One thick golden tress, shaken loose by her fall, lay curling down past the bloom of her cheek on to her shoulder. The lights in it blazed. From beneath the brim of her small tight-fitting hat her great grave eyes held mine expectantly. The stars in them seemed upon the edge of dancing. Her heightened colour, the poise of her shapely head, the parted lips lent to that exquisite face the air of an elf. All the sweet grace of a child was welling out of her maidenhood. Her apple-green frock fitted the form of a shepherdess. Her pretty grey legs and tiny feet were those of a fairy. Its very artlessness trebled the attraction of her pose. Making his sudden way between the boughs, the sun flung a warm bar of light athwart her white throat and the fallen curl. Nature was honouring her darling. It was the accolade.
I could have sworn that behind me somebody breathed “Madonna!” but although I swung round and peered into the bushes, I could see no one.
“When you’ve quite done,” said Jill. Clearly she had noticed nothing.
I returned to my cousin.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s too short. Just a shade. As for you, you’re much too sweet altogether. Something’ll have to be done about it. You’ll be stolen by fairies, or translated, or inveigled into an engagement, or something.”
Jill let her dress go and flung her arms round my neck.
“You and Berry and Jonah,” she said, “are far too sweet to me. And – Oh, I can see myself in your eye, Boy. I can really.” For a moment she stared at the reflection. “I don’t think I look very nice,” she added gravely. “However…” She kissed me abstractedly and started to fix the tress errant. “If Jonah asks you, don’t say it’s too short. It’s not good for him. I’ll have it lengthened all right.”
For the second time I began to relight my pipe.
After examining the scene of her downfall, the witch caught at a slip of a bough and swung herself athletically to the top of the bank. Thence she turned a glowing face in my direction.
“No, I shan’t, after all,” she announced. “It’s much too convenient.”
Twenty minutes later we reached the point from which we had set out.
Adèle was awaiting us with Ping. As soon as we saw her —
“Good Heavens!” cried Jill. “I quite forgot you were married. You ought to have been with Adèle.” She ran to the car. “Adèle darling, what do you think of me?”
“I am blind,” said Adèle, “with jealousy. Anyone would be. And now jump in. Berry has taken the others to look at La Barre, and we’re to follow them.”
Such of the landscape as I was bearing was thereupon bestowed in the boot, I followed my cousin into the car, and a few minutes later we were at the mouth of the Adour. Here we left Ping beside Pong, and proceeded to join three figures on the horizon, apparently absorbed in the temper of a fretful sea.
As we tramped heavily over the shingle —
“You’re not cross with me, Adèle?”
“Why should I be, darling?”
“Well, you see,” panted Jill, “I’ve known him so long, and he’s still so exactly the same, that I can’t always remember—”
“That he’s not your property?” said my wife. “But he is, and always will be.”
Jill looked at her gravely.
“But he’s yours,” she said.
Adèle laughed lightly.
“Subjects marry, of course,” she said, smiling, “but they’ve only one queen.”
Which, I think, was uncommon handsome.
Anyway, I kissed her slight fingers…
As we reached our companions —
“I could stay here for ever,” said Berry. “Easily. But I’m not going to. The wind annoys me, and the sea’s not what it was before the War.”
“How can you?” said Daphne. She stretched out a pointing arm. “Just look at that one – that great big fellow. It must be the ninth wave.”
“Nothing to the York Ham – I mean the Welsh Harp – on a dirty night,” replied her husband. “Why, I remember once…”
In the confusion of a precipitate retreat before the menace of the roller, the reminiscence was lost.
It was certainly a magnificent spectacle. There was a heavy sea running, and the everlasting battle between the river and the Atlantic was being fought with long swift spasms of unearthly fury. Continually recurring, shock, mellay and rally overlapped, attack and repulse were inextricably mingled, the very lulls between the paroxysms were big with wrath. There was a point, too, where the river’s bank became coastline, a blunt corner of land, which seemed to exasperate the sea out of all reason. A stiff breeze abetting them, the gigantic waves crashed upon it with a concussion that shook the air. All the royal rage of Ocean seemed to be concentrated on this little prominence. The latter’s indifference appeared to aggravate its assailant. Majesty was in a tantrum.
With the exception of Berry, we could have watched the display till, as they say, the cows come home. My brother-in-law, however, felt differently. The wind was offending him.
After a violent denunciation of this element —
“Besides,” he added, “we ought to be getting back. It’s nearly half past three, and if we’re to avoid the playground of the Tanks and return by Bidache, we shall be longer upon the road.”
