The Motor Maid Part 13

At the sound of a princely name her ladyship's mind made itself up with a snap. So the change of programme was decided upon, and curious as to the chauffeur's motive, I questioned him when again we sat shoulder to shoulder, the salt wind flying past our faces.

"Why the Etang de Berre?" I asked.

"Oh, I rather thought it would interest you. It's a queer spot."

"Thank you. You think I like queer spots--and things?"

"Yes, and people. I'm sure you do. You'll like the Etang and the country round, but _they_ won't."

"That's a detail," said I, "since this tour runs itself in the interests of the _femme de chambre_ and the chauffeur."

"We're the only ones who have any interests that matter. It's all the same to them, really, where they go, if I take the car over good roads and land them at expensive hotels at night. But I'm not going to do that always. They've got to see the Gorge of the Tarn. They don't know that yet, but they have."

"And won't they like seeing it?"

"Lady Turnour will hate it."

"Then we may as well give it up. Her will is mightier than the sword."

"Once she's in, there'll be no turning back. She'll have to push on to the end."

"She mayn't consent to go in."

"Queen Margherita of Italy is said to have the idea of visiting the Tarn next summer. Think what it would mean to Lady Turnour to get the start of a queen!"

"You are Machiavelian! When did you have this inspiration?"

"Well, I got thinking last night that, as they have plenty of time--almost as much time as money--it seemed a pity that I should whirl them along the road to Paris at the rate planned originally. You see, though there are plenty of interesting places on the way mapped out--you've been to Tours, you say--"

"What of that?"

"Oh, the trip might as well be new for everybody except myself; and as you like adventures--"

"You think it's the Turnours' duty to have them."

"Just so. If only to punish her ladyship for grinding you down to fifty francs a month. What a reptile!"

"If she's a reptile, I'm a cat to plot against her."

"Do cats plot? Only against mice, I think. And anyhow, _I'm_ doing all the plotting. I've felt a different man since yesterday. I've got something to live for."

"Oh, _what?_" The question asked itself.

"For a comrade in misfortune. And to see her to her journey's end. I suppose that end will be in Paris?"

"No-o," I said. "I rather think I shall go on all the way to England with Lady Turnour--if I can stand it. There's a person in England who will be kind to me."

"Oh!" remarked Mr. Dane, suddenly dry and taciturn again. I didn't know what had displeased him--unless he was sorry to have my company as far as England; yet somehow I couldn't quite believe it was that.

All this talk we had while dodging furious trams and enormous waggons piled with merchandise, in that maelstrom of traffic near the Ma.r.s.eilles docks, which must be pa.s.sed before we could escape into the country. At last, coasting down a dangerously winding hill with a too suggestively named village at the bottom--L'a.s.sa.s.sin--the Aigle turned westward. The chauffeur let her spread her wings at last, and we raced along a clear road, the Etang already shimmering blue before us, like an eye that watched and laughed.

Then we had to swing smoothly round a great circle, to see in all its length and breadth that strange, hidden, and fishy fairy-land of which Martigues is the door. Once the Phoenicians found their way here, looking for salt, which is exploited to this day; Marius camped near enough to take his morning dip in the Etang, perhaps; and Jeanne, queen of Naples, held Martigues for herself. But now only fish, and fishermen, and a few artists occupy themselves in that quaint little world which one pa.s.ses all regardlessly in the flying "_Cote d'Azur_."

As we sailed round the road which rings the sleepy-looking salt lake, Lady Turnour had a window opened on purpose to ask what on earth the Prince of Monaco found to admire in this flat country, where there were no fine buildings? And her rebellion made me take alarm for the success of our future plots. But the chauffeur (anxious for the same reason, maybe, that she should be content) explained things nicely.

Why, said he, for one thing the best fish eaten at the best restaurants of Monte Carlo came out of the Etang de Berre. The _bouillabaise_ which her ladyship had doubtless tasted at La Reserve last night, originally owed much to the same source; and talking of _bouillabaise_, Martigues was almost as famous for it as La Reserve itself. One had but to lunch at the little hotel Paul Chabas to prove that. And then, for less material reasons, His Serene Highness might be influenced by the fact that Corot had loved this ring of land which clasped the Etang de Berre--Ziem, too, and other artists whose opinion could not be despised.

These arguments silenced if they didn't convince Lady Turnour, though she had probably never heard of Ziem, or even Corot, and we two in front were able to admire the charming scene in peace. Crossing bridges here and there we saw, rising above sapphire lake and silver belt of olives jewelled with rosy almond blossom, more than one miniature Carca.s.sonne, or ruined castle small as if peeped at through a diminishing gla.s.s.

There was Port le Bouc, the Mediterranean harbour of the Etang, or watergate to fairyland, as Martigues was the door; Istre on its proud little height; Miramas and Berre, important in their own eyes, and pretty in all others when reflected in the gla.s.sy surface of blue water.

There were dark groups of cypresses, like mourning figures talking together after a funeral--ancient trees who could almost remember the Romans; and better than all else, there was Pont Flavian, which these Romans had built.

Even Lady Turnour condescended to get out of the car to do honour to the bridge with its two Corinthian arches of perfect grace and beauty; but she had nothing to say to the poor little, tired-looking lions sitting on top, which I longed to climb up and pat.

