CHAPTER VI PLACES ME IN A PREDICAMENT

"I think him a most sociable old fellow," I answered, in response to Ulrica's inquiry when we returned to the hotel.

"But awfully eccentric," she said. "Gerald always complains that he finds it impossible to make both ends meet upon his allowance."

"He may surely be forgiven that," I said. "After all, he's an excellent type of the prosperous worker."

"He showed you his ivory-turning, I suppose?" she observed, with a slight sneer. "I see he's given you a puff-box."

"Yes, he turned it while I waited."

"It's really absurd," she declared, "that a man of his enormous means should still continue to work as he does. Gerald tells me that he has secret workshops in all his houses, and spends the greater part of his time in turning, just as any workman would do. No doubt he's a bit wrong in the head. His wealth has crushed him."

"I think you judge him too harshly, my dear," I responded. "All master-minds have their hobbies. His hobby is quite a harmless one; merely to return to the trade to which he was apprenticed long ago."

She smiled with some sarcasm.

Then we parted, and retired to bed.

Day by day for many days we went over to Monte Carlo; why I can scarcely tell. All visitors to Nice drift there, as if by the natural law of gravitation, and we were no exception. Even though our memories of the Sign of the Seven Sins were painful on account of poor Reggie's mysterious death, we nevertheless found distraction in the Rooms, the crowds, and the music. Sometimes Gerald would act as our escort, and at others we went over alone after luncheon and risked half-a-dozen louis at the tables with varying success. We met quite a host of people we knew, for the season was proceeding apace, and the nearness of the Carnival attracted our compatriots from all over Europe.

And as the days passed, my eyes were ever watchful. Truth to tell, Monte Carlo had an attraction for me, not because of its picturesqueness or its play, but because I knew that in that feverish little world there lived and moved the man who held my future in his hands. In the Rooms, in the "Paris," in the Place, and in the Gardens I searched for sight of him, but alas! always in vain. I bought the various visitors' lists, but failed to discover that he was staying at any of the villas or hotels. Yet I knew he was there, for had I not seen him with my own eyes—had I not seen him smile upon the woman who was my rival?

The papers continued to comment upon the mystery surrounding poor Reggie's tragic death, yet beyond a visit from the British Consul, who proved to be a nice old gentleman, and who obtained a statement from us regarding his friends in London, and who took possession of certain effects found in his room, absolutely nothing fresh transpired.

It was early in February, that month when Nice puts on its annual air of gaiety in preparation for the reign of the King of Folly; when the streets are bright with coloured decoration, great stands are erected in the Place Massena, and the shops of the Avenue de la Gare are ablaze with Carnival costumes in the two colours previously decided upon by the Committee. Though Nice may be defective from a sanitary point of view, and her authorities churlish towards foreign visitors, nevertheless in early February it is certainly the gayest and most charming spot on the whole Riviera. The very streets, full of life and movement, are sweet with the perfume of roses, violets and mimosa; and at a time when the rest of Europe is held frost-bound, summer costumes and sunshades are the mode, while men wear their straw hats and flannels upon that finest of all sea-walks, the palm-planted Promenade des Anglais.

Poor Reggie's brother, a doctor in Aberdeen, had arrived to obtain a personal account of the mystery, which, of course, we gave. Gerald also conducted him to the grave in the English cemetery, on which he laid a beautiful wreath, and, while there, gave orders for a handsome monument. Then after remaining three days, he returned to Scotland.

Meanwhile, we became frequent guests at the Villa Fabron, dining there often, and being always received cordially by the old millionaire. The secretary, Barnes, appeared to me to rule the household, for he certainly placed himself more in evidence than ever did his employer, and I could see that the relations between Gerald and this factotum of his father were somewhat strained. He was a round-faced man of about thirty-five, dark, clean-shaven, with a face that was quite boyish-looking, but with a pair of small eyes that I did not like. I always distrust persons with small eyes.

From his manner, however, I gathered that he was a shrewd, hard-headed man of business, and even Gerald himself had to admit that he fulfilled the duties of his post admirably. Of course, I came into contact with him very little. Now and then we met on the Promenade, or in the Quai St. Jean Baptiste, and he raised his hat in passing, or he might happen to encounter us at the Villa when we visited there, but save on these occasions, I had not spoken to him a dozen words.