“Well, you go on,” said Daphne. “Ask Adèle nicely, first, if she’ll take my place, and then if she minds starting now.”
“Fair lady,” he said,
The vay ith long, the vind ith cold,
It maketh me feel infernal old.”
“I’m sorry,” said Adèle hurriedly, “but I’ve left my purse at home. Try my husband.”
Berry put on his hat, cocked it, and turned to me.
“D’you want a thick ear?” he demanded. “Or will you go quietly?”
“A little more,” I retorted, “and you ride in the dickey.”
Ten minutes later Pong was sailing into the outskirts of Bayonne.
To emerge from the town upon the Briscous road proved unexpectedly hard. The map insisted that we should essay a dark entry, by the side of which a forbidding noticeboard dared us to come on… Adèle and I pored over the print, while out of our bickering Berry plucked such instructions as his fancy suggested, and, alternately advancing and retiring, cruised to and fro about a gaunt church. After a while we began to ask people, listen carefully to their advice, thank them effusively, and then demonstrate to one another that they were certainly ignorant and probably hostile.
At length —
“How many times,” inquired Berry, “did they walk round Jericho before the walls went?”
“Thirteen, I think,” said Adèle. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing,” was the reply. “Only, if you aren’t quick, we shall have this church down. Besides, I’m getting giddy.”
“Then show some initiative,” I retorted.
“Right,” said Berry, darting up a side street.
Calling upon him to stop, Adèle and I fought for the map… A sudden lurch to the left flung us into the corner, whence, before we had recovered our equilibrium, a violent swerve to the right returned us pell-mell. At last, in response to our menaces, Berry slowed up before a signpost.
Its legend was plain.
BRISCOUS 10
We stared at it in silence. Then we stared at one another. Finally we stared at Berry. The latter spread out his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
“Instinct,” he said. “Just instinct. It’s very wonderful. Hereditary, of course. One of my uncles was a water-waste preventer. With the aid of a cricket-bat and a false nose, he could find a swamp upon an empty stomach. They tried him once, for fun, at a garden party. Nobody could understand the host’s uneasiness until, amid a scene of great excitement, my uncle found the cesspool under the refreshment marquee.”
Eventually we persuaded him to proceed.
For a while the going was poor, but after we had passed Briscous all cause for complaint vanished. Not only was the surface of the road as good as new, but the way itself, was winsome. The main road to Peyrehorade could not compare with it. At every twist and turn – and there were many – some fresh attraction confronted us. The countryside, shy of the great highways, crept very close. We slipped up lanes, ran side by side with brooks, brushed by snug cottages. Dingles made bold to share with us their shelter, hilltops their sweet prospects, hamlets their quiet content.
An amazing sundown set our cup brimming.
That this might run over, Bidache itself gave us a chateau – ruined, desolate, and superb. There is a stateliness of which Death holds the patent: and then, again, Time can be kind to the dead. What Death had given, Time had magnified. Years had added to the grey walls a peace, a dignity, a charm, such as they never knew while they were kept. The grave beauty of the place was haunting. We passed on reluctantly…
A quarter of an hour later we ran into Peyrehorade.
Here Adèle relieved my brother-in-law and, encouraged by the promise of a late tea, made the most of the daylight.
Eighty minutes later we slid into Pau.
As we swept up the drive of our villa —
“Well,” said Berry, “I must confess it’s been a successful day. If we’d lunched with Evelyn, we should have missed that venison, and if the main road hadn’t been vile, we should have missed Bidache. Indeed, provided no anticlimax is furnished by the temperature of the bath-water, I think we may congratulate ourselves.”
Adèle and I agreed enthusiastically.
Falcon met us in the hall with a note and a telephone message.
The first was from Mrs Swetecote.
DEAREST DAPHNE,
How awful of you! Never mind. I know how terribly easy it is to forget. And now you must come over to us instead. Falcon insisted that you would wish us to have lunch, so we did – a jolly good one, too. And Jack smoked one of Berry’s cigars, and, of course, we both lost our hearts to Nobby. In fact, we made ourselves thoroughly at home.
Your loving
EVELYN.
P.S. – Try and find out who’s staying at Pau with a blue all-weather coupé. They went by us today like a flash of lightning. Fortunately we were going dead slow, so it was all right. But they ought to be stopped.
The second was from Jonah.
