The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан
Forest wherein Napoleon the Great loved to roam alone and think out fresh conquests.
Seeing the “Sister” hurrying towards me, I got down, wondering if she meant to speak.
“Pardon, m’sieur,” she exclaimed in musical French, rendered almost breathless by her quick walk, “but is this the automobile of M’sieur Bellingham, of London?”
I raised my eyes, and saw before me a face more pure and perfect in its beauty than any I had ever seen before. Contrary to what I had believed, she was quite young—certainly not more than nineteen—with a pair of bright dark eyes which had quite a soupçon of mischief in them. For a moment I stood speechless before her.
And she was a nun! Surely in the seclusion of the religious houses all over the Continent the most beautiful of women live and languish and die. Had she escaped from one of the convents in the neighbourhood? Had she grown tired of prayers, penances, and the shrill tongue of some wizen-faced Mother Superior?
Her dancing eyes belied her religious habit, and as she looked at me in eager inquiry, and yet with modest demeanour, I felt that I had already fallen into a veritable vortex of mystery.
“Yes,” I replied, also in French, for fortunately I could chatter that most useful of all languages, “this car belongs to M’sieur Bellingham, and if I am not mistaken, Mademoiselle is named Pierrette?”
“Yes, m’sieur,” she replied quickly. “Oh, I have been waiting half an hour for you, and I’ve been so afraid of being seen. I—I thought—you were never coming—and I wondered whatever I was to do.”
“I was delayed, mademoiselle. I have come straight from London.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling, “you look as though you have come a long way;” and she noticed that the car was very dusty, with splashes of dried mud here and there.
“You are coming to Monte Carlo with me,” I said, “but you cannot travel in that dress—can you? Mr. Bellingham has sent you something,” I added, taking out the cardboard box.
Quickly she opened it, and drew out a lady’s motor-cap and veil with a talc front, and a big, heavy, fur-lined coat.
For a moment she looked at them in hesitation. Then, glancing up and down the road to see if she were observed, she took off her religious headdress and collar, twisted around her neck the silk scarf she found in the box, pinned on her hat and adjusted her veil in such a manner that it struck me she was no novice at motoring, even though she were a nun, and then, with my assistance, she struggled into the fur-lined coat.
The stiff linen cap and collar she screwed up and put into the cardboard box, and then, fully equipped for the long journey South, she asked—
“May I come up beside you? I’d love to ride in front.”
“Most certainly, mademoiselle,” I replied. “It won’t then be so lonely for either of us. We can talk.”
In her motor-clothes she was certainly a most dainty and delightful little companion. The hat, veil, and coat had completely transformed her. From a demure little nun she had in a few moments blossomed forth into a piquante little girl, who seemed quite ready to set theconvenances at naught as long as she enjoyed herself.
From the business-like manner in which she wrapped the waterproof rug about her skirts and tucked it in herself, I saw that this was not the first time by many that she had been in the front seat of a car.
But a few moments later, when she had settled herself, and I had given her a pair of goggles and helped her to adjust them, I also got up, and we moved away again along that long white highway that traverses France by Sens, Dijon, Maçon, Lyons, Valence, and Digue, and has its end at the rocky shore of the blue Mediterranean at Cannes—that land of flowers and flashy adventurers, which the French term the Côte d’Azur.
From the very first, however, the pretty Pierrette—for her beauty had certainly not been exaggerated by Bindo—was an entire mystery—a mystery which seemed to increase hourly, as you will quickly realise.
II
PIERRETTE TELLS HER STORY
Pierrette Dumont—for that was her name, she told me—proved a most charming and entertaining companion, and could, I found, speak English quite well.
She had lived nearly seven years in England—in London, Brighton, and other places—and as we set the car along that beautiful road that runs for so many miles beside the Yonne, she told me quite a lot about herself.
Her admiration for M’sieur Bellingham was very pronounced. It was not difficult to see that this pretty girl, who, I supposed, had escaped from her convent, was madly in love with the handsome Bindo. The Count was a sad lady-killer, and where any profit was concerned was a most perfect lover, as many a woman possessed of valuable jewels had known to her cost. From the pretty Pierrette’s bright chatter, I began to wonder whether or not she was marked down as a victim. She had met the gay Bindo in Paris, it seemed, but how and in what circumstances, having regard to her religious habit, she did not inform me.
That Bindo was using the name of Bellingham showed some chicanery to be in progress.
By dint of careful questioning I tried to obtain from her some facts concerning her escape from the convent, but she would tell me nothing regarding it. All she replied was—
“Ah! M’sieur Bellingham! How kind and good he is to send you for me—to get me clean away from that hateful place!” and then, drawing a deep breath, she added, “How good it is to be free again—free!”
The car was tearing along, the rush of wind already bringing the colour to her soft, delicate cheeks. The bulb of a wind-horn was at her side, and she sat with her hands upon it, sounding a warning note whenever necessary as we flashed through the long string of villages between Sens and Chatillon. The wintry landscape was rather dull and cheerless, yet with her at my side I began to find the journey delightful. There is nothing so dreary, depressing, and monotonous as to cross France alone in a car without a soul to speak to all day through.
“I wonder when we shall arrive at Monte Carlo?” she queried presently in English, with a rather pronounced accent, turning her fresh, smiling face to me—a face that was typically French, and dark eyes that were undeniably fine.
“It all depends upon accidents,” I laughed. “With good fortune we ought to be there to-morrow night—that is, if we keep going, and you are not too tired.”
“Tired? No. I love motoring! It will be such fun to go on all night,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “And what a fine big lamp you’ve got! I’ve never been in Monte Carlo, and am so anxious to see it. I’ve read so much about it—and the gambling. M’sieur Bellingham said they will not admit me to the Casino, as I’m too young. Do you think they will?”
“I don’t think there is any fear,” I laughed. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen next birthday.”
“Well, tell them you are twenty-one, and they will give you a card. The paternal administration don’t care who or what you are as long as you are well dressed and you have money to lose. At Monte Carlo you must always keep up an appearance. I’ve known a millionaire to be refused admittance because his trousers were turned up.”
At this she laughed, and then lapsed into a long silence, for on a stretch of wide, open road I was letting the car rip, and at such a pace it was well-nigh impossible to talk.
A mystery surrounded my chic little travelling-companion which I could not make out.
At about two o’clock in the afternoon we pulled up just beyond the little town of Chauceaux, about thirty miles from Dijon, and there ate our cold provisions, washing them down with a bottle of red wine. She was hungry, and ate with an appetite, laughing merrily, and thoroughly enjoying the adventure.
“I was so afraid this morning that you were not coming,” she declared.“I was there at seven, quite an hour before you were due. And when