My Friend the Chauffeur
might have been built to please the fancy of some artist-tyrant.
"It's a delicious mixture of Carcassonne and Verona set down by the sea,
with something of Venice thrown in, isn't it?" said Mr. Barrymore: and I
thought that part of the description fitted, though I had to be told
about splendid, fortified Carcassonne with its towering walls and
bastions, before I fully understood the simile.
"Yes, a Verona and Venice certainly," I answered, "with a sunny coast
like that of the French Riviera, and inhabited by people of the Far
East."
I think one might search the world over in vain to find just such
another fascinating street as that broad street of Ragusa, with its
exquisitely proportioned buildings that gave one a sense of gladness,
the extraordinary great fountain, the miniature palace of the Doges, the
noble churches and the colourful shops brilliant with strange,
embroidered costumes exposed for sale, Eastern jewelry, and quaint,
ferocious-looking weapons. And then, the queer signs over the shops, how
they added to the bewildering effect of unreality! Many of the letters
were more like hooks and eyes, buckles and bent pins, than respectable
members of an alphabet, even a foreign one. And the people who sold, and
the people who bought, were more wonderful than the shops themselves.
There were a few ordinary Europeans, though it was past the season now;
and plenty of handsome young Austrian officers in striking uniforms,
pale blue and bright green; but the crowd was an embroidered, sequined,
crimson and silver, gold and azure crowd, with here and there a
sheepskin coat, the brown habit of a monk, and the black veil of a nun.
Through half-open doorways we peeped into courtyards where fountains
flashed a diamond spray, all pink with sunset, between arcaded columns.
We saw the cathedral planted on the site of the chapel where Richard
Coeur de Lion worshipped; then, wheeling at the end of the street, we
returned as we had come while the rose-pink air was full of chiming
church bells and cries of gulls, whose circling wings were stained with
sunset colour.
Altogether this day had been one of the best days of my life. So good a
day, that it had made me sad; for I thought as I leaned on the rail of
my balcony after dinner, there could not be many days so radiant in my
life to come. Many thoughts came to me there, in the scented darkness,
and they were all tinged with a vague melancholy.
There was no moon, but the high dome of the sky was crusted with stars,
that flashed like an intricate embroidery of diamonds on velvet. From
the garden the scent of lilies came up with the warm breeze, so
poignant-sweet that it struck at my heart, and made it beat, beat with a
strange tremor in the beating that was like vague apprehension, and a
kind of joy as strange and as inexplicable.
Far away in the _place_ some one was singing a wild, barbaric air, with
a wonderful voice that had in its _timbre_ the same quality the lilies
had in their fragrance. For some reason that I didn't understand, my
whole spirit was in a turmoil, yet nothing had happened. What was the
matter? What did it mean? I couldn't tell. But I wanted to be happy. I
wanted something from life that it had never given, never would give,
perhaps. There was a voice down below in the garden--Mr. Barrymore
talking to Sir Ralph. I listened for an instant, every nerve tingling as
if it were a telegraph wire over which a question had been sent, and an
answer was coming. The voice died away. Suddenly my eyes were full of
tears; and surprised and frightened, I turned quickly to go in through
my open window, but something caught my dress and drew me back.
"Maida!" said another voice, which I knew almost as well as that other I
had heard--and lost.
Prince Dalmar-Kalm had come out of a window onto a balcony next mine,
and leaning over the railing had snatched at a fold of my gown.
"Let me go, please," I said. "And that name is not for you."
"Don't say that," he whispered, holding me fast, so that I could not
move. "It must be for me. _You_ must be for me. You shall. I can't live
without you."
His words jarred so upon my mood that I could have struck him.
"If you don't let me go, I'll cry out," I said, in a tone as low as his,
but quivering with anger. "I would be nothing to you if you were the
last man in the world."
"Very well. I _will_ be the last man in your world. Then--we shall see,"
he answered; and dropped my dress.
In another instant, I was in my room and had fastened the shutters. But
the words rang in my ears, like a bell that has tolled too loud.
XXIII
A CHAPTER OF KIDNAPPING
Beechy was ill next morning; nothing serious; but the Prince, it seemed,
had brought her in the evening a box of some rich Turkish confection;
and though she doesn't care for the man, she couldn't resist the sweet
stuff. So she had eaten, only a little, she said; but the box
contradicted her, and the poor child kept her bed.
Aunt Kathryn and I were with her until eleven o'clock. Then she was
sleepy, and told us to go away. So we went, and took a drive to the
pretty harbour of Gravosa, with Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph in the
motor, unaccompanied by the Prince, whose car was said to be somehow
disabled.
We expected, if Beechy were well, to get on next day; but the
Chauffeulier was troubled about the road between Ragusa and Cattaro--and
no proper "route-book" existing for that part of the world, unexplored
by motors, he could find out surprisingly little from any one. Prince
Dalmar-Kalm was as ignorant as others, or appeared to be, although this
was his own land; and so it seemed doubtful what would be our next
adventure.
The spin was a very short one, for the day was hot, and we didn't care
to leave Beechy long alone. But when we came back she was asleep still;
and I was getting rid of my holland motor-coat in my own room when Aunt
Kathryn tapped at the door. "Don't take off your things," she said, "but
come out again--that's a dear--for a drive to Gravosa."
