My Friend the Chauffeur
"But that's what we're here for!" cried Aunt Kathryn.
"Ah, but the man mustn't guess that for the world! We appear to be
searching for--let's say, mirrors; but not finding the kind we want, we
_may_ deign to look at a few marbles as we pass. We don't fancy the
fellow's stock; still, the things aren't bad; we may decide to save
ourselves the trouble of going further. Whatever you do, don't mention a
price, even in English. Appear bored and indifferent, never pleased or
anxious. When I ask if you're willing to pay so and so, drawl out 'no'
or 'yes' without the slightest change of expression."
As we landed on the wet marble steps and passed into the region of
gilded gleams and pearly glints, our hearts began to beat with
suppressed excitement, as if we were secret plotters, scheming to carry
through some nefarious design.
Immediately on entering, I caught sight of two marble baby lions sitting
on their haunches side by side on the floor with ferocious expressions
on their little carved faces.
"I must have those for myself," I murmured to Mr. Barrymore in a
painfully monotonous voice, as we passed along a narrow aisle between
groves of magnificent antique furniture. "They appeal to me. Fate means
us for each other."
But at this moment an agreeable and well-dressed Italian was bowing
before us. He was the proprietor of the antiques, and he looked more
like a philanthropic millionaire than a person with whom we could haggle
over prices. Without glancing at my lions (I knew they were mine; and
wanted them to know it) or Aunt Kathryn's statues and well-heads, Mr.
Barrymore announced that he would glance about at paintings of old
Venice. What had Signore Ripollo of that sort? Nothing at present? Dear
me, what a pity! Lacquered Japanese temples, then? What, none of those?
Very disappointing. Well, we must be going. Hm! not a bad well-head,
that one with the procession of the Bucentaur in _bas relief_. Too
obviously repaired; still, if Signore Ripollo would take three hundred
lire for it, the thing might be worth picking up. And that little pair
of lions. Perhaps the ladies might think them good enough to keep a door
open with, if they didn't exceed fifteen lire each.
Signore Ripollo looked shocked, but laughed politely. He knew Mr.
Barrymore, and had greeted him on our entrance as an old acquaintance,
though, in his exaggerated Italian way, he gave the Chauffeulier a title
more exalted than Beechy had bestowed.
"Milord will always have his joke; the well-head is two thousand lire;
the lions fifty each," I thought I understood him to remark.
But not at all. Milord was not joking. Would the Signore sell the things
for the price mentioned--yes or no?
The philanthropic millionaire showed now that he was hurt. Why did not
Milord ask him to give away the whole contents of his shop?
After this the argument began to move at express speed, and I would have
lost track of everything had it not been for the gestures, like danger
signals, all along the way. Mr. Barrymore laughed; Signore Ripollo
passed from injured dignity to indignation, then to passion; and there
we sat on early Renaissance chairs, our outward selves icily regular,
splendidly null, our features as hard as those of the stone lions, our
bodies in much the same attitudes, on our uncomfortable seats. But
inwardly we felt like Torturers of the Inquisition, and I knew by Aunt
Kathryn's breathing that she could hardly help exclaiming, "Oh, _do_ pay
the poor man whatever he asks for everything."
"Will you give five hundred lire for the well-head?" Mr. Barrymore
finally demanded, with a reminder of past warnings in his eye.
"Yes," answered Aunt Kathryn languidly, her hands clenched under a lace
boa.
"And will you give twenty lire each for the lions? They are very good."
(This to me, drawlingly.)
"Ye-es," I returned, without moving a muscle.
The offers were submitted to Signore Ripollo, who received them with
princely scorn, as I had felt sure he would, and my heart sank as I saw
my lions vanishing in the smoke of his just wrath.
"Come, we will go; the Signore is not reasonable," said Mr. Barrymore.
We all rose obediently, but our anguish was almost past hiding.
"I can't and won't live without the lions," I remarked in the tone of
one who says it is a fine day.
"I will _not_ leave this place without that well-head, the statue of
Neptune, and the yellow marble sundial," said Aunt Kathryn in a casual
tone which masked a breaking heart.
Nevertheless, Mr. Barrymore continued to lead us towards the door. He
bowed to Signore Ripollo; and by this time we were at the steps of the
water-gate. The gondoliers were ready. Driven to desperation we were
about to protest, when the Italian, with the air of a falsely accused
Doge haled to execution, stopped us. "Have your way, milord, as you
always do," he groaned. "I paid twice more for these beautiful things
than you give me, but--so be it. They are yours."
True to our instructions we dared not betray our feelings; but when the
business had actually been arranged, and our gondola had borne us away
from the much-injured antiquary, Aunt Kathryn broke out at the
Chauffeulier.
"How _could_ you?" she exclaimed. "I never was so sick in my life. That
poor man! You've made us rob him. I shall never be able to hold up my
head again."
"On the contrary, he's delighted," said Mr. Barrymore jauntily. "If we'd
given him what he asked he would have despised us. Now we've earned his
respect."
"Well, I never!" gasped Aunt Kathryn inelegantly, forgetful for the
moment that she was a Countess. "I suppose I can be happy, then?"
"You can, without a qualm," said Mr. Barrymore.
"Where's that other place you spoke of?" she inquired, half-ashamed.
"There's a--a kind of excitement in this sort of thing, isn't there? I
feel as if it might grow on me."
