Chapter X

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?"