She wanted to push on, and her one thought of Aix-en-Provence was for lunch. Was Dane sure we should find anything decent to eat there? Very well, then the sooner we got it the better.

What a good thing there was someone on board the car to appreciate Provence, someone to keep saying--"We're in Provence--_Provence!_"

repeating the word just for the joy and music of it, and all it means of romance and history!

If there had not been someone to say and feel that, every turn of the tyres would have been an insult to Provence, who had put on her loveliest dress to bid us welcome. Among the olives and almonds, young trees of vivid yellow spouted pyramids of thin, gold flame against a sky of violet, and the indefinable fragrance of spring was in the air. We met handsome, up-standing peasants in red or blue _berets_, singing melodiously in _patois_--Provencal, perhaps--as they walked beside their string of stout cart-horses. And the songs, and the dark eyes of the singers, and the wonderful horned harness which the n.o.ble beasts wore with dignity, all seemed to answer us: "Yes, you are in Provence."

We talked of old Provence, my Fellow Worm and I, while our master and mistress wearied for their luncheon; of the men and women who had pa.s.sed along this road which we travelled. What would Madame de Sevigne, or Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, or George Sand have said if a blue car like ours had suddenly flashed into their vision? We agreed that, in any case, not one of them--or any other person of true imagination--would call abominable a wonderful piece of mechanism with the power of flattening mountains into plains, triumphing over s.p.a.ce, annihilating distance; a machine combining fiercest energy with the mildest docility.

No, only old fogies would close their hearts to a machine fit for the G.o.ds, and pride themselves on being motophobes forever. We felt ourselves, car and all, to be worthy of this magic way, lined with blossoms that played like rosy children among the strange rocks characteristic of Provence--rocks which seemed to have boiled up all hot out of the earth, and then to have vied with each other in hardening into most fantastic shapes. Even we felt ourselves worthy to meet a few troubadours, as we drew near to Aix, where once they held their Courts of Love; and we had talked ourselves into an almost dangerously romantic mood by the time we arrived at the hotel in the Cours Mirabeau.

There, in the wide central _Place_, sprayed a delicious fountain splashed with gold by the sunlight that filtered through an arbour of great trees; and there, too, was a statue of good King Rene. Perhaps, if I hadn't known that Aix-en-Provence was the home of the troubadours, and that its springs had been loved by the Romans before the days of Christianity, I might not have thought it more charming than many another ancient sleepy town of France; but it is impossible to disentangle one's imagination and sentiment from one's eyesight; therefore, Aix seemed an exquisite place to me.

Now that I knew how knight-errantry in some of its branches was likely to affect Mr. Dane's pocket, I resolved that nothing should tempt me to encourage him in the pursuit. No matter how many flirtatious smiles were shed upon me by enterprising waiters, no matter how many conversations were begun by couriers who took me for rather a superior sample of "young person," I would bear all, all, without a complaint which might seem like a hint for protection.

When Lady Turnour had forgotten me, in the dazzling light that beat about the thought of luncheon, I almost bustled into the hotel, and asked for the servants' dining-room. I knew that there was little hope of eating alone, for several important-looking motor-cars were drawn up before the hotel; but I was hardly prepared for the gay company I found a.s.sembled.

Three chauffeurs, a valet, and two maids were lunching, and judging from appearances the meal was far enough advanced to have cemented lifelong friendships. Wine being as free as the air you breathe, in this country of the grape, naturally the big gla.s.s _caraffes_ behind the plates were more than half empty, and the elder of the two elderly maids had a shining pink k.n.o.b on her nose.

I hadn't yet taken off my diving-bell (as I've named my head covering), and every eye was upon me during the intricate process of removal.

Conversation, which was in French, slackened in the interests of curiosity; and when the new face was exposed to public gaze the three gallant chauffeurs jumped up, as one man, each with the kind intention of placing me in a chair next himself. "_Voila une pet.i.te tete trop jolie pour etre cachee comme ca!_" exclaimed the best looking and boldest of the trio.

The ladies of the party sniffed audibly, and raised their somewhat moth-eaten eyebrows at each other in virtuous disapproval of a young female who provoked such remarks from strangers. The valet, who had the air of being engaged to the maid with the nose, confined himself to a non-committal grin, but the second and third chauffeurs loyally supported their leader. "_Vous avez raison_," they responded, laughing and showing quant.i.ties of white teeth. Then they followed up their compliment by begging that mademoiselle would sit down, and allow her health to be drunk--with that of the other ladies.

"Yes, sit down by me," said Number One, indicating a chair. "This is the Queen's throne."

"By me," said Number Two. "I'll cut up your meat for you."

"By me," said Number Three. "I'll give you my share of pudding."

By this time I was red to the ears, not knowing whether it were wiser for a lady's-maid to run away, or to take the rough chaff good-humouredly, and make the best of it. I fluttered, undecided, never thinking of the old adage concerning the woman who hesitates.

In an instant, it was forcibly recalled to my mind, for Number One chauffeur, smelling strongly of the good red wine of Provence, came forward and offered me his arm.

This was too much.

"Please don't!" I stammered, in my confusion speaking English.