Part 10

The Goddess (alias Miss Randolph) is staying with her aunt at the "Angleterre." I have slunk off here, having arranged matters with the hall porter at the other place, who will, if my mistress wants me, send a messenger post-haste. Meanwhile the car reposes in a _garage_, where it is kept clean and in running order without any trouble to me. As I have gradually drifted into the position of Miss Randolph's courier as well as her _chauffeur_, I can plan these things as I like, for she never glances at her bills, which I settle, giving an account every few days. Do you recall your own story of the conscientious Yankee from the country who failed in his efforts to eat straight through the _menu_ at a Paris hotel dinner, and appealed to the waiter to know whether he might now "skip from thar to thar"? Well, I would skip on my _menu_ from Loches to Biarritz; but you were to have been my companion on this trip, and you cry for details.

From Loches we took a cross-country route which brought us out in the main road from Tours to Bordeaux at Dange. There isn't much to say about that run, except that it was through agreeable, undulating country with wide horizons, like a thousand other undulations and horizons in France. At La Haye-Descartes we struck a pretty picture when crossing a bridge over the River Creuse. The setting sun had performed the miracle of turning the water into wine, and, chattering and laughing as if that wine had gone to their pretty heads, a company of girls and young women, all on their knees, cheerfully did their washing in the stream. It was one of those homely scenes that one is constantly coming across in this "pleasant land of France" to leave a picture in one's mind. Miss Randolph would have me stop the car on the bridge to watch it.

A queer thing about France, by the way. You and I have both been entertained right royally in jolly old _chateaux_ by delightful French people of our own class. We know that life in such country houses can be as charming as it is in England; yet if one had never seen it from the inside, one would fancy in travelling that nothing of the sort existed. Roughly, one might sum the difference up in a phrase by saying that France presents a peasant's landscape, England a landlord's. In England you see twenty good country houses for every one you pass in France--excepting only the district of the Loire; and outdoor life as we know it, on the road and on the river, doesn't seem to exist over here. Somehow I was never so much struck with this contrast before, though I know this country almost as well as I know my hat. Think of the English roads and lanes, of the pretty girls and decent men one meets on horseback or in smart dogcarts, the dowagers in victorias, the crowds of cyclists, the occasional fine motor-car, knickerbockered men walking for the pleasure of exercise! Here, though one knows there are more motors than at home, one rarely comes across them out of towns; and as for ladies and gentlemen, or, indeed, any sort of people out solely for enjoyment, they're as rare as black opals. I look in vain for pretty field paths and rural lanes, where workmen and their sweethearts wander when the day is done. I suppose they prefer to do their love-making indoors or in front of a cafe, or perhaps they sandwich it in with their long hours of work, and that is the reason why the whole of France seems so much more cultivated than country England--the reason why every acre is turned to account, not a square yard of earth left untilled. It's only the magnificent roads which aren't enough appreciated, apparently, by the "nobility and gentry," as the tradesmen's circulars have it. And what roads the Routes Nationales are--born for motor-cars!--varying a little from department to department, but equally good almost everywhere. You come to a stone marking the boundary of a department, for instance, and crossing an imaginary line, find yourself on a different kind of surface, each department being allowed to make it's road after the manner which pleases it best--provided only it makes it well.

The Route Nationale from Paris to Bayonne, along part of which we've lately travelled, is good nearly all the way. From Dange to Poitiers is a splendid bit, and up to Poitiers one climbs a considerable hill. It's a cheerful town, with a fine cathedral, and lively streets full of red-legged soldiers, rather weedy and shambling fellows, like most French conscripts. Beyond Poitiers the road is one long, exhilarating switchback--you rush down one hill, climb another, swoop again into a hollow, and so on, the road unrolling itself like a great white tape. You try to drive faster than the tape unrolls, but somehow you can never beat it.

That we were getting into the south was shown by the fact that the road was bordered by endless rows of walnut trees. Under a tumbled sky, and with an occasional spatter of rain, we passed that day through a vast stretch of rolling, cultivated land, with obscure villages at long intervals. In a little town called Couhe-Verac we lunched rather late. The regular _dejeuner_ was over, as it was nearly three in the afternoon; but in ten minutes after we got into the house we sat down to this luncheon: boiled eggs, roast veal, _b[oe]uf a la mode_, _puree_ of potatoes, pheasant, a delicious _pate_, grapes, peaches, pears, sweet biscuits, cream cheese, red and white wine, and bread _ad libitum_; all for two francs fifty per head. Think of it! This was a homely village inn, with no pretensions. What would have happened if we had turned up unexpectedly at such a house in England? We should have been offered cold beef and pickles, with the alternative of ham and eggs, or possibly "chop or steak, sir; take twenty minutes." Truly in cooking we are barbarians. The French dine; we feed.

