Part 9 (1/2)
The valet presented no very extraordinary appearance, except that he seemed markedly intelligent and alert. His black hair was closely cropped to a large and well-shaped head. His complexion was of the true Southern swarthy tint, glowing out below the skin, as it were. He wore a small black moustache, and the long first finger of his right hand was deeply stained with the juice of cigarettes.
Once, about an hour after the start, the valet went to the restaurant car, and brought back two bowls of soup, and a bottle of Pomard, explaining to the waiter who gave them that his master was very hungry and one tureen would be insufficient. But when the door of the sleeping-car was locked, the blinds looking on the corridor drawn down, the table set, and all the electric lights switched on, a spectator--had there been one there--would have seen with some surprise that master and man shared the meal equally. And perhaps he would have thought it a touching testimony of the theoretical equality of Republican France that master and man addressed each other by their Christian names.
In short, the great enterprise was begun, Basil and Emile, their apparatus made, their plan of campaign concluded, were roaring and cras.h.i.+ng through France to the fairy-like sh.o.r.es of the Mediterranean.
It was now close upon nine o'clock in the morning. The blinds of the sleeping-car were still drawn upon the corridor side, but the two men were dressed. Their hand luggage was strapped and they were smoking cigarettes.
”In a moment more, Basil,” said Emile, his voice trembling with excitement, ”in a moment more you shall have your first vision of the South! I would not let you look before and, indeed, as we went through Avignon it was too dark to see much, but Ma.r.s.eilles--my beloved native city--is the Gate of the South. You will see little of it, as within an hour we shall be pulling out again for the Cote d'Azur, but you will see something; you will at least breathe the enchanted air!”
Deschamps' voice was most powerfully affected. For a moment he had forgotten the enterprise entirely. He was only consumed with an over-mastering eagerness that his dearest friend and partner should breathe with him that subtle, intoxicating air, and realise for the first time in his life what the South means.
There was a long grinding of the brakes, and the train stood still.
Emile drew up the blinds, opened the door into the corridor, and led Basil to the end of the car. Then they stepped down to the low platform.
They had left Paris in sullen bitter winter weather. Here, early as it was, the sun was s.h.i.+ning brilliantly in the cool, quiet station. Exactly facing them was a huge stall of flowers, ma.s.ses of purple violets, delicate ivory-coloured roses from Gra.s.se, the pale golden plumes of the mimosa.
But the air! the air was the thing! So warm and sweet it was, it came upon them with such a veritable caress, it so bathed them with golden light and sweet odours, that tears started into Deschamps' eyes, and Basil forgot his disguise.
”How wonderful! how wonderful!” he said in English, breathing like a man who had been stifled all his life.
And that was their first glimpse of the enchanted country to which they had come.
Through all the morning until mid-afternoon the train moved, slowly and sleepily now, through scenes of loveliness such as the Englishman, at any rate, had never dreamed of. Everywhere the Mediterranean gleamed like an immense sapphire, flecked here and there with white fire. The low cliffs of sandstone were crimson. The sky was an inverted bowl of glowing turquoise, and everywhere tall, feathery palms were silhouetted against it in brilliant green. And there were flowers, flowers everywhere! Every station with its familiar name was full of flowers--Gra.s.se, Cannes, Nice, Villefranche--there were flowers everywhere; flowers, exotic trees, and great white hotels that gleamed jewel-like in terrace after terrace from the sea till they were lost in the high places of the Maritime Alps.
And then--at last--Monaco, a few tunnels cut in the cliffs, and the long, low station of Monte Carlo at last!
During the whole period of the slower journey along the seash.o.r.e Basil Gregory's excitement had been gradually growing. He and Deschamps had talked but little, but both of them had been obsessed by the great idea that they were getting nearer and nearer to the world-famous theatre of their colossal enterprise.
Monte Carlo! Monte Carlo! The words had beaten themselves into a rythm in Basil's brain, a rythm in tune with the regular pulsing of the engine.
They were to stay at the Hotel Malmaison, for the brothers Carnet had insisted that the two young men should lack nothing, and that Basil should appear to be a person of great wealth and consequence. There was to be no hole-and-corner business about the great coup. Suspicion was to be averted by every possible means. ”_Il fait aller en regal_,” Brother Charles had insisted, and so it was to be. Rooms had been engaged in advance, a sitting-room and bedroom for Monsieur Charles Edouard Montoyer, and a bedroom for his valet. It had been stipulated, however, that the valet's bedroom should be at the very top storey of the hotel, as that personage suffered from asthma.
The Malmaison was only some four hundred yards from the station, and in consequence some three hundred from the Casino. They drove there in the waiting omnibus, however, and at five o'clock were installed in their rooms.
It was a little difficult to account for two large boxes among the luggage, of extraordinary heaviness, which were placed in the sitting-room of Monsieur Montoyer. But the ready Deschamps in his role of valet explained that monsieur was a great student, and always travelled with many books.
”I go now, _mon ami_” Emile said, ”to my own room. All your clothes are unpacked. I must not stay here too long at present. I shall have to meet all the other servants and gossip with them, but I will come at seven to a.s.sist you to dress, and then we can make our plans.”
Basil was left alone in the brightly furnished sitting-room. He looked down into a terraced garden, brilliant still with the declining rays of the sun. Somewhere near by a band of guitars was playing accompanied by voices as sweet and pa.s.sionate as they.
He strolled up and down the room thinking deeply. But it was not of the fairyland in which he found himself, it was not of the glories he was soon to witness, it was not even of the great hazard he was to try--the bold and reckless bid for fortune. It was of Ethel he was thinking.
CHAPTER VII
About ten o'clock in the morning of the day on which Basil Gregory and Emile Deschamps had arrived at Monte Carlo, another train had pulled into the long low station on the Mediterranean sh.o.r.e.
This train was very different from the huge, luxurious machine that brought the adventurers to the City of Fortune earlier in the day. It was the ordinary slow train, the third cla.s.s, not even a _rapide_, and only a few second-cla.s.s carriages were included in its make-up.
Moreover, it had taken two whole days, and nights in its journey from Paris, being everywhere shunted aside for the _rapides_ and _trains de luxe_ to pa.s.s through.