part distasteful to him; for if he had missed being born an Irishman,

and had reconciled it to his sense of humour to be born at all, he would

certainly have been born an Italian. He loves Italy; he breathes the air

as the air of home, drawn gratefully into the lungs after a long

absence. He learned to speak Italian as easily as he learned to walk,

and he could pour out liquid line after line of old Italian poetry, if

he had not all a British male's self-conscious fear of making an ass of

himself. History was the only thing except cricket and rowing, in which

he distinguished himself at Oxford, and Italian history was to him what

novels are to most boys, though had it occurred to him at the time that

he was "improving his mind" by reading it, he would probably have shut

up the book in disgust.

He was not a stranger in the country to which we were going, though he

had never entered it by this gate, and most of his motoring had been

done in France; but I knew that he would revel in visiting once more the

places he loved, in his own car.

"Have you ever been in Italy?" I asked the Countess, but she was evilly

fascinated by a dog which seemed bent on committing suicide under our

car, and it was Beechy who answered.

"We've never been _anywhere_ before, any of us," she said. "Mamma and I

only had our machinery set running a few months ago, but now we _are_

wound up, goodness knows how far we'll get. As for Maida--she's no

mechanical doll like us. But do you know the play about the statue that

came to life?"

"Galatea?" I suggested.

"Yes, that's the name. Maida's like that; and I suppose she'll go back

as soon as she can, and ask to be turned into a statue again."

"What do you mean?" I ventured to inquire; for these hints of the

child's about her cousin were gradually consuming me to a grey ash with

curiosity.

"I can't tell you what _I_ mean, because I promised I wouldn't. But

that's what _Maida_ means."

"What she means?"

"Yes, to go back and be turned into a statue, forever and ever."

I ought to have been glad that the girl destined herself for a colder

fate than a union with a happy-go-lucky Irishman as poor as herself,

but somehow I was not glad. Watching the light glint on a tendril of

spun gold which had blown out from the motor-hood, I could not wish her

young heart to be turned to marble in that mysterious future to which

Beechy Kidder hinted she was self-destined.

"Perhaps I'd better make love to her myself," was the suggestion that

flashed into my mind; but innate canniness sturdily pushed it out again.

With my seven hundred a year, and _The Riviera Sun_ only just beginning

to shed a few golden beams, I could not afford to take a penniless

beauty off Terry's hands, even to save him from a disastrous marriage or

her from the fate of Galatea.

Yet what a day it was in which to live and love, and motor over perfect

roads through that radiant summer-land which the Ligurians loved, the

Romans conquered, and the modern world comes from afar to see.

Though it was early in April, with Easter but a few days behind us, the

sky, the air, the flowers, belonged to June--a rare, rich June to praise

in poetry or song. Billows of roses surged over old pink and yellow

stucco walls, or a soaring flame of scarlet geranium ran along their

tops devouring trails of ivy with a hundred fiery tongues. White villas

were draped with gorgeous panoply of purple-red bougainvillea; the

breeze in our faces was sweet with the scent of lemon blossoms and a

heavier under-tone of white-belled datura. Far away, over that polished

floor of lapis-lazuli which was the sea, summer rain-clouds boiled up

above the horizon, blue with the soft grey-blue of violets; and in the

valleys, between horned or pointed mountains, we saw spurts of golden

rain glittering in the morning sun.

What a world! How good to be in it, to be "in the picture" because one

had youth, and was not hideous to look upon. How good to be in a

motor-car. This last thought made the chorus at the end of each verse

for me. I was very glad I had put that advertisement in _The Riviera

Sun_, and that "Kid, Kidder, and Kiddest" had been before any one else

in answering it.

I could hear Terry telling Miss Destrey things, and I knew that if they

listened the others could hear him too. This was well, because an

unfailing flow of information was included in the five guineas a day,

and I should have been embarrassed had I, as the supposed owner of the

car, been called upon to supply it.

I listened with a lazy sense of proprietorship in the man, as my

chauffeur related the pretty legend of St. Agnes's ruined castle and the

handsome Pagan who had loved the Christian maiden; while he described

the exquisite walks to be found up hidden valleys among the serrated

mountains behind Mentone; and enlarged upon the charms of picnics with

donkeys and lunch-baskets under canopies of olives or pines, with a

carpet of violets and primroses.

He seemed well up in the history of the Grimaldis and that exciting

period when Mentone and legend-crusted Roquebrune had been under the

rule of tyrannical princes of that name, as well as Hercules's rock,

Monaco, still their own. He knew, or pretended to know, the precise date

when Napoleon III. filched Nice and Savoy from reluctant Italy as the

price of help against the hated Austrians. Altogether, I was so pleased

with the way in which he was beginning, that I should have been tempted

to raise his wages had he been my paid chauffeur.

We skimmed past Englishmen and English or American girls in Panama hats,

on their way to bathe or play tennis; on all hands we heard the English

tongue. Skirting the Old Town, piled high upon its narrow nose of land,

we entered the East Bay, and so climbed up to the French side of the

Pont St. Louis.

"Now for some red tape," explained Terry. "When I came to the Riviera

this season I had no idea of going further, and I'm sorry to say I left

my papers in London, where apparently they've disappeared. But as the

Countess doesn't care to come back into France, I hope it won't matter

much."

As he spoke, a _douanier_ lounged out of his little whitewashed lair,

and asked for that which Terry had just said he had not.

"I have no papers," Terry informed him, with a smile so agreeable that

one hoped it might take away the sting.

"But you intend to return to France?" persisted the official, who

evidently gave even a foreigner credit for wishing to rush back to the

best country on earth with as little delay as possible.

"No," said Terry apologetically. "We are on our way to Italy and

Austria, and may go eventually to England by the Hook of Holland."

The _douanier_ gave us up as hopeless, with a resigned shrug of his

shoulders. He vanished into his lair, consulted a superior officer, and

after a long delay returned with the news that we must pay ten centimes,

probably as a penance for our mulish stupidity in leaving France.

I dropped a penny into his palm.

"Will you have a receipt for this sum?" he asked.

"No, thanks," I smiled. "I have infinite trust in your integrity."

"Perhaps we'd better get the receipt all the same," said Terry. "I've

never been paperless before, and there may be some fuss or other."

