My Friend the Chauffeur
own peaceful duck for your sake, with no remuneration, you abuse him."
"My dear fellow, I'm not exactly abusing you, for I know you meant well.
But you've swept me off my feet, and I'm not at home yet in mid air."
"You can lie on your back and roll in gold in the intervals of driving
the car. I promise not to give you away. Still, it's a pity you wouldn't
consent to trading a little on your title, which Heaven must have given
you for some good purpose. As it is, you've made my tuppenny-ha'penny
baronetcy the only bait, and that's no catch at all for an American
millionairess, fishing for something big in Aristocracy Pond. Why, when
that Prince of hers discovers what is doing, he will persuade the fair
Countess Dalmar that she's paying a high price for a Nobody--a
Nobody-at-All."
"What makes you think he doesn't know already, as he evidently followed
the party here, and must be constantly dangling about?"
"My detective instinct, which two seasons of pink journalism has
developed. Mrs. Kidder saw the advertisement this morning, and was
caught by it. May Sherlock Holmes cut me in the street if Prince
Dalmar-Kalm hasn't been away for the day, doubtless at Monte Carlo where
he has lost most of his own money, and will send the Countess's to find
it, if she gives him the chance."
"I never saw the fellow, or heard of him, so far as I can remember,"
said Terry thoughtfully. "What's he like? Middle-aged, stout?"
"He looks thirty, so he is probably forty; for if you look your age, you
are probably ten years past it--though that sounds a bit more Irish than
Scotch, eh? And he's far from being stout. From a woman's point of view,
I should say he might be very attractive. Tall; thin; melancholy;
enormous eyes; moustache waxed; scar on forehead; successful effect of
dashing soldier, but not much under the effect, I should say, except
inordinate self-esteem, and a masterly selfishness which would take what
it wanted at almost any cost to others. There's a portrait of Prince
Dalmar-Kalm for you."
"Evidently not the sort of man who ought to be allowed to hang about
young girls."
"Young girls with money. Don't worry about the vestal virgin. He won't
have time in this game to bother with poor relations, no matter how
pretty they may happen to be."
Terry still looked thoughtful. "Well, if we are going in for this queer
business, we'd better get off as soon as possible," said he.
I smiled in my sleeve. "St. George in a stew to get the Princess out of
the dragon's claws," I thought; but I refrained from speaking the
thought aloud. Whatever the motive, the wish was to be encouraged. The
sooner the wild goose laid the first golden egg the better. Fortunately
for my private interests, the season was waning and the coming week
would see the setting of my _Riviera Sun_ until next November. I could
therefore get away, leaving what remained of the work to be done by my
"sub"; and I determined that, Prince or no Prince, luncheon to-morrow
should not pass without a business arrangement being completed between
the parties.
III
A CHAPTER OF REVENGES
Mrs. Kidder, alias the Countess Dalmar, either had a fondness for lavish
hospitality or else she considered us exceptionally distinguished
guests. Our feast was not laid in a private dining-room (what is the
good of having distinguished guests if nobody is to know you've got
them?); nevertheless, it was a feast. The small round table, close to
one of the huge windows of the restaurant, was a condensed flower-show.
Our plates and glasses (there were many of the latter) peeped at us from
a bower of roses, and bosky dells of greenery. The Countess and the
Infant were dressed as for a royal garden party, and Terry and I would
have felt like moulting sparrows had not Miss Destrey's plain white
cotton kept us in countenance.
Mrs. Kidder had evidently not been comfortably certain whether we ought
not to march into the restaurant arm in arm, but the penniless goddess
(who had perhaps been brought to Europe as a subtle combination of
etiquette-mistress and ladies'-maid) cut the Gordian knot with a quick
glance, to our intense relief; and we filed in anyhow, places being
indicated to Terry and me on either hand of our hostess.
A painted satin menu, with a list of dishes as long as Terry's tailor's
bills, lay beside each plate. We were to be provided with all the
luxuries which were not in season; those which were would have been far
too common for an American millionairess, such as I began to be more and
more convinced that our hostess was. It was the kind of luncheon which
calls for rare and varied wines, just as certain poetical recitations
call for a musical accompaniment; therefore the Countess's first words
on sitting down at the table came as a shock.
"Now, Sir Ralph," said she, "you must just order any kind of wine you
and Mr. Ter--Barrymore like. Mr. Kidder never would have alcohol in the
house, except for sickness, and we three drink only water, so I don't
know anything about it; but I want that you gentlemen should suit your
own taste. Do make the waiter bring you something _real_ nice."
My sparkling visions of Steinberger Cabinet, Cos d'Estournel, or an
"Extra Sec" of '92, burst like a rainbow bubble. Here was one of life's
little tragedies.
Neither Terry nor I are addicted to looking too lovingly on wine when it
is red, or even pale golden; still, at this moment I had a sharp pang of
sympathy for Tantalus. To be sure, that hint as to "something real nice"
grudged no expense; but I must have been blest with more cool,
unadulterated "cheek" than two seasons of journalism had given me, to
order anything appropriate while our hostess drowned her generous
impulses in iced water.
With a wooden expression of countenance, I asked Terry what he would
have.