As rendered by Falcon, it ran:
“Captain Mansel’s compliments, sir, and, as Mrs Adèle Pleydell was the last to drive Ping, ’e thinks she must ’ave ’is key… And as Love’s the honly thing as laughs at locksmiths, sir, will you kindly return this forthwith… I asked Captain Mansel where ’e’d like you to meet ’im, sir, but ’e said you’ know.”
From Pau to La Barre is seventy miles – as near as “damn it.”
I covered the distance alone. All the way a memory kept whispering above the rush of the tyres…
‘Madonna!… ‘Madonna!’…
How Love Came to Jill, Herbert to the Rescue,
and a Young Man by His Right
A week of fine days had slipped by. Most of these we had spent upon the open road. For fifty miles about Pau we had proved the countryside and found it lovely. This day we had determined to fare farther afield. Perhaps because of this decision, Trouble had peered out of the bushes before we had gone twenty miles.
Had we, however, been advised to expect a puncture and requested to select the venue, we could not have chosen a more delightful spot.
Immediately upon our right there was a garden, trim and pleasing as the farmhouse it served. Stretched in the gateway lay a large white hound, regarding us sleepily. Beyond, on the greensward, a peacock preened himself in the hot sunshine. On the left, a wayside bank made a parapet, and a score of lime-trees a sweet balustrade. A glance between these natural balusters turned our strip of metalling into a gallery. The car, indeed, was standing upon the edge of a brae. Whether this fell sheer or sloped steeply could not be seen, for the first thing which the down-looking eye encountered was a vast plain, rich, sunbathed, rolling, three hundred feet below. North, south, and east, as far as the sight could follow, was stretching Lilliput. Meadows and poplars and the flash of streams, steadings and villages, coppices, flocks and curling roads glinted or glowed in miniature. Close on our right two toy towers stood boldly up to grace a townlet. Due east a long, straight baby avenue led to a midget city. Northward a tiny train stole like a snail into the haze of distance. Far to the south the mountains, blurred, snowy, ethereal, rose like a beckoning dream to point the fairy tale.
It was only when we had gloated upon the prospect for several minutes, identified the townlet as Ibus and the city as Tarbes, and, taking out powerful binoculars, subjected the panorama to a curious scrutiny, which might have shattered the illusion, but only turned Lilliput into Utopia, that we pulled ourselves together and started to consider our plight.
This was not serious. A tyre was flat, certainly, but we had two spare wheels.
I drew a sou from my pocket and spun it into the air.
“I maintain,” said Berry, “that the obverse will bite the dust.”
The coin tinkled to a settlement, and we both stooped to read our respective fates…
A moment later, with a self-satisfied grin, I climbed back into the car, whilst Berry removed his coat with awful deliberation.
Jill was in possession of the paper, so I lighted a cigarette and turned up Tarbes in the guide-book…
“Just listen to this,” said my cousin suddenly.
“
Of the four properties, the villa Irikli is the most notable. A well-known traveller once styled it ‘the fairest jewel in Como’s diadem.’ Occupying one of the choicest situations on the famous lake, surrounded by extensive gardens, the varied beauty of which beggars description, the palace – for it is nothing less – has probably excited more envy than any dwelling in Europe…
“Then it speaks about the house… Wait a minute… Here we are
“
The heavily-shaded lawns, stretching to the very edge of the lake, the magnificent cedars, the sunlit terraces, the cascades, the chestnut groves, the orange and lemon trellises, the exquisite prospects, go to the making of a veritable paradise
.”
“Doesn’t that sound maddening?”
“It does, indeed,” I agreed. “Whose is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Jill absently, staring into the distance. “But I can just see it all. Fancy living there, and going out before breakfast over the lawns to bathe…”
Idly I took the paper out of her hand. From this it appeared that the property had belonged to the Duke of Padua. Reading further, I found that the latter’s whole estate had, upon his death nine months ago, become the subject of an action at law. The deceased’s legitimacy, it seemed, had been called in question. Today the Appeal Court of Italy was to declare the true heir…
As I laid down the sheet —
“Somebody,” I said, “will drink champagne tonight.”
“Oranges and lemons,” murmured Jill. “Cascades…”
A vicious grunt from below and behind suggested that my brother-in-law was standing no nonsense.
I settled myself in my corner of the car, tilted my hat over my nose, and closed my eyes…
The sound of voices aroused me.
“…your silly eyes. Didn’t you hear me say ‘
Non
’?
NONG
, man,
NONG!
