I was annoyed with the child. I felt that he fully deserved to be taken at his word, and deserted on the Pa.s.s, but I had not the heart to punish him. If anything should happen to the poor Babe in the Wood, I should never forgive myself; and besides, it would have been hopeless to seek sleep, with visions of disaster to this strange Little Pal of mine painting my brain red.
"Of course I won"t do anything of the kind," I said crossly. "If one party goes on, both will go on." I then snappishly ordered food of some sort, any sort--except chocolate,--and having, after a blank interval, obtained enough bread, cheese, and ham for at least ten persons, I divided the rations with Joseph and Innocentina, who had now come up.
We had a short halt for rest and refreshment, taken simultaneously, and presently set out again, with a vague idea of plodding on as far as Orsieres. The Boy refused so obstinately to ride his donkey (I believe because I must go on foot), that Innocentina, thwarted, did frightful execution among her favourite saints. Joseph reproved her; she retorted by calling him a black heretic, and vowing that she had a right to talk as she pleased to her own saints; it was not his affair.
Thus it was that our chastened cavalcade left the "Dejeuner."
After this, our journey was punctuated by frequent pauses. The donkeys were tired; everybody was cross; the calm indifference of the glorious night was as irritating as must have been the "icily regular, splendidly null" perfection of Maud herself.
Only the Boy kept up any pretence of spirits, and I knew well that his counterfeited buoyancy was merely to distract attention from guilt. If it had not been for him, we should all have been tucked away in some corner or other of the "Dejeuner." No doubt he would have dropped, had he not feared an "I told you so."
We were still some miles on the wrong side of Orsieres, when Innocentina came running up from behind, exclaiming that a dreadful thing, an appalling thing, had happened. No, no, not an accident to Joseph Marcoz. A trouble far worse than that. Nothing to the _mulet ou les anes_. Ah, but how could she break the news? It was that in some way--some mad, magical way only to be accounted for by the intervention of evil spirits, probably attracted by the heretic presence of Joseph--the _rucksack_ containing the fitted bag had disappeared. If she were to be killed for it, she--Innocentina--could not tell how this great calamity had occurred.
I thought that after such an alarming preface, the Boy would laugh when the mountain had brought forth its mouse, but he did no such thing. His little face looked anxious and forlorn in the white moonlight. And all for a mere bag, which was an absurd article of luggage, at best, for an excursion such as his!
"I _can"t_ lose it," he said. "There are things in it which I wouldn"t have anyone"s--which I couldn"t replace."
"Your sister the Princess will buy you another," I tried to console him.
"This is her bag. She would feel dreadfully if it were gone. Besides, my diary-notes for the book I want to write are in it. I would give a thousand dollars to get it again--or more. I shall have to go back."
"No, you won"t," I said. "As to that, I shall put my foot down. If anyone goes----"
"n.o.body shall go but myself. I won"t have it. I----"
"And I won"t have you go, if I"m forced to s.n.a.t.c.h you up and put you in my pocket. When I get you safely to Orsieres, I don"t mind a bit----"
"No, no, you needn"t say it. If we must go on to Orsieres, I"ll pay someone to come back from there, and search."
"Why shouldn"t I be the one? I"m not tired, only rather cross, and for all you know, I may be in urgent need of the reward you mean to offer."
"You must be satisfied with your virtue. I"ve my own reasons, and--and I suppose I"m my own master?"
"By Jove!" I exclaimed, laughing. "Eton would have done you a lot of good. You would have had some of your girly whims knocked out of you there, my kid."
"I wonder if that _would_ have done me good?"
"It isn"t too late to try. You haven"t pa.s.sed the age."
"I dare say travelling about with you will have much the same effect,"
said the Boy, suddenly become an imp again. "I think I"ll just "sample" that experiment first. But I _do_ want my bag."
"Dash your bag! I"ll lend you some night things out of the mule-pack.
The lost treasure is sure to turn up again, like all bad pennies, to-morrow."
We reached Orsieres and roused the people of the inn with comparative ease. They could give us accommodation, but the man of the house looked dubious when he heard that a runner must at once be found to search for a travelling bag, lost n.o.body knew where.
"To-morrow morning, when it is light----" he began; but Boy cut him short. "To-morrow morning may be too late. I will give five thousand francs to whoever finds my bag, and brings it back with everything in it undisturbed."
The man opened his eyes wide, and I formed my lips into a silent whistle. I thought the Boy exceedingly foolish to name such a reward, when the bag and its gold fittings could not have been worth more than a hundred pounds, and an offer of three hundred francs would have been ample. What could the strange little person have in his precious bag, which he valued as the immediate jewel of his soul? and why would he not let me be the one to find it, thus keeping his five thousand francs in his pocket! He "had his reasons," forsooth! However, it was not my business.
[Ill.u.s.tration: "LOOKING OUT OF THE WINDOW I SAW HIM IN CONVERSATION".]
It must have been after three o"clock by the time I fell asleep in a queer little room where you had but to sit up in bed and stretch out your arm to reach anything you wanted. I dreamed of journeying through the night with the Boy, but I forgot his lost bag: nor when I waked in full morning light, did I recall its tragic disappearance. I found that it was nearly eight, and bounded out of bed, performing my toilet with maimed rites, since baths were not _comme il faut_ at Orsieres.
