The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (great book club books .txt) 📕

Simply Have Gone Off For A Long Trip In His Newest Air-Ship, And

Conveniently Forgotten Such An Obscure Engagement. It Was The Thought

Of Standing Up Defenceless, To Be Artistically Potted At By You, That

Turned His Heart To Water."

"I Believe You're Right, And Anyway, You Are Very Clever," Said The

Boy. "What Does One Do For A Man Who Has Saved One's Life?"

"If You Were Only A Girl, Now--A Princess In A Fairy Story--You Would

Bestow Upon Me Your Hand," I Replied Gaily. "As It Is--I Can't At The

Moment Think Of A Punishment To Fit The Crime."

"Though I Can't Be A Princess, I Might Play The Prince, And Give You A

Ring," He Said, Pulling At The Queer Seal Ring He Always Wore.

"But It Wouldn't Fit The Crime--I Mean The Finger."

"Mere Mortals Never Argue When The Fairy Prince Makes Them A Present.

Do Take The Ring. I Should Like You To Have It To--Remember Me By."

"To Remember You By? But Such Chums As We Have Got To Be Don't Give

Memory Much Pull; They Arrange To See Each Other Often."

"Fairy Princes Vanish Sometimes, You Know."

"If I Take Your Ring, Will You Appear If I Rub It?"

The Boy Was Smiling, But His Eyes Looked Grave. "If When The Fairy

Prince Has Vanished--That Is, If He _Should_--You Want To See Him

Really Badly, Try Rubbing The Ring. It Might Work. But You'll Probably

Lose The Ring Before That--And The Memory."

I Answered By Hooking The Ring, Which Was Far Too Small For The Least

Of My Fingers, Into The Spring-Loop Which Held My Watch On Its Chain.

"My Watch And I Are One," I Said. "Only Burglary Or Death Can Separate

Me From The Ring Now; And If I'm Smashed Next Time Jack Winston Lets

Me Drive His Motor Car, There Will Probably Be A Romantic Little

Paragraph In The Papers--Perhaps Even A Pathetic Verse--About The Ring

On The Dead Man's Watch-Chain, Which Will Give You Every

Satisfaction."

"The Boat's Whistling," Said The Boy. "We'd Better Run, If We Want To

See The Abbey Of Hautecombe Before Lunch."

We Did Run, And Caught The Boat In That Uncertain And Exciting Manner

Which Brings Into Play A Physical Appurtenance Unrecognised By

Science, _I.E._, The Skin Of The Teeth. Under The Awning Which Shaded

The Deck, We Took The Only Two Seats Not Occupied By An Abnormally

Large German Family,--Abnormally Large Individually As Well As

Collectively,--And Settled Ourselves For Half An Hour's Enjoyment Of A

Charming Water-Panorama.

"What A Heavenly Place Aix Is!" Exclaimed The Boy Fervently. "I'm So

Glad I Came."

"I Thought Yesterday That You Were Disappointed In The Place."

"Oh, Yesterday Was Yesterday. To-Day's To-Day. How Glorious Everything

Is, In The World. I Do Love Living. And I Like Everybody So Much. What

Nice, Good Creatures One's Fellow Beings Are. My Heart Warms To Them.

I Don't Believe Anybody's Really Horrid, Through And Through. I Should

Like To Pat Somebody On The Shoulder."

"Queer Thing; I Feel Exactly The Same Way This Morning," Said I.

"Shall We Throw Ourselves On One Another's Bosom, And Kiss Each Other

On Both Cheeks, German Fashion, To Show Our Good Will Towards All

Mankind? I'm Sure Our Travelling Companions Would Warmly Sympathize

With Our _Schwärmerei_."

"No-O, Perhaps We'd Better Not Risk Setting Them The Example, For Fear

They Should Follow It."

"Then Let's Shake Hands."

He Put Out His Little Slim Brown Paw, And I Seized It With Such

Heartiness That He Visibly Winced, But Not A Squeak Did The Pain Draw

From Him; And The Large Germans, Looking On Gravely, No Doubt Thought

That, According To Some Queer English Rite, We Had Registered An

Important Vow.

Really The World Was A Nice Place That Day, Though I Might Not Have

Noticed It So Much If The Boy And I Had Been Still At Loggerheads.

Yesterday, As We Entered Aix, I Had Said To Myself That The Mountains

Surrounding The Town Had Descended To Depths Of Dumpy Ugliness

Unworthy The Name And Dignity Of Mountains. I Had Formulated The Idea

That There Should Be World Landscape-Gardeners Appointed, To Work On A

Grand Scale, And Alter Hills Or Mountains Which Nature Had Neglected

Or Bungled. But To-Day, As We Steamed Down The Long, Narrow Lac De

Bourget, Sitting Shoulder To Shoulder, The Light Breeze Fluttering

Butterfly-Wings Against Our Faces, I Could Not See That There Was

Anything For The Most Fastidious Taste To Alter, Anywhere.