You’ll strip the blinkin’ thread… Look here…”
“
A-a-ah! Oui
,
oui
,
Monsieur
.
Je comprends, je comprends
.”
“You don’t listen,” said Berry severely. “That’s what’s the matter with you. Valuable car like this, too.” Jill buried her face in my sleeve and began to shake with laughter. “
Alors, en avant, mon brave. Mettez y votre derrière
. Oh, very hot, very hot.”
"
“C’est bien ça, Monsieur?”
“Every time,” said Berry. “Now the next…
D’abord avec les doigts
… That’s enough, fathead. What’s the brace done?”
“
Mais, Monsieur
—”
“
Si vous disputez
,” said Berry gravely, “
vous ne l’aurez pas seulement où le poulet a reçu la hache, mais je n’aurai pas de choix mais de vous demander de retourner à vos b-b-b-bœufs.”
“
Pardon, Monsieur
.”
“Granted, Herbert, granted,” was the airy reply. “But you must take off that worried look.
Ca me rappelle la maison des singes
…
Oh, terrible, terrible. Et le parfum
… My dear Herbert
, il frappe l’orchestre
… And now, suppose we resume our improvement of the working day.”
Except for the laboured breathing of Herbert, the remaining bolts were affixed in silence.
“
Bien
,” said Berry. “
Maintenant le
jack. I trust, Herbert, that you have a supple spine.
Voici. Tournez, mon ami, tournez… Non, non, NONG
! You bull-nosed idiot!
A gauche!”
“
A-a-ah! Oui, oui, Monsieur! A gauche, à gauche
.”
“All right,” said Berry. “I said it first. It’s my brain-wave… That’s right. Now pull back –
tirez
.
Bon
. Now shove it
ici, dans la bottine…
And must you kneel upon the wing, Herbert? Must you? A-a-ah! Get off, you clumsy satyr!”
A yell of protest from Herbert suggested that Berry’s protest had been reinforced
vi et armis
.
“
Non, non, Monsieur! Laissez-moi tranquil. Je ne fais que ce que vous commandez
…”
“Dog,” said my brother-in-law, “you lie! Never mind. Pick up that wheel instead.
Prenez la roue, Herbert… C’est bien. Alors, attachez-la ici
. Yes, I know it’s heavy, but
ne montrez pas la langue
.
Respirez par le nez
, man. And don’t stagger like that. It makes me feel tired… So. Now, isn’t that nice? Herbert, my son,
voici la fin de votre travail
.”
“
C’est tout, Monsieur?”
“
C’est tout, mon ami
. Should you wish to remember me in your prayers,
je suis le Comte Blowfly, du Rat Mort,
Clacton-on-Sea. Telegraphic address, Muckheap. And there’s ten francs towards your next shave.”
“
Oh, Monsieur, c’est trop gentil. J’ai été heureux
—”
“
Pas un mot
, Herbert. Believe me, it’s cheap at the price. What’s more,
je suis enchanté d’avoir fait votre connaissance.”
“
A votre service, Monsieur.”
“Itch Deen,” said Berry. “Itch Deen. And if ever one of your bullocks bursts and you have to put in a new one, I only trust I shall be out of earshot.
Au revoir, mon ami. Ne faites-pas attention au monsieur avec le nez rouge dans l’auto. Il est grisé.”
The reverent look with which Herbert favoured me, as he returned to his oxen, I shall never forget. Clearly, to be in the arms of Dionysus by eleven o’clock in the morning was arguing at once an affluence and a discretion which were almost sacred.
“Ah,” said Berry, making his appearance, “you’re awake, are you? I’ve just finished. Herbert’s been watching me. Have you got the beer-opener there? It’s – it’s tiring work.”
“What is?” said I grimly. “Instructing?”
“That’s it,” said my brother-in-law. “I explained as I went along. Herbert was most interested. A little dense, you know, but such a nice fellow. He thinks the world of you. Now, I think the beer-opener’s in the left-hand—”
“In you get,” said I, starting the engine. “Philanthropy and beer don’t go together.”
With his foot upon the step, Berry regarded me.
“I should like Herbert’s ruling on that,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got a thirst which is above rubies.”
“Think what it’ll be like by lunch-time,” said Jill. “Besides,” she added, searching for her bag, “I’ve got some acid drops somewhere.”
With an unearthly shriek Berry clawed at his temples… For a moment he rocked to and fro agonisedly. Then he climbed heavily into the car.
As he sank back against the cushions —
“Murderess,” he said. “And it was the best I’ve had since Egypt.”