"It took them twenty minutes to decide about their silly ten centimes,"

said the Countess "and it will take them twenty more at least to make

out a receipt for it. Do let's go on, if he'll let us. I'm dying to see

what's on the other side of this bridge. We haven't been over into Italy

before; there was so much to do in Nice and Monte Carlo."

"All right, we'll risk it, then, as you wish it," Terry agreed; and our

prophetic souls did not even turn over in their sleep.

On we went, up the steep hill which, with our load, we were obliged to

climb so slowly that Terry and I were ashamed for the car, and tried

diplomatically to make it appear that, had we liked, we could have flown

up with undiminished speed.

[Illustration: _As he spoke a douanier lounged out of his little

whitewashed lair_]

Terry pointed out objects of interest here and there. I questioned him

rapidly and he, playing into my hand, answered as quickly, so that,

if our wheels lagged, our tongues gave the effect of keeping up a

rattling pace.

"Don't you think there's something particularly interesting and romantic

about frontiers?" asked Terry of the company in general. "Only a

fictitious and arbitrary dividing line, one would say, and yet what a

difference on either side, one from the other! Different languages,

different customs, prejudices so different that people living within ten

yards of each other are ready to go to war over them. Here, for

instance, though the first thing one thinks of in crossing the bridge is

the splendid view, the second thought that comes must be, how bare the

Italian country looks compared to the luxuriant cultivation we're

leaving behind. We're turning our backs now on cosy comfort, well-kept

roads, tidy houses, tidy people; and we're on our way to meet beggars,

shabbiness, and rags, poverty everywhere staring us in the face. Yet

much as I admire France, it's to Italy I give my love."

"Talking of frontiers," I flung back the ball to him, "I've often asked

myself why it is that a whole people should with one accord worship

coffin-beds, six inches too short for a normal human being, hard wedges

instead of bolsters, and down coverings three feet thick; while another

whole people just round a geographical corner fiercely demand brass

beds, springy mattresses, and blankets light as--as love. But nobody has

ever satisfactorily answered that question, which may be far more

important in solving the profound mystery of racial differences than it

would seem."

"Why are _you_ prudent and economical, and I reckless and extravagant?"

inquired Terry.

"Because I come from the country that took over England, and you from

the country that England took over," I explained. But Terry only

laughed, being too busy to pick up the cudgels for his native land.

"Probably that's also why I'm a chauffeur while you're an editor," he

added, and Miss Destrey's little nose and long curve of dark eyelash,

seen by me in profile, expressed the sympathy which one young soul in

misfortune must feel for another.

"Now we're in Italy," he went on. "What I said is coming true already.

Look at these carts crawling to meet us down the hill. The harness seems

to be a mere collection of 'unconsidered trifles,' picked up accidently

by the drivers; bits of leather, string and rope. And the road you see

is strewn with loose stones, though a few metres further back it was so

smooth one might dance on it. In dear, lazy Italy, steam-rollers are

almost as unknown as dragons. In most districts, if one wants to mend a

road, one dumps some stones on it, and trusts to luck and traffic to

have them eventually ground in. But luckily our tyres are almost as

trustworthy as the Bank of England, and we don't need to worry about the

roads."

At the pink Italian custom house Terry got down and vanished within, to

pay the deposit and receive certain documents without which we could not

"circulate" on Italian soil. Far above our heads looked down the old,

brown keep of the Grimaldis, once lords of all the azure coast; below us

glittered Mentone, pink and blue and golden in the sun; beyond Monte

Carlo sat throned, siren-like, upon her rock.

Terry had scarcely engaged the attention of the officials when the buzz

of a motor, livelier and more nervous than our faithful "thrum, thrum,"

called to us to turn our heads; and there was Prince Dalmar-Kalm's

brilliant car flying up the hill, even as we had wished to fly.

The Prince stopped his motor close to ours, to speak with the Countess

sitting alone in it, and announced that he would have overtaken us long

ago, had he not found himself obliged to pause for a talk with the

ex-Empress Eugenie.

This announcement much impressed Mrs. Kidder, who doubtless realized

more fully than before her good fortune in having such a distinguished

personage for a travelling companion.

He stood leaning on the side of our luggage-wreathed vehicle, with an

air of charming condescension. There was no need for him to hurry over

the formalities of the _douane_, he said, for even if he were

considerably behind us in starting, he would catch us up soon after we

had reached La Mortola.

Thus beguiled, the half-hour occupied by the leisurely officials in

providing us with papers and sealing the car with an important looking

leaden seal, passed not too tediously for the ladies. Finally, the

Prince saw us off, smiling a "turned-down smile" at our jog trot as we

proceeded up that everlasting hill, which runs like a shelf along the

face of the great grey cliff of rock.

Far below, azure waves draped the golden beach with blue and silver

gauze and fringed it daintily with a foam of lace.

Then, at last, the steep ascent came to an end, with a curve of the road

which plunged us down into a region of coolness and green shadow.

"Why, I don't think Italy's so shabby after all," exclaimed the

Countess. "Just see that pretty little Maltese cross above the road, and

that fine school-house--"

"Ah, but we're in Hanbury-land now," I said.

"Hanbury-land? I never heard of it. Is it a little independent

principality like Monacoa? But how funny it should have an

English-sounding name sandwiched in right here between Italy and

France."

"The lord of the land is an Englishman, and a benevolent one, a sort of

fairy god-father to the poor in all the country round," I explained.

"You won't find Hanbury-land mentioned on the map; nevertheless it's

very real, fortunately for its inhabitants; and here's the gate of the

garden which leads to the royal palace. La Mortola is a great show

place, for the public are allowed to go in on certain days. I forget if

this is one of them, but perhaps they will let us see the garden,

nevertheless. Shall I ask?"

It was in my mind that, if we stopped, we might miss the Prince as well

as see the garden, so that we should be killing two birds with one

stone, and I was glad when the Countess caught eagerly at the suggestion

that we should beg for a glimpse of La Mortola, a place famed throughout

Europe.

Permission was given; the big iron gates swung open to admit us. We

entered, and a moment later were descending a long flight of stone steps

to terraces far below the level of the road where the car stood waiting

our return.