The landlord was a man of character. He had delightful manners, and though he was young his hair was greyish, and cut low and straight across a broad forehead. Through gold-rimmed glasses gleamed the blue eyes of an enthusiast. He went with me to look at the car, and explained that he was an inventor--that he had designed a new system of marine propulsion more powerful than the screw. It followed the action of a man in swimming, "regular in irregularity," and standing on his toes, he flung out his arms, and beat them rhythmically in the air to illustrate his theory. It was hard, he confided in me, to have to keep an inn in a small town, when he ought to be in Paris, among engineers, perfecting his invention. Did I, by any chance, know of a capitalist who would back him? I sympathised and regretted; but who knows if he has not got hold of an idea? At Blois they have a statue of Denis Papin, who, the French say, invented the steam engine. Perhaps, years hence, if my grandchildren pass through Couhe-Verac, they may see a statue to the blue-eyed landlord of its little inn.

Beyond Couhe-Verac we had our first dog accident. Dogs, you know, are as great a nuisance to automobiles as they are to cycles, and they charge at one's car with such vehemence that their impetus almost carries them under the wheels. Sometimes they show their strength by galloping alongside the car for a couple of hundred yards, barking so furiously the while that their bodies are contorted by the violence of the effort. I was driving at a moderate pace (something under thirty miles an hour) when a beautiful collie which had been standing by the roadside walked quietly out and planted himself with his back to me in front of the car. The fact was that he saw his master coming along the road, and had gone forward to greet him. The whole thing happened in an instant, so that I had no time to stop. I think the dog must have been deaf not to hear the noise of the car. I shouted, but he took no notice. To swerve violently to one side was to risk upsetting the car; besides, there was no room to do this as another vehicle happened to be passing. If there had been only the car to sacrifice, I would have sacrificed it to save that collie; but I couldn't sacrifice Miss Randolph. There was nothing for it but to drive over the dog. With a sickening wrench of the heart, I saw the nice beast disappear under the front of the car. Instantly slowing down, I looked behind me expecting to see a mangled corpse. But there was the dog rolling over and over on the road. Clearly some under part of the car had struck him and sent him spinning. The noise, the unexpected blow, the fierce, hot blast of the poisonous exhaust pouring into his face, must have made the poor fellow think that he had struck a travelling earthquake. But happily he was unhurt. As I looked he got on to his feet, and with his tail between his legs, ran to his master for consolation. Our last glimpse showed us that comedy had followed tragedy, for the master was beating the dog with a cane for getting in our way. I was afraid Miss Randolph would scream or faint, but she did neither, only turned white as marble, and never looked prettier in her life. Aunt Mary yelled, of course, but more in fear for ourselves than for the collie, I think. She says she would like dogs better "if their bark could be extracted."

Angouleme is, like Poitiers, a town set upon a hill, a quaint old town, worth seeing, but we were eager now to get to the true South, and merely gave ourselves time to lunch (the waiter producing, with a flourish, enticing but indigestible _pates de perdrix aux truffes_) and to drive slowly along some of the famous terraced boulevards that form the distinction and the charm of Angouleme. Certainly the place stands romantically on its high and lonely hill, almost surrounded by the clear waters of the Charante. At Angouleme we saw, I may say, the first professional beggars we had met on the tour. A warm sun seems to breed beggars as it breeds mosquitoes, or is it that Southern peoples have less self-respect than the Northern?

A drawback to automobilism in France is the fact that many of the great direct main roads are _pave_. I believe that this is a remnant of the old days of road-making, when these heavy cobbles formed the one surface that would stand artillery. For ordinary traffic the _pave_ roads are impossible, and their existence must be a drawback to trade and intercourse. In France they sell special bicycling maps showing with dotted lines all the _pave_ roads, and these I have carefully studied, as it is worth making any _detour_ to avoid the awful jolting of the _pave_. But somehow, between Angouleme and Bordeaux, I took a wrong turning, and suddenly on ahead of us the good road ceased abruptly as if a straight line had been ruled across it, and the detestable _pave_ began.

