The Count's Chauffeur. Le Queux William

present nothing has been definitely settled. I expect Bindo in a few days, but he will appear to us as a stranger – a complete stranger. At present all I wish to do is to create a sensation – you understand? A foreign princess is always popular at once, and I believe my arrival is already known all over the hotel. But it is you who will help me, M’sieur Ewart. You are the wealthy Englishman who is here with his motor-car, and who is one of my intimate friends – you understand?”

      “Well,” I said, with some hesitation. “Don’t you think all this kind of thing very risky? Candidly, I expect before very long we shall all find ourselves under arrest.”

      She laughed heartily at my fears.

      “But, in any case, you would not suffer. You are simply Ewart, the Count’s chauffeur.”

      “I know. But at this moment I’m posing here as the owner of the car, and living upon part of the proceeds of that little transaction in the train between Brussels and the German frontier.”

      “Ah, mon cher! never recall the past. It is such a very bad habit. Live for the future, and let the past take care of itself. Just remain perfectly confident that you run no risk in this present affair.”

      “What’s your maid’s name?”

      “Rosalie Barlet.”

      “And she knows nothing?”

      “Absolutely nothing.”

      I watched the neat-waisted figure in black walking a little distance ahead of us. She was typically Parisienne, with Louis XV. shoes, and a glimpse of smart lingerie as she lifted her skirt daintily. Rather good-looking she was, too, but with a face as bony as most of the women of Paris, and a complexion slightly sallow.

      By this time we had arrived at the entrance to the baths, where, on the asphalte promenade, built out into the clear crystal Mediterranean, all smart Leghorn was sitting in chairs, and gossiping beneath the awnings, as Italians love to do.

      Pancaldi’s is essentially Italian. English, French, or German visitors are rarely if ever seen, therefore the advent of the Princess, news of whose arrival had spread from mouth to mouth but an hour ago, caused a perceptible flutter among the lounging idlers of both sexes.

      My companion was, I saw, admired on every hand, while surprise was being expressed that I should turn out to be a friend of so very distinguished a person.

      In the brilliant sundown, with just a refreshing breath of air coming across the glassy sea, we sat watching the antics of the swimmers and the general merriment in the water. I lit a cigarette and gossiped with her in French, ostentatiously emphasising the words “your Highness” when I addressed her, for the benefit of those passing and re-passing behind us.

      For an hour she remained, and then returning to the hotel, dressed, and dined.

      As she sat with me at table that night in the handsome restaurant, she looked superb, in pale turquoise chiffon, with a single row of diamonds around her throat. Paste they were, of course, but none of the women who sat with their eyes upon her even dreamed that they were anything but the family jewels of the princely house of Dornbach-Laxenburg. Her manner and bearing were distinctly that of a patrician, and I saw that all in the hotel were dying to know her.

      Yes, Her Highness was already a great success.

      About ten o’clock she put on a wrap, and, as is usual with the guests at the Palace, at Leghorn, we went for a brief stroll along the promenade.

      As soon as we were entirely alone she said —

      “To-morrow you will take me for a run on the car, and the next day you will introduce me to one or two of the best people. I will discover who are the proper persons for me to know. I shall say that you are George Ewart, eldest son of a Member of the English Parliament, and well known in London – eh?”

      As we were walking in the shadow, through the small leafy public garden lying between the roadway and the sea, we suddenly encountered the figure of a young woman who, in passing, saluted my companion with deep respect. It was Rosalie.

      “She’s wandering here alone, and watching for me to re-enter the hotel,” remarked Valentine. “But she need not follow me like this, I think.”

      “No,” I said. “Somehow, I don’t like that girl.”

      “Why not? She’s all right. What more natural than that she should be on the spot to receive me when I come in?”

      “But you don’t want to be spied upon like this, surely!” I said resentfully. “Have you done anything to arouse her suspicions that you are not – well, not exactly what you pretend yourself to be?”

      “Nothing whatever; I have been a model of discretion. She never went to the Avenue Kléber. I was staying for two nights at the Grand – under my present title – and after engaging her I told her that the house in the Avenue des Champs Elysées was in the hands of decorators.”

      “Well, I don’t half like her following us. She may have overheard something of what we’ve just been saying – who knows?”

      “Rubbish! Ah! mon cher ami, you are always scenting danger where there is none.”

      I merely shrugged my shoulders, but my opinion remained. There was something mysterious about Rosalie – what it was I could not make out.

      At ten o’clock next morning Her Highness met me in the big marble hall of the hotel dressed in the smartest motor-clothes, with a silk dust-coat and the latest invention in veils – pale blue with long ends twisted several times around her throat. Even in that costume she looked dainty and extremely charming.