The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (book recommendations .TXT) 📖

Would Not Have

Fallen In Love With Helen Blantock Had I First Met Her In Aosta.

 

The Boy And I Agreed That Our Head Waiter Was One Of The Nicest Men We

Had Ever Met, And When He Pledged His Personal Honour That A Day's

Wandering Among Neighbouring Castles Would Be "Very Repaying," We

Determined To Bolt The Five He Most Recommended In One Gulp, On Our

Second And Last Afternoon. If He Could, He Would Have Sent Us Spinning

Like Teetotums From One Concentric Ring Of Historic Châteaux To

Another, Until Goodness Knows How Far From Aosta, Finois, Souris, And

Fanny-Anny, We Should Have Ended. He Would Also Have Despatched Us On

A Two Or Three Days' Excursion To Courmayeur; And I Fear That His

Respect For Us Went Down Like Mercury In A Chilled Thermometer, When

He Understood That We Had Not Come To The Country To Do Any Of The

Famous Climbs. He Named So Many, Dear To The Hearts Of My Alpine Club

Acquaintances, That It Would Have Taken Us Well Into The New Year To

Accomplish Half; And He Accepted With Mild, Disapproving Resignation

Our Fiat That There Were Other Parts Of The World Worth Seeing.

 

As We Had To Cover A Radius Of Many Miles, In Our Rounds Of Visits At

The Few Sample Châteaux We Had Selected From The Waiter's List, We

Decided To Spare Our Legs And Those Of The Animals. It Was Hardly

Playing The Game We Had Set Out To Play--We Two Strangely-Met

Friends--To Amble Conventionally From Show-House To Show-House, In A

Carriage, With Guide-Books In Our Hands, Like Everyday Tourists;

Nevertheless, We Did This Unworthy Thing. Perhaps, Therefore, I

Deserved The Punishment Which Fell Upon Me.

 

Little Did I Dream, When I Flippantly Spoke Of Our Expedition As

"Driving Out To Pay Calls," How Nearly My Thoughtless Words Were To Be

Realised. We Started Immediately After An Early _Déjeuner_, Sitting

Side By Side In A Little Low-Swung Carriage, A Superior Phaeton, Or

Poor Relation Of A Victoria. The Day Was Hot, But A Delicious Breeze

Came To Us From The Snow Mountains, And There Was A Peculiar Buoyancy

In The Air.

 

Our First Castle Was Sarre, The Château Royal, An Enormous Brown

Building With A Disproportionately High Tower. This Hunting-Lodge Of

The King Would Have Been Grimly Ugly, Were It Not For Its Rocky

Throne, High Above The River Bed, And Its Background Of Glistening

White Mountains. The Huge Pile Looked Like A Sleeping Dragon With Its

Hundreds Of Window-Eyes Close-Lidded, And I Could Not Imagine It An

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 95

Amusing Place For A House Party. I Was Glad That The Boy Was Not

Animated With That Wild Mania For Squeezing The Last Drop From The

Orange Of Sightseeing Which Makes Some Travelling Companions So

Depressing. The Castle Was Closed To Visitors, Yet Many People Would

Have Insisted On Climbing The Steep Hill For The Barren Satisfaction

Of Saying That They Had Been There. I Rejoiced That My Little Pal Was

Not One Of These; But I Should Have Been More Prudent Had I Waited.

 

We Drove On, After A Pause For Inspection, Along A Road Which Would

Have Rejoiced The Motor-Loving Heart Of Jack Winston, And I Made A

Note To Tell Him What A Magnificent Tour He Might Have In This

Enchanted Country One Day With His Car, Tooling Down From Milan. As I

Mentally Arranged My Next Letter To The Winstons, The Boy Gave A

Little Cry Of Delight. "Oh, What A Queer, Delightful Place! It's All

Towers, Just Held Together By A Thread Of Castle. It Must Be

Aymaville."

 

I Looked Up And Beheld On A High Hill An Extraordinary Château,

Something Like Four Chess Castles Grouped Together At The Corners Of A

Square Heap Of Dice. It Does Not Sound An Attractive Description, Yet

The Place Deserved That Adjective. It Was Charming, And Wonderfully

"Liveable," Among Its Vineyards, Commanding Such A View As Is Given To

Few Show-Places In The World.

 

"The Descendants Of The Original Family Have Restored It, And Live

There, Don't They?" Asked The Boy In Italian Of The _Cocher_.

 

The Man Answered That This Was The Case, And Was Inspired By My Evil

Genius To Enquire If _Ces Messieurs_ Would Like To Go Over The

Château.

 

"Is It Allowed?" The Boy Questioned Eagerly.

 

"But Certainly. Shall I Drive Up To The House? It Will Be Only An All

Little Ten Minutes."

 

Without Waiting For My Answer, The Boy Took My Consent For Granted,

And Said Yes.

 

Instantly We Left The Broad White Road, And Began Winding Up A Narrow,

Steep, And Stony Way, Among Vineyards. The _Cocher's_ All Little Ten

Minutes Lengthened Into Half An Hour, But At Last We Halted Before A

Garden Gate--A High, Uncompromising, Reserved-Looking Gate.