Had Aladdin rubbed his lamp in the days before his unfortunate

misunderstanding with the Geni and demanded the most beautiful of

gardens, the fulfilment of his wish could have taken no fairer form than

this. Strange, tropical flowers, vivid as flame, burned in green

recesses; water-sprites upset their caskets of pearls over rock-shelves

into translucent pools where lilies lay asleep, dreaming of their own

pale beauty. Long, green pergolas, starred with flowers, framed

blue-veiled pictures of distant coast-line, and mediæval strongholds,

coloured with the same burnt umber as the hills on which they stood,

gloomed and glowed across a cobalt sea.

There is nothing that pleases the normal male more than to be able to

point out objects worthy of interest or admiration to the female of his

kind. Since time immemorial, have not landscape-pictures in books of

travel been filled in, in the foreground, with the figures of men

showing the scenery to women? Did any one ever see such a work of art

representing a woman as indicating any point of view to a man? No doubt

many could have done so; and the ladies in the pictures had probably

noticed the objects in question before their male escorts pointed to

them; but knowing the amiable weakness of the other sex, they politely

refrained from saying, "Oh, we saw that _long_ ago."

Thus did Terry and I, after the conventional traditions of our species,

lead our little party through avenues of cypresses, to open rock-spaces,

or among a waving sea of roses to battle-grounds of rare cacti, with

writhing arms like octopi transformed into plants.

Here, peering down into a kind of dyke, paved with rough tesselation, we

vied with each other in telling our charges that this was the old Roman

road to Gaul, the Aurelian Way, over which Julius Cæsar, St. Catherine

of Siena, Dante, and other great ones passed. Then we showed them one of

Napoleon's old guns, covered with shells, as when it was fished out of

the sea. We enlarged upon the fact that there was no tree, shrub, or

blossom on the known face of the earth of which a specimen did not grow

at La Mortola; and when we had wandered for an hour in the garden

without seeing half there was to see, we climbed the long flight of

steps again, congratulating ourselves--Terry and I--that we had played

Dalmar-Kalm rather a neat trick. The crowd of villagers who had

clustered round our car outside the entrance gates would screen it from

the Prince as he flashed by, and he would go on and on, wondering how we

had contrived to get so far ahead.

Our way would take us, after passing through Ventimiglia, up the Roya

Valley which Terry had decided upon as a route because of its wild and

unspoiled beauty, different from anything that our passengers could have

seen in their brief experience of the Riviera. But as there were no inns

which offered decent entertainment for man or automobile within

reasonable distance, we were to lunch at Ventimiglia, and no arrangement

had been made with Dalmar-Kalm concerning this halt. His

confidence--perhaps well founded--in the superiority of his speed over

ours had led him to believe that he could pause at our side for

consultation whenever he wished. Therefore, we had left Cap Martin

without much discussion of plans. Mrs. Kidder was of opinion that we

would find him waiting in front of the "best hotel in Ventimiglia," with

an excellent luncheon ordered.

"The best hotel in Ventimiglia!" poor lady, she had an awakening before

her. Not only was there no Prince, but there was no best hotel. Old

Ventimiglia, in its huddled picturesqueness, must delight any man with

eyes in his head; new Ventimiglia must disgust any man with a vacancy

under his belt. As we sat in the shabby dining-room of a seventh-rate

inn (where the flies set an example of attentiveness the waiters did not

follow), pretending to eat macaroni hard as walking-sticks and veal

reduced to _chiffons_, I feared the courage of our employers would fail.

They could never, in all their well-ordered American lives, have known

anything so abominable as this experience into which we had lured them,

promising a pilgrimage of pleasure. But the charmingly dressed beings,

who looked like birds of paradise alighted by mistake in a pigsty, made

sport of the squalor which we had expected to evoke their rage.

"Dear me, I wish we'd brought some chewing gum," was Beechy's one

sarcasm at the expense of the meal, and Maida and the Countess laughed

merrily at everything, even the flies, which they thought did not know

their own power as well as American flies.

"We've some _lovely_ cakes and candy packed in that sweet tea-basket we

bought at an English shop in Paris," said Mrs. Kidder; "but I suppose

we'd better not get anything out to eat now, for fear of hurting the

waiters' feelings. What do you think, Sir Ralph?"

"Personally, I should like nothing better than to hurt them," I replied

severely, "but I'm thinking of myself. Cakes and candy on top of those

walking-sticks! 'T were more difficult to build on such a foundation

than to rear Venice on its piles and wattles.

"We'd better save what we have till later on," said Maida. "About four

o'clock, perhaps we shall be glad to stop somewhere, and I can make tea.

It will be fun having it in the automobile."

"There she goes now, revealing domestic virtues!" I thought ruefully.

"It will be too much for Teddy to find her an all-round out-of-doors and

indoors girl in one. He always said the combination didn't exist; that

you had to put up with one or the other in a nice girl, and be jolly

thankful for what you'd got."

But Terry did not seem to be meditating upon the pleasing trait just

brought to light by his travelling companion. He remarked calmly that by

tea-time we should doubtless have reached San Dalmazzo, a charming

little mountain village with an old monastery turned into an inn; and

then he audibly wondered what had become of the Prince.

"My! What a shame, I'd almost forgotten him!" exclaimed Mrs. Kidder.

"He must have given us up in despair and gone on."

"Perhaps he's had a break-down," I suggested.

"What! with that wonderful car? He told me last night that nothing had

ever happened to it yet. He must be miles ahead of us by now."

"Then this is his astral body," said Terry. "Clever of him to 'project'

one for his car too. Never heard of its being done before."

Nor had I ever heard of an astral body who swore roundly at its

chauffeur, which this apparition now stopping in front of the restaurant

windows did. It called the unfortunate shape in leather by several

strange and creditably, or perhaps discreditably, original names, but as

this flow of eloquence was in German, it could not be appreciated by the

ladies. Mrs. Kidder knew the languages not at all, and Miss Destrey and

Beechy had remarked, when Dalmatia was proposed, that their knowledge

was of the copy-book order.

So completely upset was the Prince, that on joining us he forgot to be

sarcastic. Not a question, not a sneer as to our progress, not an

apology for being late. He flung himself into a chair at the table,

ordered the waiters about with truculence, and, having thus relieved his

mind, began complaining of his bad luck.

An Austrian Prince, when cross and hungry, can be as undesirable a

social companion as a Cockney cad, and the Countess's distinguished

friend did not show to advantage in the scene which followed. Yes, there

had been an accident. It was unheard of--abominable; entirely the fault

of the chauffeur. Chauffeurs (and he looked bleakly at Terry) were

without exception brutes--detestable brutes. You put up with them

because you had to; that was all. The automobile had merely stopped. It

must have been the simplest thing in the world for a professional to

discover what was wrong; yet this animal, Joseph, could do nothing but

poke his nose into the machinery and then shrug his hideous shoulders.

