was a desperate project in the air, and the spirit of adventure had now entered thoroughly into me.
Early next morning I drove the Count back to Nice, where, at a quiet spot beyond the Magnan, he met the pretty Gabrielle clandestinely.
When we drew up to where she was apparently awaiting us, I saw that she was annoyed at my presence.
“Ewart, my chauffeur,” he explained, introducing me, “will say nothing about this meeting. He knows how to be discreet.”
I raised my peaked motor-cap, as our eyes met. I thought I detected a curiously timid glance in them, for in an instant she dropped her gaze.
That she was an intimate friend of the Count was shown by the instructions he gave her.
“You two walk along the Promenade des Anglais, and I’ll meet you at the other end, by the Hôtel Suisse. I’ll take the car myself on to the garage.”
This meant that I was to walk with her a full three-quarters of an hour along the whole of the beautiful sea-front of Nice. Why? I wondered.
“But, Bindo, can’t you come?”
“I’ll meet you outside the Suisse. It’s better to do that,” was his answer. “Go along; you’ll find Ewart a clever fellow. He’ll tell you how to drive a motor-car.”
She laughed lightly, and then, as Bindo mounted into the car again and turned away, we strolled together on the broad asphalte back towards the town.
The morning was delightful, with bright sunshine and blue sea. The sweet-smelling wallflowers were already out, and the big palms waved lazily in the soft breeze.
I quickly found my companion most charming, and envied the Count his acquaintanceship. Was she marked down as a victim? Or was she an accomplice? I could not grasp the motive for being sent to walk the whole length of the Promenade with her. But the Count and his companions were, they admitted, working a “big thing,” and this was part of it, I supposed.
“This is the first time you have been in Nice, eh?” she asked in her pretty broken English as she stopped a moment to open her sunshade.
“Yes,” I answered; “but the Count is an old habitué, I believe?”
“Oh yes,” she laughed; “he knows everybody. Last year he was on the Fêtes Committee and one of the judges at the Battle of Flowers.”
And so we gossiped on, walking leisurely, and passing many who, like ourselves, were idling in the winter sunshine.
There was an air of refined ingenuousness about her that was particularly attractive. She walked well, holding her skirt tightly about her as only a true Parisienne can, and displaying a pair of extremely neat ankles. She inquired about me – how long had I been in the Count’s service, how I liked him, and such-like; while I, by careful questioning, discovered that her name was Gabrielle Deleuse, and that she came to the Côté d’Azur each season.
Just as we were opposite the white façade of the Hôtel Westminster we encountered a short, rather stout, middle-aged lady, accompanied by a tall, thin, white-haired gentleman. They were well dressed, the lady wearing splendid sables.
My companion started when she recognised them, instantly lowering her sunshade in order to hide her face. Whether the pair noticed her I cannot say. I only know that, as soon as they passed, she exclaimed, in annoyance —
“I can’t think why Bindo sent you along here with me.”
“I regret, mademoiselle, that my companionship should be distasteful to you,” I replied, mystified.
“No, no, not that, m’sieur,” she cried anxiously. “I do not mean that. You do not know – how can you know what I mean?”
“You probably mean that you ought not to be seen walking here, on the Promenade des Anglais, with a common chauffeur.”
“If you are a chauffeur, m’sieur, you are also a gentleman,” she said, looking straight into my face.
“I thank mademoiselle for her high compliment,” I said, bowing, for really I was in no way averse to a little mild flirtation with such a delightful companion. And yet what, I wondered, was my rôle in this latest piece of complicated trickery?
She quickened her pace, glancing anxiously at everyone we met, as though wishing to arrive at the end of our walk.
I was sorry our little chat was drawing to a close. I would like to have had her at my side for a day’s run on the car, and I told her so.
“Perhaps you will take me for a long trip one day – who knows?” she laughed. “Yesterday it was perfect.”
A few moments later we arrived before the Suisse, and from a seat on the Promenade Count Bindo rose to greet us. He had left his motor-coat and cap in the car, and stood before us in his grey flannels and white soft felt hat – a smart, handsome figure, such as women mostly admire. Indeed, Bindo was essentially a lady’s man, for he seemed to have a bowing acquaintance with hundreds of the fair sex.
“Well, Gabrielle, and has Ewart been saying lots of pretty things to you – eh?”
“How unkind of you!” she protested, blushing slightly. “You really ought not to say such things.”
“Well, well, forgive me, won’t you?” said the Count quickly; and together we strolled into the town, where we had an aperatif at the gay Café de l’Opéra, opposite the public gardens.
Here, however, a curious contretemps occurred.
She accidently upset her glass of “Dubonnet” over her left hand, saturating her white glove so that she was compelled to take it off.
“Why!” ejaculated the Count in sudden amazement, pointing to her uncovered hand. “What does that mean?”
She wore upon her finger a wedding ring!
Her face went crimson. For a moment the pretty girl was too confused to speak.
“Ah!” she cried in a low, earnest tone, as she bent towards him. “Forgive me, Bindo. I – I did not tell you. How could I?”
“You should have told me. It was your duty to tell me. Remember, we are old friends. How long have you been married?”
“Only three weeks. This is my honeymoon.”
“And your husband?”
“Four days ago business took him to Genoa. He is still absent.”
“And, in the meanwhile, you meet me, and are the merry little Gabrielle of the old days – eh?” remarked Bindo, placing both elbows upon the marble-topped table and looking straight into her face.
“Do you blame me, then?” she asked. “I admit that I deceived you, but it was imperative. Our encounter has brought back all the past – those summer days of two years ago when we met at Fontainebleau. Do you still remember them?” Her eyelids trembled.
I saw that, though married, she still regarded the handsome Bindo with a good deal of affection.
“I don’t blame you,” was
