Samuel's fault," I contradicted him.
"No. Whatever goes wrong with the car is always the chauffeur's fault. Sir Samuel wanted me to do a foolish thing, and I oughtn't to have done it. I had your life to think of—"
"And theirs."
"Theirs, of course. But I would have thought of yours first."
It made my heart feel as warm as a bird in a nest to be complimented by the man at the helm for presence of mind, and then to hear that already I'd gained a friend to whom my life was of some value. Since my mother died, there has been no one for whom I've come first.
I wanted badly to do something to show my gratitude, but could think of nothing except that, by and by, when we knew each other better, I might offer to sew on his buttons or mend his socks.
Chapter IX
"I suppose we'll meet by-and-by at dinner?" I said (I'm afraid rather wistfully) to the chauffeur as he drove the car up a steep hill to the door of La Reserve, on The Corniche.
"Well, no," he answered, "because you needn't fear anything disagreeable here, and I'm going to stop at a less expensive place. You see, I pay my own way, and as I really have to live on my screw, it doesn't run to grand hotels. This one is rather grand; but you will be all right, because, although it's a famous place for food, at this season few people stop overnight, and I've found out through the telephone that the Turnours are the only ones who have taken bedrooms. That means you'll have your dinner and breakfast by yourself."
"Oh, that will be nice!" I said, trying to speak as if I delighted in the thought of solitude and reflection. "I wish I were paying my own way, too; but I couldn't do it on fifty francs a month, could I?"
"Fifty francs a month!" he echoed, astonished. "Is that your compensation for being a slave to such a woman? By Jove, it makes me hot all over, to think that a girl like you should—"
"Well, this trip is thrown in as additional compensation," I reminded him. "And thanks to you and your kindness, I believe I'm going to find my place more than tolerable."
The car stopped, and duty began. I couldn't even turn and say good night to the chauffeur, as I walked primly into the hotel, laden with my mistress's things.
She and Sir Samuel had the best rooms in the house, a suite big enough and grand enough for a king and queen, with a delightful loggia overlooking the high garden and the sea. But of course Lady Turnour would die rather than seem impressed by anything, and would probably pick faults if she were invited to sleep at Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle—a contingency which I think unlikely. She was snappish with hunger, and did not trouble to restrain her temper before me. Poor Sir Samuel! It is he who has snatched her from her lodging-house, to lead her into luxury, because of his faithful love of many years; and this is the way she rewards him! If I'd been in his place, and had a javelin handy, I think I might suddenly have become a widower.
She was better after dinner, however, so I knew she must have been well fed: and in the morning, after a gorgeous déjeuner on the loggia, she was in an amiable mood to plan for the day's journey.
At ten o'clock the chauffeur arrived, and was shown up to the Turnours' vast Louis XVI. salon. He looked as much like an icily regular, splendidly null, bronze statue as a flesh-and-blood young man could possibly look, for that, no doubt, is his conception of the part of a well-trained "shuvver"; and he did not seem aware of my existence as he stood, cap in hand, ready for orders.
As for me, I flatter myself that I was equally admirable in my own métier. I was assorting a motley collection of guide-books, novels, maps, smelling-salts, and kodaks when he came in, and was dying to look up, but I remained as sweetly expressionless as a doll.
The bronze statue respectfully inquired how its master would like to make a little détour, instead of going by way of Aix-en-Provence to Avignon, as arranged. Within an easy run was a spot loved by artists, and beginning to be talked about—Martigues on the Etang de Berre, a salt lake not far from Marseilles—said to be picturesque. The Prince of Monaco was fond of motoring down that way.
At the sound of a princely name her ladyship'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 ladyship 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 Marseilles docks, which must be passed 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'Assassin—the Aigle turned westward. The chauffeur let her spread her wings at last, and we raced along a clear road, the Etang already shimmering 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,