The Lady in the Car

The idea grew upon me. Indeed, a fortnight later, constant traveller that I am, I ran from Paris to Naples in the “sixty,” with Garrett, and shipped the car over to Palermo, where I soon found myself idling in the big white and pale green lounge of the Igiea, wondering how best to get sight of Madame, who I had already ascertained, was at the Excelsior at the other end of the town, still passing as Countess Gemsenberg. The pretty Elise was with her, and my informant – an Italian – told me in confidence that the young Marquis Torquato Torrini, head of the well-known firm of Genoese shipowners who was staying in the hotel, was head over heels in love with her, and that engagement was imminent.

I heard this in silence. What, I wondered had become of the young Austrian millionaire, Hausner?

I, however, kept my own counsel, waited and watched. The Parson also turned up a couple of days later and started gossip and tea-drinking in the hotel. But, of course, we posed as strangers to each other.

The Igiea being the best hotel in Palermo and situated on the sea, the blue Mediterranean lapping the grey rocks at the end of the beautiful garden, it is the mode for people at other hotels to go there to tea, just as they go to the “Reserve,” at Beaulieu, or the Star and Garter at Richmond.

I therefore waited from day to day, expecting her to come there. Each day I pottered about in the car, but in vain.

One morning, however, while passing in front of the cathedral, I saw her walking alone, and quickly seized the opportunity and overtook her.

“Ah! Mademoiselle!” I exclaimed in French as I raised my cap in feigned surprise and descended from the car. “Fancy, you! In Palermo! And Madame, your aunt?”

“She is quite well, thank you, Prince,” she replied; and then, at my invitation, she got into the car and we ran round the town. I saw that she was very uneasy. The meeting was not altogether a pleasant surprise for her; that was very evident.

“This place is more civilised than Tirnovo,” I laughed. “Since then I expect that you, like myself, have been travelling a good deal.”

“Yes. We’ve been about quite a lot – to Vienna, Abbazia, Rome, and now to Palermo.”

“And not yet to London?”

“Oh! yes. We were at home exactly eleven days. The weather was, however, so atrocious that Madame – my aunt, I mean – decided to come here. We are at the Excelsior. You are, of course, at the Igiea?”

And so we ran along through the big, rather ugly, town, laughing and chatting affably. Dressed in a neat gown of dove-grey cloth, with hat to match and long white gloves, she looked extremely chic, full of that daintiness which was so essentially that of the true Parisienne.

I told her nothing of my visit to Toddington Terrace, but presently I said:

“I’ll come to the Excelsior, and call on your aunt – if I may?”

I noticed that she hesitated. She did not seem at all desirous to see me at their hotel. I, of course, knew the reason. The old lady was not Madame Demidoff in Palermo.

“We will call and see you at the Igiea,” she said. “We have never been there yet.”

“I shall be delighted,” I answered her. “Only send me a note, in order that I may be in.”

Beyond the town we ran along beside the calm blue sea, with the high purple hills rising from across the bay.

Bright and merry, she seemed quite her old self again – that sweet and charming self that I had first met in that rough, uncouth Bulgarian town. After an hour, we got out and seated ourselves on the rocks to rest.

She was certainly not averse to a mild flirtation. Indeed – had she not already been engaged to Hausner, broken it off, and was now half engaged to the Marquis Torrini? She was nothing if not fickle.

“Yes,” she sighed at last, “I suppose we shall have to go back to humdrum London, before long. It is so much more pleasant here than in Toddington Terrace,” she added in her pretty broken English.

“Ah! Mademoiselle,” I laughed. “One day you will marry and live in Paris, or Vienna, or Budapest.”

“Marry!” she echoed. “Ugh! No!” and she gave her little shoulders a shrug. “I much prefer, Prince, to remain my own mistress. I have been too much indulged – what you in English call spoil-et.”

“All girls say that!” I laughed. “Just as the very man who unceasingly declares his intention to remain a bachelor is the first to become enmeshed in the feminine web.”

“Ah! you are a pessimist, I see,” she remarked, looking straight into my eyes.

“No, not exactly. I suppose I shall marry some day.”

“And you are engaged – eh?”

“No,” I laughed, “it hasn’t got so far as that yet. A single kiss and a few letters – that’s the present stage.”

“And the lady is Engleesh?”

“Ah! The rest must, for the present, remain a mystery, mademoiselle,” I laughed, wondering what the Marquis would say if he discovered us idling away the morning like that.

And so we chatted and laughed on, the best of friends. I tried to obtain some facts regarding her visit to Abbazia, but she was not communicative. Knowing that she was well aware of my visit to the Stefanie, I mentioned it casually, adding:

“You must have already left before my arrival.”

For an instant she raised her eyes to mine with a keen look of inquiry, but, finding me in earnest, lowered her gaze again.

At length I saw from my watch that we must move again, if we intended to be back to luncheon, therefore we rose and re-entering the car drove by the sea-road, back to the town. She seemed delighted with her ride.

“I’ll bring my aunt to call on you very soon,” she said, as we parted. “I will send you a line to say the day.”

“Yes, do, mademoiselle, I shall be greatly charmed. Au revoir!” and I lifted my hat as she gave me her tiny, white-gloved hand and then turned away.

Next afternoon, while in the car near the theatre, I saw her driving with a dark-bearded, well-dressed young man, whom I afterwards discovered was the Marquis.

She saw me raise my hat, blushed in confusion, and gave me a slight bow of acknowledgment.

That evening I made a discovery considerably increasing the puzzle.

I met the mysterious Mr Wilkinson face to face in the hall of the Hôtel de France, whither I had gone to pay a call upon some English friends who had just arrived.

Wearing the same brown suit, he passed me by and left the hotel, for he was unacquainted with me, and therefore unaware of my presence. From the hall-porter I learnt that “Mr James Wilkinson, of London” – as he had registered in the hotel-book – had been there for the past three days.

For four days I awaited Madame’s visit, but no note came from Elise. The latter was, no doubt, too occupied with her Italian lover. I could not write to her, as she had not given me the name by which she was known at the Excelsior.

Compelled, therefore, to play a waiting game, I remained with my eyes ever open to catch sight of one or other of the mysterious quartette. But I was disappointed, for on this fifth day I made inquiry, and to my utter dismay discovered that the same tactics had been adopted in Palermo as in Abbazia.

The whole four had suddenly disappeared!

Greatly puzzled, the Parson returned to London. I nevertheless remained in Italy until May, when back again I found myself, one bright afternoon about five o’clock, descending from the car outside the house in Toddington Terrace, my intention being to pay a call upon Madame Demidoff.

My ring was answered by a neat maidservant in smart cap and apron.

Next instant we stared at each other in speechless amazement. It was Elise!

Utterly confused, her face first flushed scarlet, and then blanched.

“You – you want to see Madame,” she managed to stammer in her broken English. “She isn’t at home!”