"We've just come back from Gravosa," I answered, surprised.
"Yes, but we didn't see the most interesting thing there. You know the
yacht standing out at a little distance in the harbour, that I said
looked like the Corraminis'? Well, it _is_ the Corraminis'. The Prince
wants us to drive with him--not on the automobile, for it isn't mended
yet, but in a cab, and go on board the yacht for lunch with the County
and Contessa."
"Oh, you'd better go without me," I said.
Aunt Kathryn pouted like a child. "I can't," she objected. "The Prince
_says_ I can't, for it would be misunderstood here if a lady drove out
alone with a gentleman. Do come."
"I suppose I shall have to, then," I answered ungraciously, for I hated
going. At the last minute little Airole darted after me, and to save the
trouble of going back I caught him up in my arms. I was rewarded for the
sacrifice I had made by being let alone during the drive. The Prince was
all devotion to Aunt Kathryn, and scarcely spoke a word to me.
At the harbour there was a little boat sent out from the Corraminis'
"Arethusa" to fetch us, so it was evident that we had been expected and
this was not an impromptu idea of the Prince's.
On board the yacht, which we had visited once or twice in Venice, Count
Corramini met us, his scarred face smiling a welcome.
"I am more than sorry that my wife is suddenly indisposed," he said, in
his careful English. "She is subject to terrible headaches, but she
sends messages and begs that Countess Dalmar will take the head of the
table in her absence."
We lunched almost at once, and as it was a simple meal, finished soon.
Coffee was served on deck under the awning, and its shadow was so cool,
the air so fresh on the water, and the harbour so lovely that I was
growing contented, when suddenly I grew conscious of a throb, throb of
the "Arethusa's" heart.
"Why, we're moving!" I exclaimed.
"A short excursion the Prince and I have arranged for a little
surprise," explained Count Corramini. "We hoped it might amuse you. You
do not object, Countess?"
"I think it will be lovely, this hot afternoon," said Aunt Kathryn, who
was radiant with childish pleasure in the exclusive attentions of the
two men.
"But poor little Beechy!" I protested.
"Probably she will sleep till late, as she couldn't lunch," said Aunt
Kathryn comfortably. "And if she wakes, the 'other Beatrice' as she
calls Signorina Bari, will sit with her. She offered to, you know."
I raised no further objection to the plan, as evidently Aunt Kathryn was
enjoying herself. But when we had steamed out of the Bay of Ombla, far
away from Ragusa's towering fortifications, and on for more than an
hour, I ventured to suggest to Count Corramini that it was time to turn
back. "We shan't get to the hotel till after three, as it is," I said,
glancing at my watch.
"Let us consult the Countess," he replied. "Here she comes now."
Aunt Kathryn and the Prince had left us twenty minutes before, to stroll
up and down the deck, and had been leaning over the rail for some time,
talking in low voices, but with great earnestness. As the Count answered
me, they had moved and were coming slowly in our direction, Aunt Kathryn
looking excited, as if the Prince had been saying something strange.
"Don't you think we ought to go back to Beechy?" I asked, as she came
nearer.
She sat down in the deck chair without replying for a moment, and then
she said, in an odd, quavering tone, "Maida, I've just heard a thing
from the Prince, that I'll have to talk to you about. County, can I take
her into the sallong?"
The Count jumped up. "It is for Dalmar-Kalm and me to go, if you wish to
speak with Mees Destrey alone," he exclaimed. And laying his hand on the
Prince's shoulder, the two men walked away together.
My only thought was that Prince Dalmar-Kalm must have told Aunt Kathryn
of my refusal and asked her to "use her influence." But her first words
showed me that I was mistaken.
"I'm very angry with the Prince, but I can't help thinking what he's
done is romantic. He and the County have _kidnapped_ us."
"What do you mean?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, you needn't look so horrified. They're only taking us to Cattaro by
yacht instead of our going by automobile, that's all."
"All?" I echoed. "It's the most impudent thing I ever heard of. Didn't
you tell him that you wouldn't go, that you--"
"Well, I'd like to know what good my saying _'Wouldn't'_ could do? I
can't stop the yacht."
"It's Count Corramini's yacht, not the Prince's," I said, "and whatever
else they may be, they're gentlemen, at least by birth. They can't run
off with us like this against our wills."
Aunt Kathryn actually chuckled. "Well, they _have_, anyhow," she
retorted. "And the Prince says, if only we knew what the road to Cattaro
was like, I'd thank instead of scolding him."
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "We must go back. What's to become of Beechy
left alone in Ragusa ill, with nobody but Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph to
look after her? It's monstrous!"
"Yes, of course," said Aunt Kathryn, more meekly. "But Signorina Bari's
there. It isn't so dreadful, Maida. Beechy isn't _very_ sick. She'll be
well to-morrow, and when they find we're gone, which they can't till
late this afternoon, they won't waste time motoring down; they'll take a
ship which leaves Ragusa in the morning for Cattaro. The Prince says
they're sure to. We'll all meet by to-morrow noon, and meanwhile I guess
there's nothing for us to do but make the best of the joke they've
played on us. Anyway, it's an exciting adventure, and you like ad--"
"You call it a joke!" I cried. "I call it something very different. Let
me speak to the Prince."
I sprang up, forgetting poor Airole asleep on my lap, but Aunt Kathryn