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

Haute; And Once Past This Gateway Of The Alps The Landscape Changed

Slowly And Indefinably, Here And There Suggesting That We Were Drawing

Nearer To The South. Though We Were Still Encompassed On Every Side By

Mountains, They Had Lost Their Alpine Splendour Of Bearing; They

Stooped, Or Poked Their Chins.

The Country Was Now All Brown And Green; And, Surfeited With Beauty,

It Seemed To Me That Here Was Nothing Great. We Sped Through Aspres;

Through Serres, On Its Rocky Promontory; And On Through Laragne, Whose

Ancient Inn With The Sign Of A Spider Gave A Name To The Town. Pointed

Brown-Green Mountains Were Crowned With Pointed Green-Brown Ruins,

Hoary After Much History-Making; And At The Pointed Mountains'

Brown-Green Feet Those _Avant-Courriers_ Of The South, Almond Trees,

Had Sat Down To Rest On Their Way Home.

Still We Flew On; But At Sisteron Jack Slowed Down The Motor. Here

Was Something Too Curious For Even Spoiled Sightseers To Pass In A

Hurry.

The Town Struggled Hardily Up One Side Of A Gorge, Deep And Steep,

Where The Durance Has Forced Its Patient Way Through A Huge Barrier Of

Rock Whose Tilted Strata Correspond Curiously On Both Sides Of The

Stream. Driving Down To The Low Bridge Across The River, We Gazed Up

At The Town Piled High Above Our Heads, Culminating In A Fortress

Which, Cut In A Dark Square Out Of The Sky's Turquoise, Looked Old As

The Beginning Of The World.

Sisteron Was Brown, Too, But Not At All Green; And Beyond, For A Time,

The Country Was Still In A Grim Brown Study, Though It Ought To Have

Remembered That It Was Now Laughing Provence. It Gave Us Crumbling

Châteaux, High-Perched Ancient Rock Villages Without Stint, And Even A

House (In The Strangely Named Village Of Malijai) Where Napoleon Had

Lain, Early In The Hundred Days; But Not A Smile Or A Wild Flower.

Then, In A Flash, Its Mood Changed. The Savage Land Had Been Tamed By

Some Whispered Word Of Mother Nature, And Grew Youthfully Pretty Under

Our Eyes. The Poplars, In Their Autumn Cloaks Of Gold, Fringed The

Road With Flame, And Scattered Largesse Of Red Copper Filings In Our

Path; The Dark Mountains Drew Up Over Their Bare Shoulders Scarfs Of

Crimson, And The Sun Flung A Million Diamonds Into The Wide Bed Of The

Durance.

Night Was Falling As We Drove Into The Lazy-Looking Provençal Town Of

Digne, Where All Was Green And Sleepy, At Peace With Itself And The

World At Large. Even The Beautiful Doric _Château D'eau_ Was Green

With Moss, And The Water Of Its Fountain Laughed In Sleep; The Famous

Basilica Showed Grey Through Green Lichen; Its Wonderful Rose Window

Had A Green Frame Of Ivy, And The Strange, Sculptured Beasts Guarding

The Door Had Saddles Of Green Velvet Mould.

We Slept At Digne, And Made An Early Morning Start, The Car Plunging

Us Almost From The First Into Scenery Which Only Gustave Doré Could

Have Imagined. Gnome Villages And Elfin Castles Clung To Slim

Pinnacles Of Rock Which Seemed To Swing, Like Blown Branches, Against

The Sky. Wild Grey Mountains Bristled With Rocky Spines, And Trails Of

Scarlet Foliage Poured Like Streams Of Blood Down Their Rough Sides,

Completing The Resemblance To Fierce, Wounded Boars.

Our Road Was A Road Of Steep Gradients, Leading Us Through Gorges Of A

Grandeur Which Would Have Been Called Appalling When The World Was A

Little Younger, And More In Awe Of Savage Nature. If A Midge Could Be

Provided With A Proportionately Tiny Motor Car, And Sent Coasting At

Full Tilt Down A Greased Corkscrew, From The Handle To The Sharp End

Of The Screw, The Effect Would Have Been Somewhat That Of Our Mercédès

Leaping Down The Steep Defiles. We Were Vaguely Conscious Now And Then

That A River Far Below Us Clamoured For Our Bones; On One Side We Had

A Precipice, On The Other A Sheer Face Of Towering Cliff.

Gorges, Glorious Gorges! A Plethora Of Gorges. No Sooner Were We Out

Of One, And Drawing Breath In A Valley Of Golden Sunshine And Silver

River, But We Were Back In Another Majestic Cañon. Finest Of All,

Perhaps, Was The Dark Clou De Rouaine; Yet When We Sprang Out Into

Daylight To Throw Ourselves Into The Village Of Les Scaffarels,

Wonders Did Not Cease. Now We Were In The True Hinterland Of The Gay,

Blue-And-Gold Riviera, Following The Course Of The Var, Down To Nice,

Not Many Miles Away. Wide And Pebbly In Its Bed By The Bright Pleasure

Town, Here It Led Us Through A Succession Of More Gorges, Thundered Us

Through Rock Tunnels, Swept Us Over Bridges, And At Last Tumbled Us

Into Sight Of A Marvel Which Must Throw The Whole Seven Of Dauphiné

Out Of Focus. It Was The Town Of Entrevaux, And To My Shame I Had

Never Heard Of It. Where The Narrow Valley Opens Into A Broad One, And

The Green, Swift Flowing River Sweeps In A Sickle-Curve Round The Base

Of A High Rock, Entrevaux Shoots Far Up Into The Sky. The River Bathes

Its Dark Walls, Protected By Devices Dear To The Hearts Of Mediæval

Vaubans. Pepper-Castor Sentry-Boxes Jut Out Over The Water; A Great

Drawbridge With Portcullis, Triple Gateway, And Neat Contrivances For

Pouring Oil And Molten Lead Upon Besiegers, Alone Gives Access To The

Town; While Behind The Old Crowded Houses A Fortified Stairway In The

Rock Leads Dizzily Up To A Stronghold Clamped Upon A Towering Peak--A

Peak Like A Black, Giant Wine-Bottle, Slender-Necked, With The Fort

Castle For The Cork.