Why yes, he had taken out the valves, of course, examined the sparkling

plugs, and tested the coil. Any amateur could have done so much. It gave

a good spark; there was no short circuit; yet the motor would not start,

and the chauffeur was unable to give an explanation. Twice he had taken

the car to pieces without result--absolutely to pieces. Then, and not

till then, had the creature found wit enough to think of the

carburetter. There was the trouble, and nowhere else. All that delay and

misery had been caused by some grit which had penetrated into the

carburetter and prevented the needle working. This it was to have a

donkey instead of a chauffeur.

"But it didn't occur to you that it might be the carburetter," said

Terry, taking advantage of a pause made by the arrival of the Prince's

luncheon, which that gentleman attacked with ardour.

"Why should it?" haughtily inquired Dalmar-Kalm. "I am not engaged in

that business. I pay other people to think for me. Besides, it is not

with me as with you and your friend, who must be accustomed to accidents

of all sorts on a low-powered car, somewhat out of date. But I am not

used to having mine _en panne_. Never mind, it will not happen again.

_Mon Dieu_, what a meal to set before ladies. I do not care for myself,

but surely, Sir Ralph, it would have been easy to find a better place

than this to give the ladies luncheon?"

"Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore wanted us to go to the railway-station,"

Miss Destrey defended us, "but we thought it would be dull, and

preferred this, so our blood is on our own heads."

We finished gloomily with lukewarm coffee, which was so long on the way

that the Countess thought we might as well wait for the "poor Prince."

Then, when we were ready, came a violent shower, which meant more

waiting, as the Countess did not agree cordially with her daughter's

remark that to "drive in the rain would be good for the complexion."

When at last we were able to start it was after three, and we should

have to make good speed if we were to arrive at San Dalmazzo even by

late tea-time. Terry was on his mettle, however, and I guessed that he

was anxious our first day should not end in failure.

Tooling out of Ventimiglia, that grim frontier town whose name has

become synonymous to travellers with waiting and desperate resignation,

we turned up by the side of the Roya, where the stream gushes seaward,

through many channels, in a wide and pebbly bed. The shower just past,

though brief, had been heavy enough to turn a thick layer of white dust

into a greasy, grey paste of mud. On our left was a sudden drop into the

rushing river, on the right a deep ditch, and the road between was as

round-shouldered as a hunchback. Seeing this natural phenomenon, and

feeling the slightly uncertain step of our fat tyres as they waddled

through the pasty mud, the pleasant smile of the proud motor-proprietor

which I had been wearing hardened upon my face. I didn't know as much

about motors as our passengers supposed, but I did know what side-slip

was, and I did not think that this was a nice place for the ladies to be

initiated. There might easily be an accident, even with the best of

drivers such as we had in Terry, and I was sure that he was having all

he could do to keep on the crown of the road. At any moment, slowly as

we were going, the heavily laden car might become skittish and begin to

waltz, a feat which would certainly first surprise and then alarm the

ladies, even if it had no more serious consequences.

It was while we were in this critical situation, which had not yet begun

to dawn upon our passengers, that Dalmar-Kalm seized the opportunity of

racing past us from behind, blowing a fanfarronade on his horn, to prove

how much faster his car could go than ours. In the instant that he was

abreast of us, our tonneau, which overhung the back axle further than is

considered wise in the latest types of cars, swung outwards, with a slip

of the tyre in the grey grease, and only by an inch which seemed a mere

hair's breadth was Terry able to save us from a collision.

The Countess screamed, Beechy clung once more to my knee, and we all

glared at the red car with the white canopy as it shot ruthlessly ahead.

The Prince's tyres were strapped with spiked leather covers, which we

could not carry as they would lose us too much speed; therefore the

danger of side-slip was lessened for him, and he flew by without even

knowing how near we had been to an accident. The anger painted on our

ungoggled faces he doubtless attributed to jealousy, as he glanced back

to wave a triumphant _au revoir_ before flashing out of sight, round a

bend of the road.

There is something very human, and particularly womanish, about a

motor-car. The shock of the narrow escape we had just had seemed to have

unsteadied the nerve of our brave Panhard for the moment. We were

nearing a skew bridge, with an almost right-angled approach; and the

strange resultant of the nicely balanced forces that control an

automobile skating on "pneus" over slippery mud twisted us round,

suddenly and without warning. Instantly, oilily, the car gyrated as on a

pivot, and behold, we were facing down the valley instead of up. Terry

could not had done it had he tried.

"Oh, my goodness!" quavered the Countess, in a collapse. "Am I dreaming,

or has this happened? It seems as if I must be out of my wits!"

"It _has_ happened," answered Terry, laughing reassuringly, but far from

joyous within, I knew. "But it's nothing alarming. A little side-slip,

that's all."

"A _little_ side-slip!" she echoed. "Then may I be preserved from a big

one. This automobile has turned its nose towards home again, of its own

accord. Oh, Sir Ralph, I'm not sure I like motoring as much as I thought

I would. I'm not sure the Hand of Providence didn't turn the car back."

"Nonsense, Mamma!" cried Beechy. "The other day the Hand of Providence

was pointing out Sir Ralph's advertisement in the newspaper. It can't be

always changing its mind, and you can't, either. We're all _alive_,

anyhow, and that's something."

"Ah, but how long shall we be?" moaned her mother. "I don't want to be

silly, but I didn't know that an automobile had the habits of a

kangaroo and a crab, and a base-ball, and I'm afraid I shall never get

used to them."

Terry explained that his car was not addicted to producing these

sensational effects, and compared the difficulties it was now combatting

with those which a skater might experience if the hard ice were covered

an inch deep with soft soap. "We shall soon be out of this," he said,

"for the road will be better higher up where the hill begins, and the

rain has had a chance to drain away."

Cheered by these promises, the poor Countess behaved herself very well,

though she looked as if she might burst an important blood-vessel, as

Terry carefully turned his car on the slippery surface of the road's

tortoise-back. I was not happy myself, for it would have been as "easy

as falling off a log" for the automobile to leap gracefully into the

Roya; but the brakes held nobly, and as Terry had said, there was better

going round the next corner.