"He has the face of a village idiot, with eyes like a Scotland Yard detective," was Ulrica's terse summary of his appearance, and it was an admirable description.

On the Sunday afternoon when the first Battle of Confetti was fought, we went out in our satin dominoes of mauve and old gold—the colours of that year—and had glorious fun pelting all and sundry with paper confetti, or whirling serpentines among the crowd in the Avenue de la Gare. Those who have been in Nice during Carnival know the wild gaiety of that Sabbath, the procession of colossal cars and grotesque figures, the ear-splitting bands, the ridiculous costumes of the maskers, the buoyant fun and the good humour of everybody in that huge cosmopolitan crowd.

Gerald was with us, as well as a young American named Fordyce, whom we had known in London, and who was now staying at the Beau Site, over at Cannes. With our sacks containing confetti slung over our shoulders, and the hoods of our bright dominoes over our heads, and wearing half masks of black velvet, we mixed with the crowd the whole of that afternoon, heartily enjoying the fun.

I confess that I enjoyed, and shall always, I hope, enjoy the Nice Carnival immensely. Many constant visitors condemn it as a tawdry tinsel show, and leave Nice for a fortnight in order to escape the uproar and boisterous fun; but after all, even though the air of recklessness would perchance shock some of the more puritanical in our own land, there is nevertheless an enormous amount of harmless and healthy amusement to be derived from it. It is only sour spinsters and the gouty who really object to Carnival. Regular visitors to the Riviera condemn it merely because it is good form to condemn everything vulgar. They used to enjoy it until its annual repetition became wearisome.

After the fight with confetti, during which our hair and dominoes got sadly tumbled, we struggled through the crowd to the hotel; and while Gerald went along to the café outside the Casino to wait for us, we dressed.

Felicita was an unconscionable time in doing my hair—her head was full of the Carnival fever, I think—and when I entered our sitting-room I found Ulrica, ready dressed, seated on a low stool in a picturesque attitude, lazily cooling herself with her fan of feathers. The disengaged bare arm, with its jingling bangles, was gracefully raised, the taper fingers were endeavouring, without much success, to adjust a stray lock of hair. It was a favourite gesture of Ulrica's, for her hands were lovely, white and slender, and covered with rings, which she was fond of displaying. The rosy light from the shaded lamp fell kindly upon her, so that she made an extremely pretty picture.

She was talking as I entered, and in the dim light I discovered a man sitting on the ottoman. I was about to retreat, when she recalled me, and introduced me with a little laugh, to Cecil Ormrod, who had called at that rather inconvenient moment. She appeared to be by no means displeased at having been surprised in a tête-à-tête with him. It was a notification that she had pegged out her claim.

He was tall, manly, and well-shaped, and his voice was pleasant. Ulrica looked at me with a curious smile, as if to say: "Don't you think I have shown good taste?" Then holding out her hand for his aid in rising, she said to him:

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Ormrod, but we are just going out to dinner. I know you'll excuse us. You'll look in and see us to-morrow. You must, you know—you're staying at the 'Anglais,' and it's close by."

Then, turning to me, she added:

"Come, dear, we must make haste. It's awfully late, and old Mr. Keppel will never forgive us if the soup comes up cold."

So young Cecil Ormrod made his adieux and departed, promising to call on us again.

"Cecil is an awfully nice boy," Ulrica remarked. "I met him at a country house-party two years ago. His father is a stockbroker and his sisters are particularly jolly. We must be nice to him."

"You've already begun," I remarked, rather spitefully perhaps. But she only smiled.

Then we descended by the lift and joined Gerald, whom we found walking up and down impatiently in the hall.

Quite a host of smart people dined at the Villa Fabron that evening, including several pretty English girls. A millionaire never lacks friends. Old Benjamin Keppel was something of a recluse. It was not often that he sent out so many invitations, but when he gave a dinner he spared no expense, and the one in honour of Carnival was truly a gastronomic marvel. The table was decorated with mauve and old gold, the Carnival colours; and the room, which was draped with satin of the same shades, presented a mass of blended hues particularly striking.

The old millionaire, seated at the head of his table, in his breezy, open-hearted manner made everyone happy at once.

