Her Majesty's Minister

Chapter Thirty Four

At Bordighera

Bordighera, that charming, well-sheltered little town which, lying well back in its picturesque bay on the Italian Riviera, has during the past year or so come quickly into fashionable prominence, is at its best towards the end of February. It is not by any means a large place. The quaint old town is perched upon a conical hill with queer ladder-like streets, so narrow that no vehicles can pass up them. There are strong stone arches to support the houses against possible earthquakes. The streets are dark, sometimes mere tunnels, as is so frequent in those neighbouring rock villages, Sasso, Dolceacqua, Apricale, and the rest, the reason being that they were built in the days when the Moorish pirates made constant raids along that coast, and the houses were clustered together for mutual protection against those dreaded raiders.

But below the ancient town, Bordighera has spread along the seashore and into the olive-woods. In February, when in England all is bare and cheerless, the gardens of the handsome hotels and the big white villas on the hillsides are ablaze with flowers, the air is heavy with the perfume of the heliotrope, growing in great bushes, and the sweet scent of the carnations, grown in fields for Covent Garden and the flower-market outside the Madeleine.

The tourist in knickerbockers, with his camera over his shoulder, never goes to Bordighera, for to the uninitiated it is far too dull. There is no casino, as at Nice, no jetty, no cafés with al-fresco music, no tables out upon the pavement; and, truth to tell, such attractions are not required. The people who winter at Bordighera represent the most distinguished coterie in Europe. They are not of the snobbish crowd who frequent San Remo, and they do their best to avoid attracting into their midst the undesirable crowd from Monte Carlo, or the Cookites from Nice. Life in Bordighera from November until the end of April is essentially charming. The people who winter there regularly – English, Germans, Russians, Belgians, and Italians – all know each other, and nearly every evening there are brilliant entertainments, at which princes, dukes, marquesses, and counts attend as thickly as blackberries grace the hedgeside in autumn. The big hotels give dances weekly, to which everyone in Society is welcome. In fact, life in Bordighera is very similar to that in a pleasant country town in England, but with the difference that it is purely cosmopolitan, without any distinction of caste. Emperors, kings, grand-dukes, and reigning princes are all patrons of the place, and it certainly stands unique in the whole world both for its natural beauties and for its unpretentiousness. There is no artificial charm, as at Nice, San Remo, Monte Carlo, or Cannes. The easy-going people of Bordighera are well aware that the charm of their clean, white little town lies in its natural beauty and quaint old-world picturesqueness; hence, although the health and comfort of their foreign visitors are studied, no attempt is made to give it a false air of garishness and gaiety.

When at noon, two days after the Princess’s visit to me, I stepped from the sleeping-car that had brought me down from Paris, and, entering a fiacre, drove up to the Hôtel Angst, I turned back and saw before me a sunny panorama of turquoise sea and purple mountains, which compelled me to pause in rapt admiration. The grey-green of the olives, the brighter foliage of the oranges with the yellow fruit gleaming in the green, the high feathery palms waving in the zephyr, the flowers of every hue, the dazzlingly white town, and its background of grey inaccessible crags, snow-tipped here and there, behind Apricale, combined to make up a picture unique and superb.

I had been in Bordighera once before, but this second impression in no way destroyed the former. On several previous occasions I had spent a month or so in the South at Monte Carlo, Mentone, and Nice, but I must admit that I preferred King’s Road at Brighton to the Promenade des Anglais at Nice. Mentone I disliked because of its bath-chair invalids, San Remo because of its snobbery; and Monte Carlo, with all its jargon of the play, the eternal Casino, the band outside the Café de Paris, the clatter at Ciro’s, and the various pasteboard attractions, was to me only tolerable for a week. Bordighera, with better climate and a native population exceedingly well-disposed towards the English, possesses distinct advantages over them all, although it never advertises itself on railway-station hoardings, like Nice or San Remo, by means of posters in which the sea is the colour of washing-blue.

As I had not advised Edith of my coming, it being my intention to surprise her, it was not until after the dressing-bell had rung for dinner that evening that I went below. I watched her descend the staircase, a neat figure in cream, with corsage slightly décolleté, and with pink carnations in her hair. Then I approached her in the great hall and held out my hand.

She drew back in amazement. The next moment she welcomed me warmly, evidently under the impression that I had come there in order to forgive.

Aunt Hetty, looking quite spruce in black satin, and wearing a gay cap and an emerald brooch, came downstairs a few minutes later, and, after a brief explanation, we followed the others in to the table-d’hôte. As early arrivals, they had places near the head of the table, while mine was far down, near the end. Therefore, not until the meal was over, and we sat in rocking-chairs in the hall listening to the music, was I able to chat to her, and then nothing confidential could pass between us because of the other guests seated around, the men smoking and gossiping, and the women enjoying the lazy post-prandial hour before the arrival of the English mail with the two-days-old letters and newspapers.

