Chapter XI

Myrtile rose in the morning, as was her custom, at a little after seven o’clock, carefully made her bed, dressed, and walked for an hour upon the Terrace. These early diurnal wanderings were tempered with a certain sadness, although she was always finding something new--new beauties or new sores--in this amazing spot to which she had been transported. She saw the mists which wreathed the hilltops before the sun had power to burn them away,--mists grey some mornings and opalescent on others, but always of wonderful shape, always fantastic, dissolving sometimes at unexpected moments to reveal unexpected beauties, hanging down the hillsides at times in long, ghostly arms, to sever the pine woods, the strips of pasture and the small vineyards. The little town itself had the air of being in déshabille, of somewhat resenting this early riser’s curious gaze. Where the coloured lights had burned last night, and the music of violins made sad and sweet the throbbing atmosphere, was a desert waste,--tables piled on one another, chairs turned over, the débris of cigars and cigarette ends and burned-out matches still littering the ground. There were water carts in the streets and sweepers upon the pavement. The beshuttered and becurtained shops looked with blank eyes upon this scene of renovation. It was too early, as yet, even for the mannequin or the seamstress; the streets were filled only with the ghosts of last night’s giddy throngs. The Casino itself, closed and silent, seemed brooding over that hive of passion, of disappointment and strident joy of a few hours ago. The villas on the hill were barely opening their eyes. A ragpicker stole along the Terrace, making his furtive collection. To Myrtile, whose life as yet was composed mainly of externals, everything was still beautiful. The sun warmed her with the promise of love. She was never tired of watching the little waves breaking upon the sandy strip, and the million scintillating lights upon the bay. She looked up with a glad smile at the silent hotel where Gerald was sleeping. Perhaps he was dreaming of her at that very moment. Love had crept into her life and found her very ignorant. As yet it was a beautiful and simple thing. That it was capable of change and division never even occurred to her. She loved Gerald, and, although he sometimes disappointed her, it must be that Gerald loved her. She had few doubts about it all. All her confidence, all her will, went freely with that warm, sweet impulse which filled her heart and thoughts, and which seemed to her the sweetest and most wonderful thing in life. She was intelligent, almost brilliantly intelligent, and, even in those few days, the sordid and ugly side of other people’s lives and aspirations had sometimes been revealed to her, only to be brushed aside as something very remote, something from which love made her forever free. Gerald’s attitude often puzzled, sometimes even distressed her, but she put his vagaries down to her own lack of understanding. She was convinced that all would be well when she saw more of him, and she harboured a dull sense of resentment against Christopher, who she believed was always working for some unknown reason to keep them apart.

At half-past eight she returned to her rooms and deliberately attacked a great mass of sewing, which was sent to her daily from the hotel, and the payment for which, by arrangement, provided her with board and lodging. From that time onwards, she sat in the window with but one hope,--the hope of seeing Gerald. Once or twice he had come and taken her out to luncheon, but Christopher was unfailing in his visits. He presented himself every morning at about the same time, and even if Gerald appeared, he always accompanied him. Gerald once, obeying a curious impulse, had sent her a great box of roses, over which she had wept with delight, and which she kept alive by every known artifice. Christopher brought her, day by day, the little things she needed,--gloves, stockings, handkerchiefs, and often a few simple bonbons and flowers. Despite her resentment against him, it was always a pleasure to hear his firm tread and to watch his tall, broad-shouldered figure and good-humoured, intelligent face as he crossed the road, invariably with some small parcel in his hand. He seemed to have much more time to spare than Gerald, a fact which, womanlike, she half resented, ignorant of the fact that Gerald sat up half the night enjoying himself in his own fashion, and that Christopher often gave up his morning round of golf to be her companion. She found an evil counsellor, too, in Annette, the maid at the hotel, who occupied the other bedroom in the little cottage and generally looked in for a few minutes on her way to work. Annette, who was thoroughly French, was completely puzzled by the situation. She could account for it in her own mind only from the fact that the two young men were English and therefore presumably mad. Of her own preference she made no secret.

“But how mademoiselle is industrious!” she exclaimed, looking in at the door soon after Myrtile had returned from her early morning walk and settled down to her sewing. “I hope my stingy old aunt pays you well for all that sewing.”

“She gives me my board and lodging here,” Myrtile replied, with a smile. “That more than contents me.”

“Board and lodging! Oh, là, là!” Annette declared, sinking into her accustomed chair. “That would not content me. Even one’s salary at the hotel is not sufficient. It is the tips from which one can buy one’s clothes.”

“Soon I shall have to think of clothes,” Myrtile confided. “At present Monsieur Gerald has given me all that I need.”

“It is a very chic costume and doubtless expensive,” Annette admitted, “but for evening clothes mademoiselle has nothing.”

“I do not go out in the evenings,” Myrtile replied, a little wistfully. “Monsieur Christopher took me once to the Opera, but we sat in a box.”

“Monsieur Christopher!” the maid repeated, with a little shrug of the shoulders. “He is well enough but he is heavy. He speaks French like an English schoolboy. But Milord Dombey--ah, he is superb! He speaks French like a Parisian, he dances divinely, he is gay all the time. Oh, if he were on my floor, that I could see him sometimes, I should be happy!”