"Oh, let's try it as an experience," commanded my Goddess. "I hate going back, and perhaps it doesn't last long." I trusted to this hope, for I knew that in many places the _pave_ is being dug up, here and there only short stretches of it being left, and I gingerly drove the Napier on to the execrable surface of uneven stones. We rattled and tossed, and steering became a matter of difficulty. The irritating thing was that each side of this detestable road were wide belts of inviting grass, but with malignant ingenuity these are cut up at frequent intervals by oblique drainage gutters, which forbid the passage of anything wider than a bicycle. For bicycles there are indeed special tracks kept in order by the Touring Club de France, but all four-wheeled vehicles must jolt and bump along the rough, uneven stones. By the time we reached the first cross-road Aunt Mary begged for mercy, and I was glad to have the order to get off the _pave_ at any cost. Soundly as the Napier is built, it was a tremendous and unfair strain upon springs and tyres, and all the while I was dreading that something would go. Threading our way through endless vineyards by a labyrinth of by-ways, we ran through Barbezieux and Libourne, and as day was falling crossed the noble bridge over the Garonne into bustling Bordeaux.

Next day we took a run on the car along the Quai des Chartrons and through some of the chief streets and squares of Bordeaux, just to get a glimpse of the handsome town, at which Miss Randolph turned up her pretty nose because it was "new and prosperous"; then, guided by a porter from the hotel who went before us on his bicycle, we threaded the city on our way out to Arcachon. There was some unavoidable _pave_ and many odious tramlines; but at last our guide left us on the outskirts of the town, and we sped on to a curious little toy suburb called St. Martin, studded with neat, one-storied, red-roofed cottages, like houses in a child's box of bricks, and all with romantic names, such as Belle Idee, Mon Repos, Augustine, Mon C[oe]ur, and so on. The whole place seemed like an assemblage of dove cotes specially planned for honeymoon couples, and gave the oddest effect of unreality. Then we passed into the green twilight of the great pine forest which extends all the way to the sea.

A romantically beautiful road lay before us. For more than thirty miles it runs straight and smooth through high aromatic pines, springing from a carpet of bracken. Miss Randolph, I must tell you, has become an expert driver, and at sight of the long, straight road said she would take the wheel. So I stopped a moment, and we changed places. She put the car at its highest speed, and we flew along the infinite perspective of the never-ending avenue. This vast pine forest is a desert, and we passed only through small and scattered villages. That flight through the pine forest of the Landes will always be to me an ineffaceable memory. None of us spoke; two of us felt, I think, that we were close to Nature's heart. The heady, balsamic odour of the pines exhilarated us, and the wind, playing melancholy music on the Eolian harps of their branches, seemed like a deep accompaniment to the humming throb of the tireless motor. As often as I dared I stole a look sideways at Miss Randolph's profile. She sat erect, her little gauntletted hands resting light as thistledown upon the wheel, but her fingers and her wrist nervous and alert as a jockey riding a thoroughbred, her eyes intent on the long, straight road before her, and a look almost of rapture upon her face.

We had raced silently through the forest for nearly an hour, when, mingling with the balsam of the pines there came a pungent odour of ozone floating from open blue spaces beyond the sombre girdle of the pines. Miss Randolph threw at me a questioning glance. "It must be the sea," I answered, and in a few moments more, after passing through the ancient town of La Teste, we came out upon the edge of a vast lagoon, semicircular, the distant shores almost lost in an indistinct blue haze. "The Bassin d'Arcachon," I said. Still, no town was visible, only the great expanse of landlocked sea, its shore dotted with the brown wooden cabins of the oyster fishers. It seemed like coming to the end of the world.

Slowing down a little, we followed a raised causeway that skirted the edge of the Bassin, and presently entered upon a long, straight street--one of the oddest streets you have ever seen, one whole side of it (that next the sea) being composed of fantastic bungalows and pleasure-houses of all imaginable styles, each set in its own garden, and the whole town drowned in an ocean of pines. At the outskirts I took the helm again, for Miss Randolph scarcely trusts her skill in traffic. Not that there was enough to be alarming in Arcachon, for the place seemed under a spell of silence. We drove through the long main street, past an imposing white chateau and a good many quite charming houses, until we came to a hotel which the Goddess fancied, and turned into a garden. I'd never been to Arcachon before, and supposed from the guide-books that this was the place for "my ladies" (as the couriers say) to stop. But the landlady came out, and welcoming us with one breath, recommended us with the next to their winter house in the forest. This place, looking over the sea, was for summer; the other was now more agreeably sheltered.

The "house in the forest" sounded well in the ears of the Goddess, so we drove off to find it, according to the directions of Madame Feras. The Napier spun us up a steep, winding road into a charming garden surrounding an Alhambra sort of place, which Aunt Mary thought "real gay," being bitterly disappointed to find it was not our hotel, but Arcachon's casino. The garden proved to be, however, practically the beginning of the _Ville d'Hiver_, a quaint and delightful collection of villas which look as if they had been scattered like ornate seeds among the crowding pine of the Landes. Of these seeds the "Continental" is the most imposing, and, by-the-way, this climate would suit you, I should think; it's an extraordinary combination of pine and sea air, which would make a doctor's fortune as a tonic, if he could cork it up in bottles.

