The Man with the Double Heart Part 31

The flower shops were fairy-like; the jewellers' ablaze. Slim forms, m.u.f.fled in furs, slipped past with that subtle air of conscious power, of sure and sensuous appeal which marks the Parisienne in every grade of life. Clubmen were strolling toward their 'aperitifs,' husbands with wives, sedately arm in arm, trim 'midinettes' and bare-headed 'bonnes'; all combined to give the crowded pavements the sense of a meeting place, an outdoor haunt of pleasure spiced with intrigue instead of a mere channel for the traffic.

McTaggart reached the Madeleine, glanced down the Rue Royale and, with a sigh of regret, hailed a pa.s.sing auto. He was jarred and rattled over the stones of that aggressive road which ends at the Gare de Lyon.

Bethune had wired that morning for a wagon-lit, a wise precaution as the train was packed. The conductor, in reply to his stilted French, led McTaggart down the long corridor.

"A telegram without name? From London, Monsieur?" He produced it and McTaggart smiled. In the hurry of departure his careful friend had omitted this essential.

"Voici, Monsieur."

The young man peeped past him into the narrow coupe. The beds were already arranged for the night and on the lower berth, impa.s.sive, there sat a very fat priest, absorbed in his breviary. The windows were shut, the heat turned on full.

McTaggart drew back with a gesture of disgust.

"This won't do." Unconsciously his voice took on that arrogant note which the travelling Englishman employs for the benefit of foreign servants.

"What name did you say, Monsieur?" The shrewd French face was studying him, gauging the value of his tip.

A sudden idea flashed into McTaggart's brain. He would test here and now the value of his t.i.tle.

"I'm the Marquis Maramonte," he answered, steadily watching the black eyes fixed on his.

"Pardon, Monsieur?" The man looked puzzled. Then a ray of light illumined his face.

"It is ... the English milord? who inherits ... Mon Dieu! what a sad affair! ..." he became voluble--"the papers were full of it ... and Monsieur le feu Marquis has often travelled by this train. He loved well Paris. If Monsieur le Marquis had but given his name..." He backed ceremoniously and threw open the door of an empty compartment.

"I will see that Monsieur is not disturbed. He has only to ring. I am here all night. And at Modane I will warn the Customs. Monsieur would like an extra 'couverture'?"

McTaggart was smiling in his sleeve.

"C'est bien." He tipped the man generously, delighted at the result of his tactics.

"Monsieur, sans doute, travels to Siena?--a cold journey ... the pa.s.ses are full of snow. But Monsieur will be quite undisturbed"--a gleam of mischief came into the dark shrewd face--"one understands Monsieur could not travel with the Church!"

This puzzled Peter. He had yet to learn that his Uncle had been a member of the Anti-clerical party. Like most Protestants, he lived in the error that the nearer one approached to Rome the more fervent the Catholicism. He had heard of the two great factions in that city, the "Black" and the "White," without measuring their importance. Moreover, he did not realize the curious apathy of the lower cla.s.ses in the land of the Saints and that deep-rooted hatred of the Socialist and "Patriot" for monastic inst.i.tutions and temporal power.

But he smiled at the sally, conscious of hidden meaning, and the man, encouraged, lowered his voice.

"This berth, milord, was reserved for a German--un banquier Juif--qui vient de Hambourg..." he reached up and removed the ticket from its slot--"we will place him to-night on the road to salvation!"

"With the priest?"--McTaggart laughed until he cried as the door closed on his new friend's parting grin. He tried to picture the same scene in England with the typical conductor of a Pullman Car.

What a nation it was! Light and witty, with under the froth a curious depth. He thought of its paralyzing series of defeats in the Franco-Prussian war, its mad Revolutions and that marvellous recuperative force which had brought France back to her present era of prosperity. Then he began to dream of Italy; to picture Siena and, in the far distance, Cydonia beside him there ... Cydonia in his arms.

With her name on his lips he fell asleep.

He woke, refreshed, made a leisurely toilette and wandered forth in search of breakfast. In the Restaurant Car he announced his nationality by demanding eggs with his cafe au lait; then settled down to the long day's journey, thankful now for the full steam heat as they mounted steadily toward the Alps and plunged with a shrill whistle into the tunnel.

On and on, with tantalizing peeps of the Mont Cenis Pa.s.s. The h.o.a.r frost without traced fairy patterns on the window-pane. The wind roared past them but the sun shone bright on snow-clad peaks and valleys dazzling white. Through Turin, with its broad blue river twisting like a serpent round her ancient walls, on and on, now heading South, as the snow vanished swiftly and the plains spread about them.

McTaggart grew restless. He paced up and down the narrow corridor, smoking innumerable cigarettes as the light slowly faded away from the sky.

Genoa! He drew a breath of relief and barricaded himself again in his coupe. A swarm of pa.s.sengers besieged the train and he let the window down, amused at the sight. Boys were selling oranges and gla.s.ses of "sirops," Bologna sausages and lurid papers.

Then the train moved out and the salt smell of the sea tempted him to search in vain through the dark. The Mediterranean. He remembered, with a smile, it had stood for a test of spelling at school! Once he thought he saw a faint dark line; then it vanished into the night.

He began to feel drowsy after his dinner. This would never do! He marched up and down, conscious he had to change at Pisa--then at Empoli. He yawned, stiff and tired.

After what seemed an interminable spell, with a grisly noise of brakes, they slackened speed. "Pisa ... Pi-sa ...!" He gathered up his rug and descended the steep step on to the platform.

His train puffed out. He felt, suddenly, as if he had parted with his only friend, as he stood there waiting for the Florence express, stamping his feet, in the bitter cold.

"If this is the South..." he said to himself--"Give me London!" He turned up his collar, straining his eyes through the vaulted tunnel of the long station into the dark.

Great lamps flaring like hungry eyes and in she roared with her high-built engine, spiteful, frost-rimmed, spitting steam ...

McTaggart found a seat in a crowded carriage.

Then on again through this endless night and Empoli, a G.o.d-forsaken spot, quite unscreened from the icy blast, with twenty frozen minutes to wait.

At last a faint streak of golden smoke rewarded his patience.

"Siena--Siena," a hoa.r.s.e voice shouted. He made for the nearest door labelled First Cla.s.s and clambered in, finding a single occupant.

An old man with a white imperial, the soft black felt beloved of Italy, a thick coat with a wolf-skin collar and a lawyer's portfolio across his knees.

He raised the aforementioned hat courteously.

"Fa freddo," he said in a musical voice.

McTaggart lifted his cap, with pleased surprise, his loneliness fading before the stranger's smile.

"Do you speak French?" He asked in that language. "I'm afraid my Italian's somewhat scanty."

"Si, si, Monsieur." Again he raised his hat.

Again McTaggart clutched at his cap.

"I hope it isn't necessary with every word!" he thought with an Englishman's distaste for ceremony.

"A cold night for travelling," the stranger suggested. "Monsieur has come far?" His keen black eyes shone like bright coal in their wrinkled sockets.

"From London," said McTaggart with the conscious pride of a tired man at the end of his journey. "I'm bound for Siena," he volunteered. "Is it generally as cold as this in Italy?"

The old man smiled.

"It is Winter still, Monsieur. What would you have?"

He spread out his hands. "In Siena we are high ... altis ... simo!

But healthy--one gets few fevers there. Monsieur is 'en touriste'?"

His gentle curiosity was freed from all impertinence by his charming manner.