Part 13 (1/2)

At the sound of a princely name her ladys.h.i.+p'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 ladys.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+mmering 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_.”