Here the mountains began to draw together, so that we were no longer

travelling in a valley, but in a gorge. Deep shadow shut us in, as if we

had left the warm, outer air and entered a dim castle, perpetually

shuttered and austerely cold. Dark crags shaped themselves

magnificently, and the scene was of such wild grandeur that even Beechy

ceased to be flippant. We drove on in silence, listening to the battle

song of the river as it fought its way on through the rocky chasm its

own strength had hewn.

The road mounted continuously, with a gentle incline, weaving its grey

thread round the blind face of the mountain, and suddenly, turning a

shoulder of rock we came upon the Prince's car which we had fancied many

kilometres in advance. The big red chariot was stationary, one wheel

tilted into the ditch at the roadside, while Dalmar-Kalm and his

melancholy chauffeur were straining to rescue it from its ignominious

position.

Our Panhard had been going particularly well, as if to justify itself in

its employers' eyes after its late slip from rectitude. "She" was taking

the hill gaily, pretending not to know it from the level, and it did

seem hard to play the part of good Samaritan to one marked by nature as

a Levite. But--_noblesse oblige_, and--honour among chauffeurs.

Terry is as far from sainthood as I am, and I knew well that his bosom

yearned to let Dalmar-Kalm stew in his own petrol. Nevertheless, he

brought the car to anchor without a second's hesitation, drawing up

alongside the humiliated red giant. Amid the exclamations of Mrs.

Kidder, and the suppressed chuckles of the _enfante terrible_, we two

men got out, with beautiful expressions on our faces and dawning haloes

round our heads, to help our hated rival.

Did he thank us for not straining the quality of our mercy? His name and

nature would not have been Dalmar-Kalm if he had. His first words at

sight of the two ministering angels by his side were: "You must have

brought me bad luck, I believe. Never have I had an accident with my car

until to-day, but now all goes wrong. For the second time I am _en

panne_. It is too much. This viper of a Joseph says we cannot go on."

Now we began to see why the Prince's chauffeur had acquired the

countenance of a male Niobe. Wormlike resignation to utter misery was,

we had judged, his prevailing characteristic; but hard work,

ingratitude, and goodness knows how much abuse, caused the worm to turn

and defend itself.

"How go on with a change-speed lever broken short off, close to the

quadrant?" he shrilled out in French. "And it is His Highness who broke

it, changing speed too quickly, a thing which I have constantly warned

him against in driving. I cannot make a new lever here in a wilderness.

I am not a magician."

"Nor a Félicité," I mumbled, convinced that, had my all-accomplished

adjutant been a chauffeur instead of a cook, she would have been equal

to beating up a trustworthy lever out of a slice of cake.

"Be silent, brigand!" roared the Prince, and I could hardly stifle a

laugh, for Joseph is no higher than my ear. His shoulders slope; his

legs are clothespins bound with leather; his eyes swim in tears, as our

car's crankhead floats in an oil bath; and his hair is hung round his

head like many separate rows of black pins, overlapping one another.

"We shall save time by getting your car out of the ditch, anyhow,"

suggested Terry; and putting our shoulders to it, all four, we succeeded

after strenuous efforts in pushing and hauling the huge beast onto the

road. I had had no idea that anything less in size than a railway engine

could be so heavy.

There was no question but that the giant was helpless. Terry and Joseph

peered into its inner workings, and the first verdict was confirmed.

"There's an imperfection in the metal," said expert Terry. In his place,

I fear I should not have been capable of such magnanimity. I should have

let the whole blame rest upon my rival's reckless stupidity as a driver.

"It's plain you can do nothing with your car in that condition," he went

on. "After all" (even Terry's generous spirit couldn't resist this one

little dig), "it would have been well if I'd brought that coil of rope."

"Coil of rope? For what purpose?"

"To tow you to the nearest blacksmith's, where perhaps a new lever could

be forged."

"This is not a time for joking. Twelve horses cannot drag twenty-four."

"They're plucky and willing. Shall they try? Here comes a cart, whose

driver is wreathed in smiles. Labour exulting in the downfall of

Capitol. But Labour looks good-natured." "Good morning," Terry hailed him

in Italian. "Will you lend me a stout cord to tow this automobile?"

The Prince was silent. Even in his rage against Fate, against Joseph,

and against us, he retained enough common sense to remember that 'tis

well to choose the lesser of two evils.

The carter had a rope, and an obliging disposition. A few francs changed

hands, and the Hare was yoked to the Tortoise. Yoked, figuratively

speaking only, for it trailed ignominiously behind at a distance of

fifteen yards, and when our little Panhard began bumbling up the hill

with its great follower, it resembled nothing so much as a very small

comet with a disproportionately big tail.

The motor, in starting, forged gallantly ahead for a yard or two, then,

as it felt the unexpected weight dragging behind, it appeared surprised.

It was, indeed, literally "taken aback" for an instant, but only for an

instant. The brave little beast seemed to say to itself, "Well, they

expect a good deal of me, but there are ladies on board, and I won't

disappoint them."

"Félicité," I murmured. "She might have stood sponser to this car."

With another tug we began to make progress, slow but steady. Joseph, as

the lighter weight, sat in his master's car, his hand on the

steering-wheel, while the Prince tramped gloomily behind in the mud.

Seeing how well the experiment was succeeding, however, he quickened his

pace and ordered the chauffeur down. "I do not think that the difference

in weight will be noticeable," he said, and as Joseph obediently jumped

out the Prince sprang in, taking the wheel. Instantly the rope snapped,

and the big red chariot would have run back had not Joseph jammed on the

brake.

Terry stopped our car, and the ill-matched pair had to be united again,

with a shorter rope. "Afraid you'll have to walk, Prince," said he, when

he had finished helping Joseph, who was apparently on the brink of

tears.

Dalmar-Kalm measured me with a glance. "Perhaps Sir Ralph would not

object to steering my car?" he suggested. "Then Joseph could walk, and I

could have Sir Ralph's place in the tonneau with the ladies, where a

little extra weight would do no harm. Would that not be an excellent

arrangement?"

"David left Goliath on the ground, and dragged away only his head," I

remarked. "_We_ are dragging Goliath; and I fear his head would be the

last--er--feather. So sorry. Otherwise we should be delighted."