"If The Boy Could See This With Me!" I Thought. And Then, Because This

Place Was Like A Fairy Place, I Remembered The Fairy Prince's Ring.

Never Had I Followed His Instructions; But I Rubbed It Now, And Wished

That The Genie Of The Ring Would Give Me Back The Little Pal At Monte

Carlo.

After Entrevaux, Picturesque Puget-Theniers Was An Anticlimax; Though

Other Fairy Towns Peered Down From High Crags And Sheer Hillsides

Where They Hung By Wires Caught In Spider Webs--And Though We Passed

Through Other Gorges Of Grim Beauty, My Thoughts Had Flown Ahead Of

Our Swift Car. I Was Glad When At Last We Came Into Sight Of A Fair

White City Lying On The Blue Curve Of A Bay And Ringed With Green

Hills, Glad That Our Journey Was All But Ended; For The Fair City Was

Nice.

    "Will You Make Me Believe That I Am Not Sent For . . . ?

     Go To, Go To, Thou Art A Foolish Fellow!"

                                          --Shakespeare.

From Nice To Monte Carlo Over The Upper Corniche, Was For Us A Spin Of

Less Than Two Hours; And After That Most Beautiful Drive In The World,

We Slowed Down Before The Green-Shaded Loggia Of The Royal, Early In

The Afternoon. The Hotel Was Only Just Open For The Season, And It Was

Possible To Have A Choice Of Rooms. Jack Selected A Glass-Fronted

Suite, With A View More Beautiful Than Any Other In The Extraordinary

Little Principality:

    "Magic Casements

    Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas

    In Faëry Lands Forlorn."

Which Were, Respectively, The Harbour, And The Rock Of Monaco (As Old

As Hercules), With Its Ancient Towers Dark Against A Sky Of Pearl.

I Was Given A Peep Into Molly's Salon, Which Appeared To Be A Sort Of

Crystal Palace, With Its Two Window-Walls Curtained By Trailing Roses;

And Jack Kept Me For A Moment At The Door.

"I Suppose We Shall Meet For Dinner About Eight, Won't We, No Matter

What We May All Choose To Do Meanwhile?" Said He.

"Well--Er--No," I Mumbled, Feeling A Little Foolish. "I Have--Er--A

Sort Of Engagement For To-Night. I Think I Mentioned It Before."

"What, To Meet That Missing Boy Of Yours?" Asked Jack, In A Chaffing

Tone, So Tactlessly Loud That It Must Have Been Distinctly Audible To

The Ladies In The Adjoining Room, The Door Of Which Was Open. "Isn't

That Rather A Mad Idea? You Were Vaguely Engaged To Meet Your Pal, I

Believe You Said, On The Night After Your Arrival, At The Hôtel De

Paris, For Dinner. But Considering The Fact That, If You'd Walked Down

As You Then Intended, Instead Of Motoring, You Would Have Been A

Fortnight On The Way, Isn't It Fantastic To Expect That He'll Turn Up?"

"Not Quite As Fantastic As You Think," I Retorted, Remembering The

Terms Of The Boy's Letter, Which Had Not Been Confided To Jack, In

Their Exactness. "Anyhow, I'm Going On The Off Chance."

"You Apparently Credit The Youth With Clairvoyance, My Dear Chap.

Supposing He Has Come Down Here, How Could He Know That You'd

Arrived?"

"I Wired Him From Digne, Telegraphing To The Poste Restante At Monte

Carlo, Where He Would Certainly Think Of Enquiring, If He Took Much

Interest In My Movements. In That Message I Made It Very Clear That I

Should Expect Him To Stick To Our Bargain, And I Have An Impression

That He Will."

"He May. But, Look Here, My Dear Fellow,"--Jack Now Had The Decency To

Lower His Voice,--"Have You No Red Blood In Your Veins? Mercédès--The

Real Mercédès--Nearly Restored To Health And Spirits By Her Run With

Us Through Splendid Air And Scenery, Is To Unveil Her Charms This

Evening At Dinner. You Have Irreverently Nicknamed Her The Perpetual

Mushroom. To-Night, You Will See--But You Don't Deserve To Be Told

What You Will See, If You Haven't The Curiosity To Find Out At The

First Opportunity For Yourself."

"Second Opportunities, Like Second Thoughts, Are Better Than First,"

Said I. "I Shall He Delighted To Take The Second Opportunity Of

Meeting Miss Mercédès--By The Way, What _Is_ Her Other Name? You

Always Seemed To Take It For Granted That I Knew; But If It Was Ever

Mentioned In The Summer, I've Forgotten."

"You Should Be Ashamed To Admit That You Could Deliberately And

Stoically Forget A Charming Young Lady's Name, And You Don't Deserve

To Have Your Memory Jogged. You Shall Be Told The Heiress's Name When

You Meet Her, And Not Before."

"I Must Possess My Soul In Patience Until To-Morrow, Then," I Replied,

"For To Me One Pal In The Bush Is Worth Twenty Heiresses In The Hand,

And I Am Now Going Out To Scour The Said Bush."

"Which Means The Casino, No