The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
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of the Promenade with her. But the Count and his companions were, they admitted, working a “big thing,” and this was part of it, I supposed.
“This is the first time you have been in Nice, eh?” she asked in her pretty broken English as she stopped a moment to open her sunshade.
“Yes,” I answered; “but the Count is an old habitué, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” she laughed; “he knows everybody. Last year he was on the Fêtes Committee and one of the judges at the Battle of Flowers.”
And so we gossiped on, walking leisurely, and passing many who, like ourselves, were idling in the winter sunshine.
There was an air of refined ingenuousness about her that was particularly attractive. She walked well, holding her skirt tightly about her as only a true Parisienne can, and displaying a pair of extremely neat ankles. She inquired about me—how long had I been in the Count’s service, how I liked him, and such-like; while I, by careful questioning, discovered that her name was Gabrielle Deleuse, and that she came to the Côté d’Azur each season.
Just as we were opposite the white façade of the Hôtel Westminster we encountered a short, rather stout, middle-aged lady, accompanied by a tall, thin, white-haired gentleman. They were well dressed, the lady wearing splendid sables.
My companion started when she recognised them, instantly lowering her sunshade in order to hide her face. Whether the pair noticed her I cannot say. I only know that, as soon as they passed, she exclaimed, in annoyance—
“I can’t think why Bindo sent you along here with me.”
“I regret, mademoiselle, that my companionship should be distasteful to you,” I replied, mystified.
“No, no, not that, m’sieur,” she cried anxiously. “I do not mean that. You do not know—how can you know what I mean?”
“You probably mean that you ought not to be seen walking here, on the Promenade des Anglais, with a common chauffeur.”
“If you are a chauffeur, m’sieur, you are also a gentleman,” she said, looking straight into my face.
“I thank mademoiselle for her high compliment,” I said, bowing, for really I was in no way averse to a little mild flirtation with such a delightful companion. And yet what, I wondered, was my rôle in this latest piece of complicated trickery?
She quickened her pace, glancing anxiously at everyone we met, as though wishing to arrive at the end of our walk.
I was sorry our little chat was drawing to a close. I would like to have had her at my side for a day’s run on the car, and I told her so.
“Perhaps you will take me for a long trip one day—who knows?” she laughed. “Yesterday it was perfect.”
A few moments later we arrived before the Suisse, and from a seat on the Promenade Count Bindo rose to greet us. He had left his motor-coat and cap in the car, and stood before us in his grey flannels and white soft felt hat—a smart, handsome figure, such as women mostly admire. Indeed, Bindo was essentially a lady’s man, for he seemed to have a bowing acquaintance with hundreds of the fair sex.
“Well, Gabrielle, and has Ewart been saying lots of pretty things to you—eh?”
“How unkind of you!” she protested, blushing slightly. “You really ought not to say such things.”
“Well, well, forgive me, won’t you?” said the Count quickly; and together we strolled into the town, where we had an aperatif at the gay Café de l’Opéra, opposite the public gardens.
Here, however, a curious contretemps occurred.
She accidently upset her glass of “Dubonnet” over her left hand, saturating her white glove so that she was compelled to take it off.
“Why!” ejaculated the Count in sudden amazement, pointing to her uncovered hand. “What does that mean?”
She wore upon her finger a wedding ring!
Her face went crimson. For a moment the pretty girl was too confused to speak.
“Ah!” she cried in a low, earnest tone, as she bent towards him.“Forgive me, Bindo. I—I did not tell you. How could I?”
“You should have told me. It was your duty to tell me. Remember, we are old friends. How long have you been married?”
“Only three weeks. This is my honeymoon.”
“And your husband?”
“Four days ago business took him to Genoa. He is still absent.”
“And, in the meanwhile, you meet me, and are the merry little Gabrielle of the old days—eh?” remarked Bindo, placing both elbows upon the marble-topped table and looking straight into her face.
“Do you blame me, then?” she asked. “I admit that I deceived you, but it was imperative. Our encounter has brought back all the past—those summer days of two years ago when we met at Fontainebleau. Do you still remember them?” Her eyelids trembled.
I saw that, though married, she still regarded the handsome Bindo with a good deal of affection.
“I don’t blame you,” was his soft reply. “I suppose it is what anybody else would have done in the circumstances. Do I remember those days, you ask? Why, of course I do. Those picnics in the forest with you, your mother, and your sister Julie were delightful days—days never to return, alas! And so you are really married! Well, you must tell me all about it later. Let’s lunch together at the London House.” Then he added reflectively, “Well, this really is a discovery—my little Gabrielle actually married! I had no idea of it.”
She laughed, blushing again.
“No; I don’t suppose you had. I was very, very foolish to take off my glove, yet if I had kept up the deception any longer I might perhaps have compromised myself.”
“Was it not—well, a little risky of you to go to Beaulieu with me yesterday?”
“Yes. I was foolish—very foolish, Bindo. I ought not to have met you to-day. I ought to have told you the truth from the very first.”
“Not at all. Even if your husband is away, there is surely no reason why you should not speak to an old friend like myself, is there?”
“Yes; I’m known in Nice, as you are well aware.”
“Known as the prettiest woman who comes on the Riviera,” he declared, taking her hand and examining the wedding ring and the fine circle of diamonds above it. Bindo di Ferraris was an expert in gems.
“Don’t be a flatterer,” she protested, with a light laugh. “You’ve said that, you know, hundreds of times before.”
“I’ve said only what’s the truth, and I’m sure Ewart will bear me out.”
“I do, most certainly. Madame is most charming,” I asserted; and it was undoubtedly my honest opinion. I was, however, disappointed equally with the Count to discover that my dainty divinity in black was married. She was certainly not more than nineteen, and had none of the self-possessed air of the matron about her.
Twice during that conversation I had risen to go, but the Count bade me stay, saying with a laugh—
“There is nothing in this that you may not hear. Madame has deceived us both.”
He treated the situation as a huge joke, yet I detected that the deception had annoyed him. Had the plans he had laid been upset by this unexpected discovery of the marriage? From his demeanour of suppressed chagrin I felt sure they had been.
Suddenly he glanced at his watch, and then taking from his pocket an envelope containing some small square hard object, about two inches long by one inch broad, he said—
“Go to the station and meet the twelve-fifteen from Beaulieu to Cannes. You’ll find Sir Charles Blythe in