"We'll go to Beppo's," replied the Chauffeulier, laughing.
Beppo was a very different man from Signore Ripollo, nor had he a palace
with a water-gate to show his wares. We left the gondola, and walked up
a dark and narrow rioterra with coquettish, black-shawled grisettes
chatting at glowing fruit-stalls and macaroni shops. There, at a barred
iron door, Mr. Barrymore pulled a rope which rang a jangling bell. After
a long interval, a little, bent old man in a shabby coat and patched
trousers appeared against a background of mysterious brown shadow. Into
this shadow we plunged, following him, to be led through a labyrinth of
queer passages and up dark stairways to the top of the old, old house.
There, in the strangest room I ever saw, we were greeted by a small
brown woman, as shabby as her husband, and a supernaturally clever black
cat.
A grated window set high up and deep in the discoloured wall, allowed a
few rays of yellow sunlight to fall revealingly upon a motley collection
of antiquities. Empire chairs were piled upon Louis Quinze
writing-desks. Tables of every known period formed a leaning tower in
one corner. Rich Persian rugs draped huge Florentine mirrors; priests'
vestments trailed from half-open chests of drawers. Brass candlesticks
and old Venetian glass were huddled away in inlaid cabinets, and
half-hidden with old illuminated breviaries and pinned rolls of lace.
A kind of madness seized Aunt Kathryn. She must have thought of Mrs.
Potter Adriance, for suddenly she wanted everything she saw, and said
so, _sotto voce_, to Mr. Barrymore.
Then the bargaining began. And there was nothing Dog-like about Beppo.
He laughed high-keyed, sardonic laughter; he scolded, he quavered, he
pleaded, he was finally choked with sobs; while as for his wife, she,
poor little wisplike body, early succumbed to whatever is Venetian for
nervous prostration.
Surely the Chauffeulier could not bear the strain of this agonizing
scene? Our consciences heavy with brass candlesticks and Marquise sofas,
we stood looking on, appalled at his callousness. Beppo and Susanna
cried weakly that this would be their ruin, that we were wringing the
last drops of blood from their hearts, we cruel rich ones, and in
common humanity I would have intervened had the pair not suddenly and
unexpectedly wreathed their withered countenances with smiles.
"What has happened? Are you giving them what they wanted?" I asked
breathlessly; for long ago I had lost track of the conversation.
"No; I promised them twenty lire over my first offer for that whole
lot," said Mr. Barrymore, indicating a heap of miscellaneous articles
reaching half-way to the ceiling, for which, altogether, Beppo had
demanded two thousand lire, and our offer had been seven hundred.
I could have prayed the poor old peoples' forgiveness, but to my
astonishment, as we went out they beamed with pleasure and thanked us
ardently for our generosity.
"Is it sarcasm?" I whispered.
"No, it's pure delight," said Mr. Barrymore. "They've done the best
day's work of the season, and they don't mind our knowing it--now it's
over."
"Human nature is strange," I reflected.
"Especially in antiquarians," he replied.
But we arrived at the hotel feeling weak, and were thankful for tea.
XXII
A CHAPTER BEYOND THE MOTOR ZONE
We all felt when we had said good-bye to Venice that we had a definite
object in view, and there was to be no more pleasant dawdling. It was ho
for Schloss Hrvoya! Aunt Kathryn had suddenly discovered that she was
impatient to see the ancient root from which blossomed her cherished
title, and nothing must delay her by the way.
I should have wondered at her change of mood, and at the Prince's new
enthusiasm for the Dalmatian trip--which, until our arrival in Venice,
he'd tried to discourage--but Beechy explained frankly as usual. It
seemed that Count Corramini (said by Prince Dalmar-Kalm to possess vast
funds of legal knowledge) had intimated that the Countess Dalmar-Kalm
was not rightfully a Countess until every penny was paid for the estate
carrying the title. That same day, without waiting to be asked, she had
given the Prince a cheque for the remaining half of the money. Now if
she finds scarce one stone left upon another at Schloss Hrvoya, she
can't cry off her bargain, so it's easy to understand why the Prince is
no longer anxious. Exactly why he should seem so eager to get us to our
destination is more of a puzzle; but perhaps, as Beechy thinks, it's
because he hopes to influence Aunt Kathryn to rebuild. And certainly he
has influenced her in some way, for she could hardly wait to leave
Venice at the last.
We went as we had come, by water, for we wouldn't condescend to the
railway; and at the landing-place for Mestre our grey automobile stood
waiting for us, so well-cared for and polished that it might just have
come from the makers, instead of having charged at full tilt "up the
airy mountains and down the rushy glens" of half Europe.
It was goddess-like to be in the car again, yet I regretted Venice as
I've regretted no other place I ever saw. Even when there, it seemed too
beautiful to be real, but when we lost sight of its fair towers and
domes, in bowling northward along a level road, I grew sadly convinced
that Venice was a fairy dream.
We saw nothing to console us for what we had lost (though the scenery
had a soft and melancholy charm) until we came to old fortified Treviso,
with its park, and the green river Dante knew, circling its high walls.
At Conegliano--where Cima lived--we ran into the town between its
guardian statues, gave a glance at the splendid old castle which must
have given the gentle painter many an inspiration, and then turned
eastward. There was a shorter way, but the route-book of the Italian
Touring Club which the Chauffeulier pinned his faith to in emergencies,
showed that the surface of the other road was not so good. Udine tried