The Motor Maid Part 2

"Ah, but I can't stop out of England for ever, and I tell you she's waiting for me at Dover. A relative (a very eccentric one, and quite different from the rest of us, or he wouldn't have made his home abroad) has left me a house in Italy, some sort of old castle, I believe--so unsuitable! I'm going over to see about selling it for I've no one to trust but myself, owing to the circ.u.mstances of which I spoke. I want to get back as soon as possible--I hope in a few weeks, though how I shall manage without any Italian, heaven may know--I don't! Do you speak it?"

"A little."

"Well, I wish I could have you with me. You'd make a splendid companion for an old woman like me: young, good to look at, energetic (or you wouldn't be travelling about alone), brave (conquered your fear of Beau), accomplished (three languages, and goodness knows what besides!), presence of mind (the way you whisked my clothes off), handy (I never tasted better tea)--altogether you sum up ideally. What a pity you're rich, and out of the market!"

"If I look rich my appearance must be more distinguished than I supposed--and it's also very deceiving," said I.

"You're rich enough to travel for pleasure in _wagon-lits_, and have silver-fitted bags."

"I'm not travelling for pleasure. You exaggerate my bags and my _wagon-lits_, for I've only one of each; and both were given me by a friend who was at the Convent with me."

"The Convent! Good heavens! are you an escaping nun?"

I laughed. "I went to school at a Convent. That was when I thought I _was_ going to be rich--at least, rich enough to be like other girls.

And if I _am_ 'escaping' from something, it isn't from the arms of religion."

"If you're not rich, and aren't going to relatives, why not take an engagement with me? Come, I'm in earnest. I always make up my mind suddenly, if it's anything important, and hardly ever regret it. I'm sure we should suit. You've got no nonsense about you."

"Oh yes I have, lots!" I broke in. "That's all I have left--that, and my sense of humour. But seriously, you're very kind--to take me on faith like this--especially when you began by thinking me mysterious. I'd accept thankfully, only--I'm engaged already."

"To be married, I suppose you mean?"

"Thank heaven, no! To a Princess."

"Dear me, one would think you were a man hater!"

"So I am, a _one_-man hater. What Simpkins is to you, that man is to me.

And that's why I'm on my way to Cannes to be the companion of the Princess Boriskoff, who's said to be rather deaf and very quick-tempered, as well as elderly and a great invalid. She sheds her paid companions as a tree sheds its leaves in winter. I hear that Europe is strewn with them."

"Nice prospect for you!"

"Isn't it? But beggars mustn't be choosers."

"You don't look much like a beggar."

"Because I can make my own dresses and hats--and nightgowns."

"Well, if your Princess sheds you, let me know, and you may live yet to deliver me from Simpkins. I feel you'd be equal to it! My address is--but I'll give you a card." And, burrowing under her pillow, she unearthed a fat handbag from which, after some fumbling, she presented me with a visiting-card, enamelled in an old-fas.h.i.+oned way. I read: "Miss Paget, 34a Eaton Square. Broomlands House, Surrey."

"Now you're not to lose that," she impressed upon me. "Write if you're scattered over Europe by this Russian (I never did believe much in Princesses, excepting, of course, our _own_ dear Royalties), or if you ever come to England. Even if it's years from now, I a.s.sure you Beau and I won't have forgotten you. As for your address--"

"I haven't any," I said. "At present I'm depending on the Princess for one. She's at the Hotel Majestic Palace, Cannes; but from what my friend Pam--the Comtesse de Nesle--says, I fancy she doesn't stop long in any town. It was the Comtesse de Nesle who got me the place. She's the only one who knows where I'm going, because--after a fas.h.i.+on, I'm running away to be the Princess's companion."

"Running away from the Man?"

"Yes; also from my relatives who're sure it's my duty to be _his_ companion. So you see I can't give you their address. I've ceased to have any right to it. And now I really think I _had_ better go back to bed."

CHAPTER II

At half-past ten this morning we parted, the best of friends, and I dropped a good-bye kiss into the deep black gorge between the promontories of Beau's velvet forehead and plush nose.

We'd had breakfast together, Miss Paget and I, to say nothing of the dog, and I felt rather cheerful. Of course I dreaded the Princess; but I always did like adventures, and it appeared to me distinctly an adventure to be a companion, even in misery. Besides, it was nice to have come away from Monsieur Charretier, and to feel that not only did he not know where I was, but that he wasn't likely to find out. Poor me!

I little guessed what an adventure on a grand scale I was in for.

Already this morning seems a long time ago; a year at the Convent used to seem shorter.

I drove up to the hotel in the omnibus which was at the station, and asked at the office for the Princess Boriskoff. I said that I was Mademoiselle d'Angely, and would they please send word to the Princess, because she was expecting me.

It was a young a.s.sistant manager who received me, and he gave me a very queer, startled sort of look when I said this, as if I were a suspicious person, and he didn't quite know whether it would be better to answer me or call for help.

"I haven't made a mistake, have I?" I asked, beginning to be anxious.

"This _is_ the hotel where the Princess is staying, isn't it?"

"She was staying here," the youth admitted. "But--"

"Has she _gone_?"

"Not exactly."

"She must be either here or gone."

Again he regarded me with suspicion, as if he did not agree with my statement.

"Are you a relative of the Princess?" he inquired.

"No, I'm engaged to be her companion."

"Oh! If that is all! But perhaps, in any case, it will be better to wait for the manager. He will be here presently. I do not like to take the responsibility."

"The responsibility of what?" I persisted, my heart beginning to feel like a patter of rain on a tin roof.

"Of telling you what has happened."

"If something has happened, I can't wait to hear it. I must know at once," I said, with visions of all sorts of horrid things: that the Princess had decided not to have a companion, and was going to disown me; that my cousin Madame Milvaine had somehow found out everything; that Monsieur Charretier had got on my track, and was here in advance waiting to pounce upon me.

"It is a thing which we do not want to have talked about in the hotel,"

the young man hesitated.

"I a.s.sure you I won't talk to any one. I don't know any one to talk to."

"It is very distressing, but the Princess Boriskoff died about four o'clock this morning, of heart failure."

"Oh!" ... I could not get out another word.

"These things are not liked in hotels, even when not contagious."