As The Lake At Annecy Had Been Incredibly Blue, This Lake Was

Incredibly Green. No Weekly Penny Paper In England, Even In Its

Fattest Holiday Number, Would Have Room Enough To Compute The Vast

Number Of Emeralds Which Must Have Been Melted To Give That Vivid Tint

To The Sparkling Water. It Was As Easy To See The Inhabitants Of The

Lake Having Their Luncheon At The Bottom, On Tables Exquisitely

Decorated With Coloured Pebbles, As It Is To Look In Through The

Plate-Glass Window Of A Restaurant. As Our Course Changed, The

Mountains Girdling The Lake And Filling In The Perspective, Grouped

Themselves In Graceful Attitudes, Like Professional Beauties Sitting

For Their Photographs. There Were Châteaux Dotted Here And There On

The Hillside, And I No Longer Peopled Them With Myself And Helen

Blantock. I Realised That If One Had A Palace On The Lake Of Como Or

Bourget, Or Any Other Romantic Sheet Of Water, One Could Be Happy As

An Elderly Bachelor, If One's Days Were Occasionally Enlivened By

Visits From Congenial Friends, Such As The Winstons And The Boy. No

Wonder That Lamartine Was Happy At Chatillon, Writing His Meditations!

I Felt That A Long Residence On The Shores Of The Lac De Bourget Would

Inspire Me To Some Modest Meditations Of My Own, And I Could Even Have

Taken Down A Few Memoranda For Them, Had I Not Feared That The Boy

Would Laugh To See My Notebook Come Out.

I Remembered Hautecombe, With Its Ancient Abbey, Deep Cream-Coloured,

Like Old Ivory Or The Marbles Of The Vatican, Glimmering Among Dark

Trees, And Mirrored In The Lake So Clearly That, Gazing Long At The

Reflection, One Felt As If Standing On One's Head. I Pointed It Out To

The Boy From A Distance, On Its Jutting Promontory, With The Pride Of

The Well-Informed Guide, And Talked Of The Place With A Superficial

Appearance Of Erudition. But After All, When He Came To Pin Me Down

With Questions, My Bubble-Reputation Burst. Not A Date Could I Pump Up

From The Drained Depths Of My Recollection, And In The End I Had To

Accept Ignominiously From The Boy Such Crumbs As He Had Collected From

A Guide-Book Larder. What Was It To Us, I Contended, That The

Monastery Was Said To Have Been Built In 1125? What Did It Matter That

It Had Originally Been The Home Of Cistercians? Why Clog One's Mind

With Such Details, Since It Was Enough For All Purposes Of Romance To

Know That The Old Building Had Weathered Many Wars And Many Centuries,

And That A Special Clause Had Protected The Monks When Savoie Was

Ceded By Italy To France? The Great Charm Of The Place For Me, Apart

From Its Natural Beauty, Lay In The Thought That It Was The Last Home

Of Dead Kings, The Vanished Princes Of Savoie; I Did Not Want To Know

The Facts Of Its Restoration At Different Dates, And Would Indeed

Shut My Eyes Upon All Such Traces If I Could.

Though The Abbey And Its Double In The Lake Had Remained A Picture In

My Mind, Through The Years Since I Had Seen Them, I Was Struck Anew

With The Peaceful Loveliness Of The Place As We Approached The Little

Landing-Stage. The Kings Of Savoie Had Chosen Well In Choosing To

Sleep Their Last Sleep At Hautecombe.

The Boy And I Slowly Ascended The Deeply Shadowed Road Which Led Up

The Hill To The Abbey, But Leisurely As We Walked, We Soon Outpaced

The Germans. For This We Were Not Sorry, Since It Gave Us The Silent

Grey Church To Ourselves--And The Sleeping Kings. We Bestowed Money

For His Charities Upon The White-Robed Monk Who Would Have Shown Us

The Tombs And The Chapels, Conscientiously Gabbling History The While;

And Then, With Compliments, We Freed Him From The Duty. His Hard Facts

Would Have Been Like Dogs Yapping At Our Heels, And, As The Boy Said,

We Would Not Have Been Able To Hear Ourselves Think.

We Whispered As If Fearing To Wake The Sleepers, As We Wandered From

One Bed Of Marble In Its Dim Niche, To Another. Never, Perhaps, Did So

Many Crowned Heads Lie Under The Same Roof As At Peaceful Hautecombe,

Sleeping Longer, More Soundly Far, Than The Princess In Her Enchanted

Palace In The Wood. For Centuries The Convent Bells Have Rung, Calling

The Monks To Prayer; And Sometimes The Walls Have Trembled With The

Thunder Of Cannon: Yet The Sleepers Have Not Stirred. There They Have

Lain, Those Stately, Royal Figures, With Hands Folded Placidly On

Placid Bosoms, Resting Well After Stress And Storm.

It Was Difficult To Keep In Mind That The Real Kings And Queens Had

Mouldered Into Dust Under The Stone Where Reposed Their Counterfeit

Presentments. Again And Again We Had To Send Away The Impression That

We Were Looking At The Actual Bodies, Transformed By The Slow Process

Of Centuries Into Marble, Together With Their Guardian Lions, Their

Favourite Hounds, And Their Curly Lambs.

The Endless Slumber Of These Royal Men And Women Of Savoie Seemed

Magical, Mysterious. We Felt That, If We But Had The Secret Of The

Talisman, We Could Wake Them; That They Would Slowly Rise On Elbow,

And Gaze At Us, Stony-Eyed, And Reproachful For Shattering Their

Dreams.

The Murmurous Silence Of The Church Whispered Broken Snatches Of Their

Life Stories--Not That Part Which We Could Read In History, Or See

Graven In Latin On Their Tombs, But That Part Of Which They Might

Choose To Dream. Had Those Knightly Men In Carven Armour Loved The