[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
wagon-lit man. Then -- who knows? -- there
might even be a chance to kill Grey. He
waited till the last moment before he
boarded the train.
The train would stop at Moret-les-
Sablons; by that time the beds would be
made up; he would have plenty of time to
act; he could go on to Rome if necessary.
Cyril Grey, away from the influence of
Simon Iff, had become the sarcastic sphinx
once more. He was wearing a travelling suit
with knickerbockers, but he still affected
the ultra-pontifical diplomatist.
"The upholstery of these cars is
revolting," he said to Lisa, with a glance of
disgust. And he suddenly opened the door
away from the platform and lifted her on to
the permanent way; thence into a stuffy
compartment in the train that was standing
at the next "Voie."
"A frosty moonlight night like this," he
said, pulling a large black pipe from his
pocket and filling [127] it, "indicates (to
romantic lovers like ourselves) the
propriety of a descent at Moret, a walk to
Barbizon through the forest, a return to
Moret by a similar route in a day or so, and
the pursuance of our journey to Naples. See
Naples and die!" he added musingly,
"decidedly a superior programme."
Lisa would have listened to a
proposition to begin their travels by
swimming the Seine, on the ground that the
day after to-morrow would be Friday; so
she raised no objection. But she could not
help saying that they would have reached
Moret more quickly by the rapide.
"My infant child!" he returned; " the
celebrated Latin poet Quintus Horatius
Flaccus has observed, for our edification
and behoof, 'Festina lente.' This epigram
has been translated by a famous Spanish
author, 'manana.' Dante adds his testimony
to truth in his grandiose outburst, 'Domani.'
Also, an Arab philosopher, whom I
personally revere, remarks, if we may trust
the assertion of Sir Richard Francis Burton,
K.C.M.G. -- and why should we not? --
'Conceal thy tenets, thy treasure, and thy
travelling!' This I do. More so," he
concluded cryptically, "than you imagine!"
They were still waiting for their local
funeral (which the French grandiloquently
describe as a train) to start when Dr.
Balloch returned radiant to the Rue
Quincampoix.
Douglas was on the alert to receive him.
The news took only a second to
communicate.
"Marcel Dufour!" cried S.R.M.D. "We
shall drink for him, as he may not drink on
duty."
He carefully opened two bottles of
whisky, mixed the stale spirit in the magic
saucer with their contents, and bade
Balloch join him at the table.
"Your very good health, Marcel Dufour!"
cried Douglas. "And mind you drive
carefully!" [128] Balloch and he now set to
work steadily to drain the two bottles -- a
stiff nip every minute -- but the stuff had
no effect on them. It was far otherwise
with the man on the engine.
Almost before he had well left Paris
behind him, he began to fret about the
furnace, and told his fireman to keep up
the fullest head of steam. At Melun the
train should have slackened speed; instead,
it increased it. The signalman at
Fontainebleau was amazed to see the
rapide rush through the station, eight
minutes ahead of time, against the signals.
He saw the driver grappling with the
fireman, who was thrown from the foot-
plate a moment after, but escaped with a
broken leg.
"My mate went suddenly mad," the
injured man explained later. "He held up a
five-franc piece which some old gentleman
had given him, and swore that the devil
had promised him another if he made Dijon
in two hours. (And, as you know, it is five,
what horror!)."
He grew afraid, saw the signals set at
danger, and sprang to the lever. Then that
poor crazed Dufour had thrown him off the
train.
The guard was new to that section of
the line, and so, no doubt, too timid to
take the initiative; he certainly should have
applied the brakes, even at Melun.
An hour later Cyril Grey and Lisa and all
their fellow passengers were turned out at
Fontainebleau. There had been a terrible
disaster to the Paris-Rome rapide at Moret.
The line would be blocked all night.
"This contretemps," said Cyril, as if he
had heard of a change of programme at a
theatre, "will add appreciably to the length
-- and, may I add, to the romance -- of our
proposed walk.
When they reached Moret more than
three hours [129] later, they found the
rapide inextricably tangled with a heavy
freight train. It had left the line at the
curve and crashed into the slower train.
Cyril Grey had still a surprise in store. He
produced a paper of some sort from his
pocket, which the officer of the police
cordon received in the manner of the infant
Samuel when overwhelmed by the gift of
prophecy. He made way for them with
proud deference.
They had not to walk far before the
magician found what he was seeking.
Beneath the ruins of the rear compartment
were the remains of the late Akbar Pasha.
"I wonder how that happened," he said.
"However, here is a guess at your epitaph:
'a little learning is a dangerous thing.' I
think, Lisa, that we should sup at the
Cheval Blanc before we start our walk to
Barbizon. It is a long way, especially at
night, and we want to cut away to the west
so as to avoid Fontainebleau, for the sake
of the romance of the thing."
Lisa did not mind whether she supped at
the White Horse, or on one. She realized
that she had hold of a man of strength,
wisdom, and foresight, far more than a
match for their enemies.
He stopped to speak to the officer in
charge of the cordon as they passed him.
"Among the dead: Mr. and Mrs. Cyril Grey.
English people. No flowers. Service of the
minister."
The officer promised to record the lie
officially. His deference was amazing. Lisa
perceived that her lover had been at the
pains to arm himself with more than one
kind of weapon.
Lisa pressed his arm, and murmured her
appreciation of his cleverness.
"It won't deceive Douglas for two
minutes, if he be, as I suspect, the
immediate Hound of the Baskervilles, but
he may waste some time rejoicing [130]
over my being such an ass as to try it; and
that's always a gain."
Lisa began to wonder whether her best
chance of ever saying the right thing would
not be to choose the wrong. His point of
view was always round the corner of her
street! [131]
CHAPTER X
HOW THEY GATHERED THE SILK FOR THE
WEAVING OF THE BUTTERFLY-NET
CYRIL GREY made the midnight
invocation to the Sun-God, Khephra, the
Winged Beetle, upon the crest of the Long
Rocher; and he made the morning
invocation to the Sun-God, Ra, the Hawk,
upon the heights that overlooked the
hamlet of Barbizon.
Thence, like Chanticleer himself, he
woke the people of the Inn, who, in
memory of the days Stevenson had spent
with them, honour his ashes by emulating
the morality of Long John Silver.
They were prepared for the breakfast
order; but Cyril's requirement, a long-
distance call to Paris, struck them as
unseasonable and calculated to disturb the
balance of the Republic. They asked
themselves if the Dreyfus case were come
again. However, Cyril got his call, and
Simon Iff his information, before seven
o'clock. Long before Douglas, who had
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]