the boat. I said never a
word the whole time, being, I confess, deeply offended at the light way
they all took my heroic resolution, and the assurance they showed in so
readily believing (however flattering to my courage and address) it was
all bound to be successful.
The men rowed me ashore in silence, bade me a respectful good-night, and
I was soon clambering over the stones and up the rough bank. Soon I was
in the comparative shelter of the woods, and there, finding the base of
a fir-tree tolerably dry, I sat me down to think and wait for morning.
Faintly I heard midnight strike from Monte Carlo, and then, so absorbed
in thought and conjecture I grew, I fell asleep. When I woke, it was
just getting gray; so I rose, stretched my stiff self, and had a good
look about me. I knew tolerably well whereabouts I was; for my sister,
Miss Rybot, Masters, and I had one day been over Cap Martin to tea at
the hotel, and walked back through the woods, past the Empress Eugenie’s
villa, on to the Mentone road, and so home.
We had then noticed, not far from the villa, in the woods, a small sort
of ancient decaying gamekeeper’s lodge, painted outside with arabesque
in the Italian manner, and faint vanishing mottoes of conviviality and
sport; and that I determined to make for, and see if I could there
secure facilities for shaving off my mustache, at any rate. Then I
proposed to retire into the woods again, and assume my character old man
wig and whiskers, and so disguised make my way leisurely back into Monte
Carlo, to try and find news of the luckless Teddy. Beyond that, I could
devise no plan of any sort, determining to leave all to the hazard of
the hour.
I wandered about a good time in the dawn, and at last struck the lodge,
soon after seven, when it was growing tolerably light. It was a fine
morning, fortunately, though very raw and cold. The lodge door was open,
and I peeped in. Probably, in the last century, it had been a
luncheon-house for the Grimaldis on their shooting or pleasure
expeditions; now it was rapidly decaying, and looked like a neglected
summerhouse. No one was to be seen, and so, the foot of a ladder showing
to the upper room, I entered and climbed it.
It was a bedroom, and evidently only just left; the bed was tumbled, and
there was the faint, fragrant odor of a pipe.
No time was to be lost, so I poured water into the basin (the owner had
evidently not washed that morning) and got out my razors. I found a pair
of scissors, and clipping myself as close as possible first and then
screwing up my courage, for shaving in cold water is horribly painful,
and lathering myself well, I set to work.
I hadn’t more than half done when I heard steps outside on the wet
gravel; they came into the house, to the foot of the ladder; then they
began slowly to climb. There was no help for it, I must go on and trust
to luck; so on I went with my shaving, keeping an eye meantime in the
glass on the door behind me, so that I might gain some impression of the
owner before tackling and conciliating him.
Fortunately, when I was trying for the army, before I failed and went
into the militia, I had been for six months with a coach at Dinan, in
Brittany, and spoke French well enough for all vulgar purposes; so when
the ordinary type of an old soldier, _garde champêtre_, head appeared at
the head of the ladder, bristling with astonishment, I felt more at home
with it than perhaps the ordinary British officer, who has only learned
his French at Wren’s or Scoone’s, would have done.
“_Dîtes donc!_” said the amazed man; “_je ne vous gêne pas?_”
“_Du tout!_” I replied, “_entrez_.”
“_Mais, nom d’un chien!_” he cried, coming into the room. “_Qu’est ce
que vous faites là?_”
“_Vous voyez, n’est ce pas? Je me rase._”
“_Je le vois bien! et après?_”
“_Après? Je m’en vais._”
There was a pause while the _garde champêtre_ came alongside, and
surveyed me with folded arms.
Tears were in my eyes, for the process was a torture; but I went on with
it heroically and in silence.
At last, “_Vous êtes Américain?_” he asked.
“_Mais oui. Toute ma vie!_”
“_C’est bien. J’aime les Américains._”
“_Merci! moi aussi!_”
The man laughed, and then he went on: “_Mais, dîtes donc! Pourquoi vous
rasez-vous ici comme ça, dans ma chambre, ma propre chambre?_”
“_C’est que_—” I hesitatingly began, and then, with an inspired
rush—“_voyez vous! Je suis marié, et je crois que ma femme me trompe._”
“_Oh, la! la! Et après?_”
“_Après? Je vais me déguiser et la pincer. C’est dur, n’est ce pas?_”
“_Très dur!_” said the man, looking amused; “_mais les femmes sont
toujours comme ça. Elle est Américaine?_”
“_Anglaise._”
“_Je déteste les Anglais! Continuez, mon bon monsieur. Je vous laisse._”
“_Merci! Dans cinq minutes je descendrai._”
“_Ne vous pressez pas, et déguisez-vous bien_,” he said, and, leaving
the room, went half-way down the ladder. Then he turned and put his head
into the room again, resting his elbows on the floor.
“_Dîtes donc, mon bon monsieur_,” he said, evidently at some pains to
check his mirth; “_avec qui croyez-vous que votre femme vous trompe?_”
“_Je ne sais pas au juste. Avec un de mes amis, je crois._”
“_Le misérable!_” he cried, theatrically. “_Un Français, sans doute?_”
“_Oui, malheureusement._”
“_Oh, la, la! Mais les amis sont comme ça. C’est très dur, tout de même.
Courage! Je vais préparer le café. Au revoir._”
With so sympathetic a _garde champêtre_ I felt I was in luck, and might
as well seize the opportunity for assuming my complete disguise, instead
of taking to the woods; so I put on my wig and, with some spirit-gum,
stuck on my gray whiskers, lined my face lightly, and, in five minutes,
presented myself to the more than ever astonished _garde champêtre_ as a
respectable, well preserved, elderly gentleman of sixty.
“_Mais nom d’un chien!_” he cried; “_c’est parfait! Elle ne vous
reconnaîtra pas; jamais de la vie!_”
We sat down and drank the coffee, the best friends in the world; and
then, giving him a louis and the box of make-up and razors as a
souvenir, I left him with a warm shake of the hand, and went off through
the wood to strike the Mentone road back into Monte Carlo.
I hadn’t gone twenty paces before he came running after me to say that
if ever I wanted to disguise myself again I was to come to him and use
his rooms, and that he would always keep the razors in order for the
purpose.
“_Mais c’est dur, tout de même_,” he added, sympathetically, as I
promised.
The last I saw of him, he turned and waved his hand. “_Adieu, mon
vieux!_” he cried. “_Bonne chance!_”