Both Ulrica and I wore new frocks, which we considered were the latest triumphs of our Nice couturière—they certainly ought to have been, if they were not, for their cost was ruinous—and there were also quite a number of bright dresses and good-looking men. The day is gone, I am glad to say, when a mode, because it is decreed to be the fashion, is blindly adopted. Women realise at last that to achieve the happiest results they must make Fashion subservient to their requirements, instead of foolishly following in her wake, as for years they have been wont to do.

As I sat there amid the gay chatter of the table, I looked at the lean, grey-bearded man at its head, and fell into reflection. How strange it was that this man, worth millions, actually toiled in secret each day at his lathe to earn a few shillings a week from an English firm as pocket-money! All his gay friends who sat around his table were ignorant of that fact. He only revealed it to those in whom he placed trust—and I was one of the latter.

After dinner we all went forth into the gardens, which were illuminated everywhere with coloured lights and lanterns, and wandered beneath the orange trees, joking and chattering.

A rather insipid young prig was at first my companion, but presently I found myself beside old Mr. Keppel, who walked at my side far down the slope, till at last we came to the dark belt of olives which formed the boundary of his domain. Villas on the Riviera do not usually possess extensive grounds, but the Villa Fabron was an exception, for the gardens ran down almost to the well-known white sea-road that leads along from Nice to the mouth of the Var.

"How charming!" I exclaimed, as, turning back, we gazed upon the long terrace hung with Japanese lanterns, and the moving figures smoking, taking their coffee, and chattering.

"Yes," the old man laughed. "I have to be polite to them now and then; but after all, Miss Rosselli, they don't come here to visit me—only to spend a pleasant evening. Society expects me to entertain, so I have to. But I confess that I never feel at home among all these folk, as Gerald does."

"I fear you are becoming just a little world-weary," I said, smiling.

"Becoming? Why, I was tired of it all years ago," he answered, glancing at me with a serious expression in his deep-set eyes. It seemed as though he wished to confide in me, and yet dared not do so.

"Why not try a change?" I suggested. "You have the Vispera lying at Villefranche. Why not take a trip in her up the Mediterranean?"

"No," he sighed. "I hate yachting, for I have nothing on board wherewith to occupy my time. After a couple of days I always go ashore at the nearest port. The trip round from Portsmouth here each winter is always a misery to me."

"And you keep such a beautiful craft idle!" I observed, in a tone of reproach.

"You've seen it?"

"Yes, Gerald took us on board a few days ago, and showed us over. It's like a small Atlantic liner."

"Everyone says she's a handsome boat," the old fellow remarked carelessly. Then he added: "Are you fond of the sea?"

"Passionately. I always regret when the Channel passage is finished."

"Perhaps you would like to go on a cruise in the Vispera?" he said. "If you would, I should be very pleased to take you. I might invite a party for a run, say, to Naples or Smyrna and back."

"I should be delighted," I answered enthusiastically, for yachting was one of my favourite pastimes, and on board such a magnificent craft, one of the finest private vessels afloat, life would be most enjoyable.

"Very well, I'll see what I can arrange," he answered; and then we fell to discussing other things.

He smoked thoughtfully as he strolled beside me, his mind evidently much preoccupied. The stars were bright overhead, the night balmy and still, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. It was hard to believe that it was actually mid-winter.

"I fear," he said at last—"I fear, Miss Rosselli, that you find me a rather lonely man, don't you?"

"You have no reason to be lonely," I responded. "Surrounded by all these friends, your life might surely be very gay if you wished."

"Friends? Bah!" he cried, in a tone of ridicule. "There's an attraction in money that is irresistible. These people here, all of them, bow down before the golden calf. Sometimes, Miss Rosselli, I have thought that there's no real honesty of purpose in the world."

"I'm afraid you are a bit of a cynic," I laughed.

"And if I am, may I not be forgiven?" he urged. "I can assure you I find life very dull indeed."

It was a strange confession coming from the lips of such a man. If I had only a sixteenth part of his wealth I should, I reflected, be a very happy woman—unless the common saying were actually true, that great wealth only creates unbearable burdens.

"You are not the only one who finds life wearisome," I observed frankly, "I also have to plead guilty to the indictment on many occasions."

"You?" he cried, halting, and regarding me in surprise. "You—young, pretty, vivacious, with ever so many men in love with you? And you are tired of it all—tired of it while still in your twenties? Impossible!"