"The kid will be asleep still, I"ll bet," I said to myself; but looking out of the window at that moment, I saw him in conversation with Joseph, Innocentina, and--apparently--half the inhabitants of the village.
I hurried down, and learned that the bag--still a lost bag--had set all Orsieres on fire with excitement. The searchers had returned empty-handed, having gone back as far as the Cantine de Proz; and on the oath of Innocentina (more than one, alas!), the _rucksack_ and its contents had been secure on the grey back of Souris when we pa.s.sed the Cantine. Desolate as was the Great St. Bernard at night, late as had been the hour when the bag vanished, evidently someone had found and gone off with it. Nevertheless, many young persons of both s.e.xes were eager to try their luck in a second quest.
The Boy, who had been up for hours, had it in mind to wait at Orsieres until his treasure should be found, or hope abandoned; but I suggested going on at once to Martigny. There, we could have handbills printed, offering a large reward, and these could be distributed over the country. The diligence drivers would help in the work, and we could also advertise in a local paper. To this proposal the Little Pal consented; and we started off again upon our way, a sadder if not a wiser party.
It was late afternoon when we straggled into Martigny. Now, our far away Alpine Rome with its crumbling towers and castles, our remote heights where a grey monastery was ever mirrored in the blue eye of the mountain lake, seemed like phases of a dream.
Friends of the Boy"s (nameless to me, like all links with his outside life) had stopped lately at the hotel where Molly, Jack, and I had stayed; he therefore proposed to go to the same house, and this jumped with my inclination: for the hotel had a cheerful and home-like individuality which I liked.
Pitying the Little Pal"s distress, though I chaffed him for it, I undertook the business of getting out the handbills I had suggested, and arranging for an advertis.e.m.e.nt in a paper with a local circulation. I had to visit the post-office, engaging in a long discussion with the officials who controlled the diligence, and the business occupied more than an hour. In mercy to Boy, I had not delayed for any selfish attention to personal comfort, and tramping back through an inch of white dust to the hotel, I was still as travel-worn as on our arrival in the town, nearly two hours ago. I had forbidden the tired child to accompany me, and by this time he would no doubt be refreshed with a bath and a change of clothing, as, fortunately, not all his personal belongings had been contained in the ill-fated bag. He would be impatiently waiting for me at the hotel door, perhaps; and I quickened my steps, in haste to give him details of my doings.
Entering the garden, I had to bound onto the gra.s.s, to escape being run over by a pair of horses prancing round the curve, at my back. I turned with a basilisk glare intended for the coachman, but instead met the astonished gaze of the very last eyes I could possibly have expected. My glare melted into a smile, but not one of my best, though the eyes which called it forth were alluringly beautiful.
"Contessa!" I exclaimed. "Is this you, or your astral body?"
"Lord Lane!" the lovely lady-of-the-eyes responded. "But no, it is not possible!"
Just as I was about to protest that it was not only possible, but certain, I caught sight of the Boy, in the doorway. As, at the Contessa"s word, the carriage came to a sudden halt, she reaching out to me two little grey suede hands, the slim figure at the door drew back a step, as if involuntarily; but there was no getting round it, my Italian beauty had made Boy a present of my name, whether he wanted it or not.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER XV
Enter the Contessa
"She was the smallest lady alive, Made in a piece of nature"s madness, Too small, almost, for the life and gladness That over-filled her."
--ROBERT BROWNING.
Here was a case of Mahomet, _en route_ to pay his respects to the Mountain, being met halfway by the object of his pilgrimage; though to liken the Contessa di Ravello to a mountain is perhaps to brutalise a poetic license. She is a fairy of a woman, a pocket Venus. Gaeta is her name, and her sponsors in baptism must have been endowed with prophetic souls, for she is the very spirit of irresponsible, childlike gaiety.
Not that she has a sense of humour. There is all the difference in the world between a sense of humour and a sense of fun, and truth to tell, the Contessa had no more humour than a frolicsome kitten. She had always been in a frolic of some sort, when I had known her in Davos, whither she had gone because she thought it would be "what you call a lark"; and she was in a frolic now, judging by her merry laughter when she saw me.
Her great wine-brown eyes were laughing, her full, cupid-lips were laughing, and more than all, the two deep, round dimples in the olive cheeks were laughing. Even the little rings of black hair on her low forehead seemed to quiver with mirth, as her head moved with quick, bird-like gestures. She was dressed all in grey, and the cut-steel b.u.t.tons on her dress twinkled as if they too were in the joke.
"Fancy meeting you here, of all places!" she said, in her pretty English, lisping but correct. "It is a good gift from the saints. We have had such stupid adventures, and we have been so bored."
"We" were evidently the handsome, slightly moustached women of thirty-five, and the thin, darkly dour man of fifty who were with the Contessa in the carriage; and a moment later she had introduced me to the Baron and Baronessa di Nivoli. I echoed the name with some interest. "Have I the pleasure of meeting the inventor of the new air-ship which is so much talked about?" I asked.
"That is my brother Paolo," replied the Baron, unbending slightly.