Part 26 (1/2)
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”HERE WE WERE AT ANNECY”.]
”We shall see,” murmured the Baron, as the Boy had murmured a few days ago; and behind this hint also I felt that there lurked some definite plan.
I had been to Aix-les-Bains years before, but it had not then occurred to me to visit Annecy, so near by. It was the Boy who had suggested coming, and we had planned excursions up the lake, looking out on our guide-book maps various spots of historic or picturesque interest which we should see _en route_, especially Menthon, the birthplace of St. Bernard. Now, here we were at Annecy, and in all the world there could not be a town more charming. By the placid blue lake--whose water, I am convinced, would still be the colour of melted turquoises if you corked it up in a bottle--you could wander along shadowed paths, strewn with the gold coin of suns.h.i.+ne, through a park of dells as bosky-green as the fair forest of Arden. In the quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned streets of the town you were tempted to pause at every other step for one more snap-shot. You longed to linger on the bridge and call up a pa.s.sing panorama of historic pageants. All these things the Boy and I would have done, and enjoyed peacefully, had we been alone, but Gaeta elected to find Annecy ”dull.” There was nothing to do but take walks, or sit by the lake, or drive for lunch to the Beau Rivage, or go out for an afternoon's trip in one of the little steamers. Beautiful? Oh, yes; but quiet places made one want to scream or stand on one's head when one had been in them a day or two. It would be much more amusing at Aix. There were the Casinos, and the _fetes de nuit_, with lots of coloured lanterns in the gardens, and fireworks, and music; and then, the baccarat! That was amusing, if you liked, for half an hour, and when you were bored there was always something else. She must really get to Aix, and see that the Villa Santa Lucia was in order. We would promise--promise--_promise_ to follow at once? We would find our rooms at her villa ready, with flowers in them for a welcome, and we must not be too long on the way.
Gaeta left in the evening, the Boy and I seeing her off at the train; and twelve hours later we started for Chatelard, Joseph taking us away from the highroads--which would have been perfect for Molly's Mercedes--along certain romantic by-paths which he knew from former journeys. Conversation no longer made itself between us; we had to make it, and in the manufacturing process I mentioned my ”friends who were motoring.”
”They may turn up before long now,” I said, ”judging from the plans they wrote of in a letter I had from them at Aosta. It's just possible that they will pa.s.s through Aix. You would like them.”
”I have run away from my own friends, and--gone rather far to do it,”
said the Boy. ”Yet I seem destined to meet other people's. It was with very different intentions that I set out on this journey of mine.”
”'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,'” I quoted carelessly. ”Perhaps yours will end so.”
”I thought I had done with lovers,” said the Boy, with one of his odd smiles.
”You're not old enough to begin with them yet.”
”I was thinking of--my sister. Her experience was a lesson in love I'm not likely to forget soon. Yet sometimes I--I'm not sure I learned the lesson in the right way. But we won't talk of that. Tell me about your friends. I'm becoming inured to social duties now.”
”You don't seem to find them too onerous. As for my friends--they're an old chum of mine, Jack Winston, and his bride of a few months, the most exquisite specimen of an American girl I ever met. Perhaps you may have heard of her. She's the daughter of Chauncey Randolph, one of your millionaires. Look out! Was that a stone you stumbled over?”
”Yes. I gave my ankle a twist. It's all right now. I daresay my sister knows your friend.”
”I must ask Molly Winston, when I write, or see her. But you've never told me your sister's name, except that she's called 'Princess.' If I say Miss Laurence----”
”There are so many Laurences. Did you--ever mention in your letters to--your friends that you were--travelling with anyone?”
”I haven't written to them since I knew your name, but before that, I told them there was a boy whom I had met by accident and chummed up with, just before Aosta. I think I rather spread myself on a description of our meeting.”
”You _didn't_ do that! How horrid of you!”
”Oh, I put it right afterwards, I a.s.sure you, in another letter. I told them that in spite of the bad beginning, we'd become no end of pals. That we travelled together, stopped at the same hotels, and--what's the matter?”
”Nothing. My ankle does hurt a little, after all. Shall you go on in your friends' motor car if you meet them?” He looked up at me very earnestly as he spoke.
”At one time I thought of doing so, if we ran across each other. But now that I've got you----”
”Who knows how long we may have each other? Either one of us may change his plans--suddenly. You mustn't count on me, Lord Lane.”
”Look here,” I said crossly, ”do speak out. Don't hint things. Do you mean me to understand that you wish to stop at Aix, indefinitely, and play out your little comedy of flirtation to its close?”
”I don't know what I intend to do; now, less than ever,” answered the Boy in a very low voice, the shadow of his long lashes on his cheeks.
I was too much hurt to question him further, and we pursued our way in silence, along the lake side, and then up the billowy lower slopes of the Semnoz. We had showers of rain in the suns.h.i.+ne; and the long, thin spears of crystal glittered like spun gla.s.s, until dim clouds spread over the bright patches of blue, and the world grew mistily grey-green.
We had planned long ago, before the spell of the Contessa fell upon us, to make the journey we were taking now, by way of the Semnoz, the so-called Rigi of this Alpine Savoy, which is neither wholly French nor wholly Italian. But we had abandoned the idea since, in a fine frenzy to keep our promise of rejoining her with all speed lest she perish alone in the icy disapproval of her friends. When the mists closed round us, we ceased to regret the decision, if we had regretted it; for instead of seeing Savoy spread out beneath us, with its snow mountains and fertile valleys, lit with azure lakes--as many as the Graces--we should have been wrapped in cloud blankets.