Two hours later we ran into Montrejeau, crept by its exquisite market – roofed and pillared and carrying its four hundred years as they were forty – dropped down a wicked hill, and swept over an infant Garonne on to the Luchon road.
Before we had covered five kilometres we sighted our goal
‘A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.’
Out of the blowing meadows rose up an eminence. But for the snow-clad heights beyond, you would have called it a mountain. Its slopes were timbered, and if there was a road there, this could not be seen. High up above the trees was a city wall, standing out boldly, as ramparts should. Within the wall, still higher, were houses, white, ancient, stern-faced. And there, clear above them all, perched upon the very point of the hill, towered a cathedral. The size of it turned the city into a close. Its site, its bulwarks, however, turned the church into a castle. Here was an abbot filling the post of constable. The longer you gazed, the stronger the paradox became. Pictures of peace and war became inextricably confused. Men-at-arms mumbled their offices; steel caps concealed tonsures: embrasures framed precious panes: trumpets sounded the Angelus: mail chinked beneath vestments: sallies became processions: sentinels cried “
Pax vobiscum”…
Plainly most venerable, the tiny city and the tremendous church made up a living relic, of whose possession Memory can be very proud. Saint-Bertrand-de-Comminges ranks with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. There is nothing like it in all the world.
Presently we passed through the meadows, climbed up the tree-clad slopes, and came to a little terrace under the city-wall. Full in the sunlight, sheltered from the wind, the pleasaunce made an ideal refectory. The view of the mountains, moreover, which it afforded was superb. I stole by the city gate and berthed Pong close to the low parapet…
Ten minutes later Ping drew up behind us.
“Isn’t this just lovely?” cried Adèle, applying the hand-brake.
“It’s unique,” said I, advancing. “How did the car go?”
“Like a train,” said Jonah, helping Daphne to alight. “I may add that I’ve enjoyed being driven.”
“Oh, Jonah, how nice of you!” cried Adèle.
It was, indeed, a compliment worth having.
“I told you so,” I said unctuously.
“And now,” said Berry, “if you’ve quite done scratching one another’s backs—”
“Vulgar brute!” said Daphne.
“I beg your pardon?”
My sister repeated the appellative.
Instantly her husband assumed an attitude of listening ecstasy.
“Hark!” he exclaimed dramatically. “I he-ear my lo-ove calling.” A rapturous smile swept into his face. “It must be clo-osing time.” He changed his tone to one of indicative solicitude. “More to the left, sweet chuck. No. That’s the water-trough. I’ve got the pram here.”
A master of pantomime, Berry can create an atmosphere with a look and a word. ‘On the halls,’ he would probably be a complete failure. On the terrace beneath the walls of St Bertrand he was simply side-splitting. Daphne and Jonah included, we collapsed tearfully…
As we did so there was a roar of laughter behind us.
One and all, we turned blindly about, to see a slim figure in a grey tweed suit dash for the gateway. As we looked, a grey hat flew off. The next moment its owner was within the walls.
I ran to the gateway and stared up a little paved street. It was quite empty. After a moment I returned to pick up the hat. Looking at this, I saw that it came from Bond Street.
What was more remarkable was that twenty paces away was standing a grey two-seater. It was quite evident that, for car and passenger to approach without our knowledge, we must have been extremely preoccupied, and the newcomer’s engine uncannily silent.
After some discussion of the incident, we placed the hat in the two-seater and proceeded to lunch…
The meal was over, and Jonah and I were washing the glasses, when —
“Now, no guide-books, please,” said my brother-in-law. “I’ve read it all up. Where we are now was the
ulularium
.”
“Whatever’s that?” said Jill.
“The howling-green,” said Berry. “The monks used to come and howl here before breakfast.”
“What did they howl for?” said Adèle.
“It was a form,” was the reply, “of mortification, instituted by Aitchless the ’Alf-baked and encouraged by his successor, who presented an empty but still fragrant beer-barrel to be howled for upon Michaelmas Eve.” After the manner of a guide, the speaker preceded us to the gateway. “And now we come to the gate. Originally one half its present width, it was widened by the orders of Gilbert the Gluttonous. The work, in which he took the deepest interest, was carried out under his close supervision. Indeed, it was not until the demolition of the structure had been commenced that he was able to be released from a position which was embarrassing not only his digestion, but his peace of mind, inasmuch as it was denying ingress to a cardinal who had much influence at the Vatican and was wearing tight boots.”