What the Prince said as the procession began to move slowly up-hill

again, at a pace to keep time with the "Dead March in Saul," I don't

pretend to know, but if his remarks matched his expression, I would not

in any case have recorded them here.

VI

A CHAPTER OF PREDICAMENTS

On we went, and twilight was falling in this deep gorge, so evidently

cut by the river for its own convenience, not for that of belated

tourists. Here and there in the valley little rock towns stood up

impressively, round and high on their eminences, like brown, stemless

mushrooms. Each little group of ancient dwellings resembled to my mind a

determined band of men standing back to back, shoulder to shoulder,

defending their hearths and homes from the Saracens, and saying grimly,

"Come on if you dare. We'll fight to the death, one and all of us."

At last, without further mishap, we arrived at a mean village marked

Airole on Terry's map. It was a poverty-stricken place, through which,

in happier circumstances, we should have passed without a glance,

but--there, by the roadside was a blacksmith's forge, more welcome to

our eyes than a castle double-starred by Baedeker.

Joseph's spleen reduced by the sight of his master tramping in the mud

while he steered, the little chauffeur looked almost cheerful. He

promised to have a new lever ready in half an hour, and so confident was

he that he urged us to go on. But the Prince did not echo the

suggestion, and Mrs. Kidder proposed that we should have tea while we

waited.

Though it was she who gave birth to the idea, it would have been Miss

Destrey who did all the work, had not Terry and I offered such help as

men can give. He went in search of water to fill the shining kettle; I

handed round biscuits and cakes, while the Prince looked on in the

attitude of Napoleon watching the burning of Moscow.

We were as good as a circus to the inhabitants of Airole; nay, better,

for our antics could be seen gratis. The entire population of the

village, and apparently of several adjacent villages, collected round

the two cars. They made the ring, and--we did the rest. We ate, we

drank, and they were merry at our expense. The children wished also to

eat at our expense, and when I translated (with amendments) a flattering

comment on Mrs. Kidder's hair and complexion offered by an incipient Don

Juan of five years, she insisted that all the spare pastry should be

distributed among the juveniles. The division led to blows, and tears

which had to be quenched with coppers; while into the mêlée broke a

desolate cry from Joseph, announcing that his lever was a failure. The

Prince strode off to the blacksmith's shop, forgetful that he held a

teacup in one hand and an _éclair_ in the other. With custard dropping

onto the red-hot bar which Joseph hammered, he looked so forlorn a

figure that Terry was moved to pity and joined the group at the forge.

He soon discovered what Joseph might have known from the first, had he

not lived solely in the moment, like most other chauffeurs. The village

forge was not _assez bien outillée_ for a finished lever to be produced;

the Prince's car must remain a derelict, unless we towed it into port.

We started on again, in the same order as before and at the same pace,

followed by all our village _protegés_, who commented frankly upon the

plight of the Prince, and the personal appearance of the whole party. At

length, however, our moving audience dwindled. A mile or two beyond

Airole the last, most enterprising boy deserted us, and we thought

ourselves alone in a twilight world. The white face of the moon peered

through a cleft in the mountain, and our own shadows crawled after us,

large and dark on the grey ribbon of the road. But there was another

shadow which moved, a small drifting shadow over which we had no

control. Sometimes it was by our side for an instant as we crept up the

hill, dragging our incubus, then it would fall behind and vanish, only

to reappear again, perhaps on the other side of the road.

"What _is_ that tiny black thing that comes and goes?" asked Mrs.

Kidder.

"Why," exclaimed Miss Destrey, "I do believe it's that forlorn little

dog that was too timid to eat from my hand in the village. He must have

followed all this time."

"Do see if it is the same dog, Prince," Beechy cried to the tall, dark

figure completing the tail of our procession.

A yelp answered. "Yes, it is he," called the Prince. "A mangy little

mongrel. I do not think he will trouble us any longer."

Then a surprising thing happened. The Vestal Virgin rose suddenly in the

car. "You have _kicked_ him!" she exclaimed, the gentleness burnt out of

her pretty voice by a swift flame of anger. "Stop the car, Mr.

Barrymore--quickly, please. I want to get down."

Never had that Panhard of Terry's checked its career in less space. Out

jumped Maida, to my astonishment without a word of objection from her

relatives. "I will not have that poor, timid little creature frightened

and hurt," I heard her protesting as she ran back. "How _could_ you,

Prince!"

Now, though the girl was probably no more than a paid companion, she was

lovely enough to make her good opinion of importance to the most

inveterate fortune hunter, and as Miss Destrey called, "Here, doggie,

doggie," in a voice to beguile a rhinoceros, Dalmar-Kalm pleaded that

what he had done had been but for the animal's good. He had not injured

the dog, he had merely encouraged it to run home before it was

hopelessly lost. "I am not cruel, I assure you. My worst troubles have

come from a warm heart. I hope you will believe me, Miss Destrey."

"I should be sorry to be your dog, or--your chauffeur," she answered.

"He won't come back to be comforted, so I suppose after all we shall

have to go on. But I shall dream of that poor little lonely, drifting

thing to-night."

Hardly had she taken her seat, however, than there was the dog close to

the car, timid, obsequious, winning, with his wisp of a head cocked on

one side. We drove on, and he followed pertinaciously. Mildly adjured by

the Countess to "go home, little dog," he came on the faster. Many

adventures he had, such as a fall over a heap of stones and entanglement

in a thorn-bush. But nothing discouraged the miniature motor maniac in

the pursuit of his love, and we began to take him for granted so

completely that after a while I, at least, forgot him. On we toiled with

our burden, the moon showering silver into the dark mountain gorges, as

if it were raining stars.

The further we burrowed into the fastnesses of the Roya, the more wild

in its majestic beauty grew the valley, so famed in history and legend.

The gorge had again become a mere gash in the rock, with room only for

the road and the roaring river below. High overhead, standing up against

the sky like a warning finger, towered the ancient stronghold of Piena,

once guardian fortress of the valley; where the way curved, and crossed

a high bridge spanning the torrent, we passed a tablet of gleaming

bronze set against the rock wall, in commemoration of Masséna's victory

in an early campaign of Napoleon's against Italy. Sometimes we rushed

through tunnels, where the noise of the motor vibrated thunderously;

sometimes we looked down over sublime precipices; but the road was

always good now, and we had no longer to fear side-slip.