"Water, thanks," he replied airily, and if, instead of gazing at the
ceiling with elaborate interest, he had allowed his eye to meet mine at
that instant, a giggle might have burst over that luncheon-table, out of
a clear sky. Perforce, I felt obliged to follow his lead, for only a
guzzling brute could have bibbed alone, surrounded by four teetotallers;
but, deprived of even an innocent glass of Riviera beer, my soul
thirsted for a revenge which could not be quenched with iced water; and
I took it without waiting for repentance to set in.
"You see, Barrymore is a chauffeur," I carefully explained "and it's _en
regle_ for him, even though an amateur, to drink nothing stronger than
cold water. You will notice during our trip, Countess, how conscientious
he is in sticking to this pledge."
I felt that Terry's eye launched a dagger; but it was now my turn to be
interested in the ceiling.
"Oh, how _good_ of him!" exclaimed our hostess. "I do _admire_ that in
you, Mr. Tarrymore." (I couldn't help wondering incidentally whether the
Countess would have had such frequent lapses of memory regarding Terry's
name, if she knew that he was the brother of a marquis; but it may be
that I wronged her.) "We shall feel as safe as if we were in a house
when you are driving, now we know what kind of a man you are, shan't we,
girls?"
Poor Terry, irrevocably pledged to blue ribbonism for the term of his
natural chauffeurdom! I could have found it in my heart to pity him, had
not the iced water come jingling ironically round at that moment. Let it
then be upon his own head, with ice or without.
And this came of lunching with the widow of a Simon Pure Kidder! for I
had no longer the slightest doubt as to the middle name of the deceased.
With a brain almost cruelly clear and cold, I entered the lists with the
lady's conversational gifts, and after a spirited but brief tourney,
conquered with flying colours. My aim was to pin her down to something
definite ... like an impaled butterfly: hers was to flutter over a vast
garden of irrelevances; but she did not long evade the spike. I tipped
its point with the subtly poisonous suggestion that all arrangements
must be made in the hour, otherwise complications might arise. There
seemed to be so many people who had been attracted by that simple little
advertisement of mine, and really, I must be able to say that I and my
car were engaged for such and such a date--preferably a near one--or I
should have difficulty in evading requests for an intermediate trip with
others.
The butterfly wriggled no more. Indeed, it hastened to assure the
executioner that it was only too anxious to be comfortably pinned into
place.
"When could _you_ go, Sir Ralph?" the Countess asked.
"Day after to-morrow," I answered boldly. "Could you?"
She looked rather taken aback. "We--er--haven't motor things yet," she
demurred.
"You can get 'every requisite' (isn't that the word?) in the Nice or
Monte Carlo shops, if that's your only reason for delay."
Still the lady hesitated.
"Mamma's new crown isn't painted on all her baggage yet," said Beechy,
living up, with a wicked delight, to her _role_ of _enfante terrible_.
"It's being done, but it wasn't promised till the end of the week. Say,
Sir Ralph, don't you think she's mean not to give me even so much as
_half_ a crown?"
What I really thought was, that she deserved a slap; but Terry spared
the Countess a blush and me the brain fag of a repartee conciliatory
alike to parent and child.
"I think we ought to warn you," he said, "that the car hasn't precisely
the carrying capacity of a luggage van. Perhaps when you find that
there's no room for Paris frocks and hats, you'll repent your bargain."
"Can't we take a small trunk and a satchel apiece?" asked the Countess.
"I don't see how we could do with less."
"I'm afraid you'll have to, if you go in--er--my friend's car," Terry
went on ruthlessly. "A small box between the three of you, and a
good-sized dressing-bag each, is all that the car can possibly manage,
though, of course Moray and I will reduce our luggage to the minimum
amount."
Mrs. Kidder looked grave, and at this instant, just as I felt that
Terry's future was wavering in the balance, outweighed probably by a
bonnet-box, there was a slight stir in the restaurant, behind our backs.
Involuntarily I turned my head, and saw Prince Dalmar-Kalm hurrying
towards us, his very moustache a thundercloud. He could not have
appeared at a less convenient time for us.
I was sure that he had not been consulted in regard to the automobile
trip; that perhaps even now he was in ignorance of the plan; and that,
when he came to hear of it as he must within the next five minutes, he
would certainly try (as Beechy would have put it) to snatch the American
ladies out of our mouths. It was like Terry's luck, I said to myself,
that this evil genius should arrive at the moment when Mrs. Kidder had
been mercilessly deprived of her wardrobe by a mere chauffeur. Terry had
stupidly given her an opening if she chose to take it, by suggesting
that she might "repent her bargain," and I was sure it wouldn't be
Dalmar-Kalm's fault if she didn't take it.
A second later he had reached our table, was bending low over Mrs.
Kidder's hand, smiling with engaging wickedness at Beechy, and sending a
dark look of melancholy yearning to catch Miss Destrey's sympathies.
"Why, Prince," the Countess exclaimed in a loud tone, calculated to
reach the ears of any neighbouring royalties, and let them see that she
was as good as they were. "Why, Prince, if you're not always surprising
people! I thought you were staying another day with the Duke of Messina,
in Monte Carlo."
"Told you so!" my eyebrows--such as they are--telegraphed to Terry. "He
_has_ been away; only just back; pantomime demon act."
"I found myself homesick for Cap Martin," returned the Prince, with an
emphasis and a sweeping glance which made a present of the compliment to