After a long talk with her, mostly upon trivialities, I retired that night with a distinct impression that somehow my presence there was unwelcome. She had told me that they did not intend to remain much longer in Bordighera, and that they would either go on to Rome or back to England. I felt convinced that this decision had been suddenly arrived at since my advent.

On the following morning, after my coffee, I went forth for a stroll into the long high-street of the town, where, in the window of the British Vice-Consulate, was placed a board bearing a number of telegrams. I paused, finding that they gave the latest news of the war in the Transvaal, which was telegraphed from London twice daily. As I did so, another passer-by paused and eagerly peered into the window beside me.

He was a shabbily dressed Italian, smoking a long, rank Toscano, and as I turned away from the board my eyes fell suddenly upon his face.

It was Paolo Bertini.

Our recognition was mutual, and I saw in an instant that he became confused. He moved away, but I walked beside him.

“Why are you here?” I inquired in French with some warmth.

“I may put to you the same question,” he answered defiantly, his dark eyes flashing upon me with an evil gleam.

“Remember,” I said, “you have been already condemned as a French spy, although you are an Italian. They are not fond of French spies here, on the frontier.”

“What do you mean?” he cried, turning upon me quickly. “Is that a threat?”

“It is,” I answered boldly. “We have met now, and you must answer to me for several things.”

“For what?”

“For your recent actions as a spy.”

“You are extremely polite – like all the English,” he said sneeringly.

We had turned back and were walking in the direction of the hotel again.

“In this matter politeness is not necessary – only plain speaking,” I said. “First, I may tell you, for your own information, that I know well your methods and all about your assistance to your accomplice Wolf. Every action of yours during these past three months has been watched, and the truth is now known.”

His face went pale, but his nerve never deserted him. Even though I myself had once given him into the hands of the police, he was still the same scheming, desperate spy as he had ever been.

“Well,” he laughed, “if you know the truth I hope it interests you. You had best go back to Paris and not seek to interfere with me.”

“I came here for a purpose,” I told him plainly, “and that purpose was to find you and hand you over to the police as a French secret agent. In France you are secure, but here you will discover that your countrymen are not so well-disposed towards a traitor.”

“I have no fear of arrest,” he replied. “Do your worst, caro mio. You cannot harm me.”

“Very well,” I answered, “we shall see.”

He glanced at me quickly with an evil look. If he had dared he would have struck me down with the poignard which he kept always concealed in his belt. But he was a coward, I knew; therefore, I felt safe while among the crowd of gaily dressed promenaders who were enjoying the morning sunshine. If he made an attempt upon me, it would be in secret, not in the open.

“Shall I tell you why you are here?” he asked. “You have come to Bordighera to follow Edith Austin – just as I did.”

“And if so, what then?”

“Return to Paris. She is mine.”

“She shall never be!” I cried furiously. “You, a spy, a coward, and a traitor, hold her within your power, and are forcing her to become your catspaw. I know it all. I saw you that night at Ryburgh. I followed you. I made inquiries of her, and learned the truth.”

“What!” he cried, “she told you – she has dared to give me away?”

“I know all,” I answered firmly, “and your doom is imprisonment on the Island of Gorgona for the remainder of your life.”

“You exposed me once!” he cried in anger. “I have not forgotten it. We shall be quits one day.”

“We shall be quits this very day,” I asserted hotly.

“Ah!” he laughed defiantly, “that remains to be seen. You are jealous of Edith Austin,” he added with a supercilious sneer.

“She is your victim!” I cried, “and I have resolved to rescue her.”

“Because you think she is pure and honest, and that she loves you? But very soon you will discover your mistake.”

“Do you make an imputation against her honour?” I demanded fiercely.

He shrugged his shoulders meaningly, his face broadening into an evil grin.

“You are a coward in addition to being a spy and a traitor!” I declared. “You would even endeavour to besmirch a woman’s fair name.”

“Fair name!” he laughed insultingly. “Love like yours, amico mio, is always blind. You English are always so amusingly simple.”

“Come,” I said, halting suddenly when we had arrived at the small garden in the centre of which the band-stand is placed. As we were some distance away from the promenaders, we could not be overheard. “Enough has passed between us. I tell you plainly that it is my intention to end all this and to apply for your arrest as a spy.”

“And supposing I do not allow myself to be arrested? Suppose I cross the frontier at once?”

“A telegram to the police at Ventimiglia will prevent you,” I answered quite calmly. “You see that city guard yonder?” I said, pointing to a man in uniform standing not far off upon the kerb. “I have only now to demand your arrest, and you will never again enjoy freedom your whole life long.”

“But you don’t think I should be such a fool as to allow myself to be taken, do you?” he said, his air of defiance still perfect.