We met no one; nevertheless Terry got down and lit our lamps,

Dalmar-Kalm making an unnecessary delay by insisting that Joseph should

light his too. This was sheer vanity on the Prince's part. He could not

bear to have his great Bleriots dark, while our humbler acetylene

illumined the way for His Mightiness.

Suddenly we ran out of the bewildering lights and shadows, woven across

our way by the moon, into the lights of a town; and two _douaniers_

appeared in the road, holding up their hands for us to stop. Down jumped

Terry to see why he should be challenged in this unexpected place, and

the Prince joined him.

"Your papers, if you please," demanded the official.

Terry produced those which had been given us at the custom-house in

Grimaldi.

"But these are Italian papers. Where are those for France?" asked the

_douanier_.

"This is not France," said the Prince, before Terry could speak.

"It is Breil, and it is France," returned the man. "France for nine

kilometres, until Fontan, where Italian territory begins again."

Terry laughed, rather ruefully. "Well," said he, "I have no French

papers, but we paid a penny at the Pont St. Louis to leave France. This

car is French, and we ought not to pay anything to enter; nevertheless,

I shall be delighted to hand you the same sum for the privilege of

coming in again."

"Ah, you paid ten centimes? Then, if you have the receipt it may be

possible to permit you to go on."

"Permit us to go on!" echoed Dalmar-Kalm angrily. "I should think so,

indeed."

"I'm sorry, I took no receipt," said Terry. "I thought it an unnecessary

formality."

"_No_ formality is unnecessary, monsieur," said the servant of form. "I

also am sorry, but in the circumstances you cannot enter French

territory without a receipt for the ten centimes. As a man I believe

implicitly that you paid the sum, as an official I am compelled to doubt

your word."

Who but a Frenchman could have been so exquisitely pompous over a penny?

I saw by Terry's face that he was far from considering the incident

closed; but he had too much true Irish tact to try and get us through by

storming.

"Let us consider," he began, "whether there is not some means of escape

from this difficulty."

But Dalmar-Kalm was in no mood to temporize, or keep silent while others

temporized. The lights of Breil showed that it was a town of comparative

importance; it was past eight o'clock; and no doubt His Highness's

temper was sharpened by a keen edge of hunger. That he--he should be

stopped by a fussy official figure-head almost within smell of food,

broke down the barrier of his self-restraint--never a formidable

rampart, as we had cause to know. In a few loud and vigorous sentences

he expressed a withering contempt for France, its institutions, its

customs, and especially its custom-houses.

"If you'd mix up the Prince's initials, as you do Mr. Barrymore's

sometimes, and call him Kalmar-Dalm, there'd be some excuse for it,"

Beechy Kidder murmured to the Countess.

"Hush, he'll hear!" implored the much-enduring lady, but there was small

danger that His Highness would hear any expostulations save his own.

The functionary's eye grew dark, and Terry frowned. Had the _douanier_

been insolent, my peppery Irishman would have been insolent too,

perhaps, in the hope of cowering the man by truculence more

swashbuckling than his own; but he had been as polite as his countrymen

proverbially are, if not goaded out of their suavity. "Look here,

Prince," said Terry, hanging onto his temper by a thread (for he also

was hungry), "suppose you leave this matter to me. If you'll take the

ladies to the best hotel in town, Moray and I will stop and see this

thing through. We'll follow when we can."

Dalmar-Kalm snapped at the suggestion; our passengers saw that it was

for the best, and yielded. As they moved away, a shadowy form hovered in

their wake. It was the little black dog of Airole.

The Marquis of Innisfallen's first quarrel with his brother had been

caused by Terry's youthful preference for an army instead of a

diplomatic career. Now, could his cantankerous relative have seen my

friend, he would once more have shaken his head over talents wasted. The

oily eloquence which Terry lavished on that comparatively insignificant

French _douanier_ ought to have earned him a billet as first secretary

to a Legation. He pictured the despair of the ladies if the power of

France kept them prisoners at the frontier; he referred warmly to that

country's reputation for chivalry; he offered to pay the usual deposit

on a car entering France and receive it back again at Fontan. To this

last suggestion the harassed official replied that technically his

office was closed for the night, and that after eight o'clock he could

not receive money or issue papers. Finally, therefore, Terry was reduced

to appealing to the cleverness and resource of a true Frenchman.

It was a neat little fencing-match, which ended in the triumph of Great

Britain. The functionary, treated like a gentleman by a gentleman,

became anxious to accommodate, if he could do so "consistently with

honour." He had an inspiration, and suggested that he would strain his

duty by sending a messenger with us to Fontan, there to explain that we

were merely _en passage_. Out of the crowd which had collected a loutish

youth was chosen; a _pourboire_ promised; and after many mutual

politenesses we were permitted to _teuf-teuf_ onto the sacred soil of

France.

It is no more safe to judge a French country inn by its exterior, than

the soul of Cyrano de Bergerac by his nose. The inn of Breil had not an

engaging face, but it was animated by the spirit of a Brillat Savarin,

by which we were provided with a wonderful dinner in numerous courses.

We could not escape from it, lest we hurt the _amour-propre_ of the

cook, and it was late when we were ready for our last _sortie_.

"You will never reach San Dalmazzo to-night, towing that car," we were

informed by the powers that were in the hotel. "The hills you have

passed are as nothing to the hills yet to come. You will do well to

spend the night with us, for if you try to get on, you will be all night

upon the road."

Our passengers were asked to decide, and we expected a difference of

opinion. We should have said that the two girls would have been for

pushing on, and the Countess for stopping. But that plump lady had

already conquered the tremors which, earlier in the day, had threatened

to wreck our expedition at its outset.

"It's a funny thing," said she, "but I want to go on, just _on_, for the

sake of _going_. I never felt like that before, travelling, not even in

a Mann Boudoir car at home, which I guess is the most luxurious thing on

wheels. I always wanted to _get_ there, wherever 'there' was; but now I

want to go on and on--I wouldn't care if it was to the end of the world,

and I can't think why, unless it's the novelty of automobiling. But it

can't be that, either, I suppose, for only a little while ago I was

thinking that bed-ridden people weren't badly off, they were so _safe_."

We all laughed at this (even the Prince, whom plenty of champagne had

put into a sentimental mood), and I suddenly found myself growing quite

fond of the Countess, crowns and all.