Myrtile said nothing. She had learnt that the best way to make Annette talk was just to listen.

“It amazes me,” Annette continued, “that mademoiselle does not ask Milord Dombey for some evening frocks and attend one of his supper parties. Charles, the head waiter, brings me news often of them. They are of the most amusing. There are artistes there, and all manner of wonderful people. Has mademoiselle no curiosity to see life?”

Myrtile threaded a needle carefully before she replied.

“Milord Dombey,” she said, “would, I believe, take me, but Monsieur Christopher does not think it well that I go to those parties. He declares that they are for people whom I should not meet.”

Annette threw herself back in her chair, revealing to the full her silk-stockinged legs. She clasped her hands behind the back of her head. She was vastly amused.

“Oh, là, là!” she exclaimed. “That is so like Monsieur Bent! What does he make of life, that young man? Does he think it well for a girl as beautiful as mademoiselle to sit here alone at night and creep into bed, while monsieur who adores her spends his time with other women? Pooh! Mademoiselle should have courage.”

Myrtile laid down her work. Her heart was beating fast.

“Tell me, Annette,” she begged, “who are these guests of Milord Dombey? Why do they keep me away from them?”

“It is not Milord Dombey’s fault,” Annette declared. “He is a _beau garçon_, that. It is the stupid Monsieur Bent who should have stayed at home in his dull London. They are all well enough, these guests of Milord Dombey’s. Some sing at the Opera; others, perhaps, have seen life in Paris, but for that what are they the worse--what harm can they do? It is perhaps Monsieur Bent’s idea that he keeps you away from Milord Dombey, who is so attractive, and takes you back to his stodgy England and marries you there himself. Oh, if I were mademoiselle, I should submit no longer!”

“What should you do, Annette?” Myrtile asked, half fearfully.

“I should put on all my prettiest clothes,” Annette replied, entering into the matter with animation, “and I should come to the hotel. I should find my way to Milord Dombey--that would be for me to arrange--and I should just tell him that I had come, that I was tired of being left at home. Then I would whisper one or two of the nicest little things I could think of into his ear, and I would put my arms around his neck, and--well--I know Milord Dombey--he would not send me away--not if I were mademoiselle.”

The work had fallen from Myrtile’s hands. She was sitting up in her chair, her eyes very bright, her lips a little parted. How fortunate it was that Annette had come! Without a doubt, she would do this. Only one must beware of Monsieur Christopher. He was full of droll ideas. It was, perhaps, as Annette had suggested. He must be made to understand. Presently Annette departed, and when, a little later on, Christopher arrived to pay his morning call, Myrtile was seated as usual at her work, her manner unaltered except that she was a little gayer than usual, perhaps a little more kindly. Christopher, on the other hand, was inclined to be serious.

“Myrtile,” he announced, “I have heard from my cousin in England. She thinks that she will be able to find you a place in about a month’s time.”

“That is very kind of her,” Myrtile answered, without enthusiasm. “What does Gerald say about it?”

“I have not mentioned it to Gerald yet,” Christopher replied. “He was dining out last night and had a supper party afterwards at the Carlton, and as a matter of fact he was fast asleep when I came out. I have no doubt, however, that he will be glad.”

The girl made a little grimace.

“He may not be so glad to get rid of me as you,” she remarked.

“We shall neither of us be here in a month’s time,” Christopher reminded her. “Certainly I shall not, and Gerald, I believe, is due to go on to Biarritz before then.”

Myrtile sewed industriously for a moment.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “he may want me to go on to Biarritz with him.”

“You must not talk like that, Myrtile,” Christopher said sternly. “You must not say such things. If Gerald goes, it will be with some other young men to play polo. There would be no possible place for you in such a company.”

Myrtile proceeded calmly with her sewing. She was beginning to be sorry for Christopher. He understood so little.

“We must tell Gerald about it,” she conceded. “You understand that I should not do anything without his approval?”

“Quite,” Christopher acquiesced. “We are both equally your guardians, Myrtile. Gerald is just as fond of you, I am sure, as I am.”

She smiled without looking up. Some day he would know the truth, this kindly but rather foolish Englishman. He would know that she and Gerald loved one another. He should always be their friend, though. He was very good, in his way, only he would not understand.

“What about a short walk before lunch?” he suggested.

Myrtile dropped her work at once.

“We will go along the Terrace,” she proposed, “and while I sit upon a seat, you shall go in and wake up that lazy Gerald. You shall tell him that I am waiting, and I am sure that he will hurry out.”

Christopher assented, a little sadly. Once or twice before they had carried out the same programme, and he was wondering whether it would not have been better to have told Myrtile the truth,--that on two occasions Gerald had absolutely refused to join them, and that on the third he had been brought out almost by force. There was a little pang in his heart as he watched Myrtile’s gay preparations. Life was so wonderful to her that it seemed a shame to destroy a single illusion.

“We’ll try and rout him out, at all events,” he promised.