As both hotels are run by the same management, I feared gossip if I went down to the "Grand" and did the Doctor Jekyll act; so I cautiously remained Mr. Hyde, alias Brown, and was a serf among other serfs. After dining in the society of maids and valets (whose manners and conversation would have given me ripping "copy" if I were a journalist) I stole out to cleanse my mind with a draught of pure air and a look at the sky. A cat may look at a king, and a _chauffeur_ may walk on a terrace built for his betters, especially if the betters elect to shut themselves up in stuffy drawing-rooms, with every window anxiously closed. I availed myself of this privilege, for the hotel has a fine terrace. As it was apparently empty, I sauntered along with my nose in the air and my eyes on the stars, letting my footsteps take care of themselves. Suddenly there was a startled "Oh!" in a familiar voice, and I became aware that I had collided with the Goddess, who had also been thinking of the stars and not of her feet--which, by-the-by, _I_ very often think of, as they are the prettiest I ever saw.

I instantly clapped my pipe in my pocket, where it revenged itself on me for neglecting to put it out by burning a hole through to my skin. I apologised, and would have taken my humble chauffeury self away, but my mistress detained me. "What is that wonderful, faraway sound, Brown?" she asked in the delicious way she has of expecting me to know everything, as if I were an encyclopaedia and she'd only to turn over my leaves to come to a new fact.

I stopped breathing to listen; I'd do it permanently to please her. And there _was_ a sound--a wonderful sound. If I hadn't been thinking about her and the stars, I should have been conscious of it before. Out of the night-silence the sound seemed to grow, and yet be a part of the silence, or rather, to intensify the _near_ silence by its distant booming, deep and ominous, like the far-off roaring of angry lions never pacified. At first I thought it must be a rush of wind surging through the mighty pine forest; but not a dark branch moved against the spangled embroidery of stars, though the air seemed faintly to vibrate with the continuous, solemn note. Suddenly the meaning of the sound came to me; it was the majestic music of the Atlantic surf beating on the bar ten miles away. But it was too divine standing there in the night with Her in silence. For a moment I had not the heart to speak and tell her of my discovery. A faint light came to us from the stars and from the curtained windows of the hotel. I could just see her face and her lovely great eyes looking up questioningly in absolute confidence at me. Jove, what wouldn't I have given just then to be Jack Winston and not Brown! If I had been, that girl wouldn't have got back into the house without being proposed to, and having another "scalp" to count, as they say American beauties do. Not that I think she'd be that kind. I don't know how long I shouldn't have tried to make the magic of the moment last, if Aunt Mary hadn't bounced out of the hotel (done up in a shawl, like a large parcel) to call "Molly! Molly, it's time you came in!"

Molly didn't move, but Aunt Mary descended the steps, relentless as fate; so I made the most of my information, and added a short disquisition on Arcachon oysters and oyster fishing, for the sake of retaining the Goddess's society. Unfortunately, however, I happened to remark that the oyster women wore trousers exactly like the men, and this so disgusted Miss Kedison that she incontinently dragged her niece from the contamination of the _chauffeur's_ presence.

Next day was Sunday. Miss Randolph went to the English church, which is the prettiest I've ever seen in France, and afterwards, escorted by the chaplain with whom she'd made friends, went forth to see the sights, while I inquired as to how we might best proceed upon our way. While Miss Randolph and Miss Kedison read their prayer-books, I studied that useful volume, _Les Routes de France_, and was duly warned against the impracticable roads of the Landes. The one thing to do, according to the oracle, was to return to Bordeaux and make a long detour to Bayonne by Mont de Marsan. I knew Miss Randolph would dislike this plan, for she hates going back, and so do I. If I had been alone, or with you, I would have chanced it without a moment's hesitation, making straight for Bayonne by way of the forbidden Landes, with all its pitfalls. But I funked the idea of perhaps getting Her into a mess--and hearing Aunt Mary say "I told you so," as she invariably does when there's any trouble.

To my joy, however, plucky Parson Radcliff had actually advanced the idea of the Landes, during their excursion, and the Goddess sent for me on Sunday evening, full of enthusiasm. Far be it from me to dampen the ardour of youth; and early on Monday morning we started to follow the route La Teste, Sanguinet, Parentis, Yehoux, Liposthey, which names reminded Miss Randolph of _Gulliver's Travels_.