After the heat of the _salle à manger_, the night out of doors appeared

strangely white and cold, its purple depths drenched with moonlight, the

high remoteness of its dome faintly scintillant with icy points of

stars. An adventure seemed to lie before us. We turned wistfully to each

other for the warmth of human companionship, and had not the Prince been

trying to flirt with little Beechy unseen by Mamma, I should have felt

kindly even to him. Even as it was, I consented to let him try sitting

in his own car, and the rope, inured to suffering, had the consideration

not to break.

We forged on, up, up the higher reaches of the Roya valley, so glorious

in full moonlight that it struck us into silence. The mountains towering

round us shaped themselves into castles and cathedrals of carved marble,

their façades, grey by day, glittering white and polished under the

magic of the moon. The wonderful crescent town of Saorge, hanging on the

mountain-side, would alone have been worth coming this way to see if

there had been nothing else. Veiled by the mystery of night, the old

Ligurian stronghold appeared to be suspended between two rocky peaks,

like a great white hammock for a sleeping goddess, and now and then we

caught a jewelled sparkle from her rings.

They had not told an idle tale at the inn. The road, weary of going

up-hill on its knees, like a pilgrim, got suddenly upon its feet and we

were on its back, with the Prince's chariot trailing after us.

Nevertheless, our car did not falter, though the motor panted. Scarcely

ever were we able to pass from the first speed to the second, but then

(as Beechy remarked), considering all things, we ought to be thankful

for any speed above that of a snail.

At Fontan--when he had vouched for us--we dismissed our _oaf_, with a

light heart and a heavy pocket. Again, we were in Italy, a silent,

sleeping Italy, drugged with moonlight, and dreaming troubled dreams of

strangely contorted mountains. Then suddenly it waked, for the moon was

sinking, and the charm had lost its potence. The dream-shapes vanished,

and we were in a wide, dark basin, which might be green as emerald by

day. A grey ghost in a long coat, with a rifle slung across his back,

flitted into the road and startled the Countess by signing for us to

stop.

"Oh, mercy! are we going to be held up?" she whispered. "I'd forgotten

about the brigands."

"Only an Italian custom-house brigand," said Terry. "We've got to San

Dalmazzo after all, and it isn't morning yet."

"Yes, but it is!" cried Beechy. "There's a clock striking twelve."

A few minutes later we were driving along a level in the direction of

the monastery-hotel, which was said to be no more than a hundred metres

beyond the village. I had often heard of this hostelry at the little

mountain retreat of San Dalmazzo, loved and sought by Italians in the

summer heat. The arched gateway in the wall was clearly monastic, and we

felt sure that we had come to the right place, when Terry steered the

car through the open portal and a kind of tunnel on the other side.

Before the door of a long, low building he stopped the motor. Its

"thrum, thrum" stilled, the silence of the place was profound, and not a

light gleamed anywhere.

Terry got down and rang. We all waited anxiously, for much as we had

enjoyed the strange night drive, the day had been long, and the chill

of the keen mountain air was in our blood. But nothing happened, and

after a short pause Terry rang again. Silence was the only answer, and

it seemed to give denial rather than consent.

Four times he rang, and by this time the Prince and I were at his back,

striving to pierce the darkness behind the door which was half of glass.

At last a greenish light gleamed dim as a glow-worm in the distance, and

framed in it a figure was visible--the figure of a monk.

For an instant I was half inclined to believe him a ghost, haunting the

scene of past activities, for one does not expect to have the door of an

hotel opened by a monk. But ghosts have no traffic with keys and bolts;

and it was the voice of a man still bound to flesh and blood who greeted

us with a mild "_Buona sera_" which made the night seem young.

Terry responded and announced in his best Italian that we desired

accommodation for the night.

"Ah, I see," exclaimed the monk. "You thought that this was still a

hotel? I am sorry to disappoint you, but it ceased to be such only

to-day. The house is now once more what it was originally--a monastery.

It has been bought by the Order to which I belong."

"Isn't he going to take us in?" asked the Countess, dolefully.

"I'm afraid not," said Terry, "but I'll see what I can do."

Ah, that "seeing what he could do!" I knew it of old, for Terry's own

brother is the only person I ever met who could resist him if he stooped

to wheedle. Italian is a language which lends itself to wheedling, too;

and though the good monk demurred at first, shook his head, and even

flung up his hands with a despairing protest, he weakened at last, even

as the _douanier_ had weakened.

"He says if we'd come to-morrow, it would have been impossible to admit

us," translated Terry for the ladies' benefit. "The lease is going to be

signed then. Until that's done the house isn't actually a monastery, so

he can strain a point and take us in, rather than the ladies should have

to travel further so late at night. I don't suppose we shall find very

luxurious accommodation, but--"

"It will be perfectly lovely," broke in Beechy, "and Maida, anyhow, will

feel quite at home."

"He won't accept payment, that's the worst of it," said Terry, "for we

shall make the poor man, who is all alone, a good deal of bother. Still,

I shall offer something for the charities of his Order, and he can't

refuse that."

We filed into the hall, lit only by the lantern in our host's hand, and

"Kid, Kidder, and Kiddest," charmed with the adventure, were

delightfully ready to be pleased with everything. We seemed to have

walked nearly half a kilometre before we were shown into small, bare

rooms, furnished only with necessaries, but spotlessly clean. Then beds

had to be made and water brought. Every one worked except the Prince,

and every one, with the same exception, forgot to be tired and ceased to

be cold in the pleasure of the queer midnight picnic. We had not dared

hope for anything to eat, but when our host proposed a meal of boiled

eggs, bread, and wine, the good man was well-nigh startled by the

enthusiastic acceptance of his guests.

A small room containing a table, and a pile of chairs against the wall,

was chosen for the banquet. Terry and Maida laid the table with the

dishes from the tea-basket, and a few more found in neighbouring

cupboards. Beechy boiled the eggs while our host unearthed the wine; the

Countess cut slices of hard, brown bread, and I added butter in little

hillocks.

Then we ate and drank; and never was a meal so good. We seemed to have

known each ether a long time, and already we had common jokes connected

with our past--that past which had been the present this morning. It was

after one o'clock when it occurred lo us that it was bedtime; and as at

last the three ladies flitted away down the dim corridor, Terry and I,

watching them, saw that something flitted after.

It was the little black dog of Airole.