 

"The Fellow Must Be Mistaken," Said I. "This Place Has Not The Air Of

Encouraging Visitors;" But, Before The Words Were Out Of My Mouth, The

Enterprising _Cocher_ Had Rung The Gate Bell.

 

After An Interval A Gardener Appeared, And Betrayed Such Mild,

Ingenuous Surprise At Sight Of Us That I Wished Ourselves Anywhere

Else Than Before The Portals Of The Château D'aymaville. Gladly Would

I Have Whipped Up Our Fat, Barrel-Shaped Nag, And Driven Into The

Nearest Rabbit-Hole, But It Was Too Late. The Gardener Took The

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 96

Enquiry As To Whether Visitors Were Admitted, With The Gravity He

Would Have Given To A Question In The Catechism: Is Your Name N. Or

M.? Can One See Your Master's House?

 

Oh, Without Doubt, One Could See The House. Would _Les Messieurs_

Kindly Accompany Him? His Aspect Wept, And Mine (Unless It Belied Me)

Copied His. "Isn't It Hateful?" I Asked, _Sotto Voce_, Of The Boy,

Expecting Sympathy Which I Did Not Get. "No, I Think It's Great Fun,"

Said He.

 

"But I'm Sure They Are Not In The Habit Of Showing The House. You Can

Tell By The Man's Manner. He's Nonplussed. I Should Think No One Has

Ever Had The Cheek To Apply For Permission Before."

 

"Then They Ought To Be Complimented Because We Have."

 

I Was Silenced, Though Far From Convinced; But If You Have Made An

Engagement With An Executioner, It Is A Point Of Honour Not To Sneak

Off And Leave Him In The Lurch, When He Has Taken The Trouble To

Sharpen His Axe, And Put On His Red Suit And Mask For Your Benefit.

 

We Arrived, After A Walk Through A Pretty Garden, Upon A Terrace Where

There Was A Marvellous View. The Gardener Showed It To Us Solemnly, We

Pacing After Him All Round The Château, As If We Played A Game. At The

Open Front Door We Were Left Alone For A Few Minutes, Heavy With

Suspense, While Our Guide Held Secret Conclave With A Personable Woman

Who Was No Doubt A Housekeeper. Astonished, But Civil, With Dignified

Italian Courtesy She Finally Invited Us In, And I Was Coward Enough

To Let The Boy Lead, I Following With A Casual Air, Meant To Show That

I Had Been Dragged Into This Business Against My Will; That I Was, In

Fact, The Tail Of A Comet Which Must Go Where The Cornet Leads.

 

Everywhere, Inside The Castle, Were Traces That The Family Had Fled

With Precipitation. Here Was A Bicycle Leaning Abject Against A Wall;

There, An Open Book Thrown On The Floor; Here, A Fallen Chair; There,

A Dropped Piece Of Sewing.

 

Once Or Twice In England, I Had Stayed In A Famous Show-House, And My

Experience On The Public Thursdays There Had Taught Me What These

People Were Enduring Now. At Waldron Castle We Had Been Hunted From

Pillar To Post; If We Darted From The Hall Into A Drawing-Room, The

Public Would File In Before We Could Escape To The Boudoir; The Lives

Of Foxes In The Hunting Season Could Have Been Little Less Disturbed

Than Ours, And We Were Practically Only Safe In Our Own Or Each

Other's Bedrooms--Indeed, Any Port Was Precious In A Storm.

 

By The Time That The Boy And I Had Been Led, Like Stalled Oxen,

Through A Long Series Of Living-Rooms, I Knowing That The Rightful

Inhabitants Were Panting In Wardrobes, My Nerves Were Shattered. I

Admired Everything, Volubly But Hastily, And Broke Into Fireworks Of

Adjectives, Always Edging A Little Nearer To The Exit, Though Not, I

Regret To Say, Invariably Aided By The Boy. He, Indeed, Seemed To Find

An Impish Pleasure In My Discomfiture.

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 97

 

During The Round, I Was Dimly Conscious That The Entire Staff Of

Servants, Most Of Them Maids, And Embarrassingly Beautiful, Flitted

After Us Like The Ghosts Who Accompanied Dante And His Guide On Their

Tour Of The Seven Circles. As, At Last, We Returned To The Square

Entrance Hail, They Melted Out Of Sight, Still Like Shadows, And I Had

A Final Moment Of Extreme Anguish When, At The Door, The Housekeeper

Refused The Ten Francs I Attempted To Press Into Her Haughty Italian

Palm.

 

"No More Afternoon Calls On Châteaux For Me, After _That_ Experience,"

I Gasped, When We Were Safely Seated In The Homelike Vehicle Which I

Had Not Sufficiently Appreciated Before.

 

"Oh, I Shall Be Disappointed If You Won't Go With Me To The Château Of

St. Pierre Which We Saw In The Photograph--That Quaint Mass Of Towers

And Pinnacles, On The Very Top Of A Peaked Rock," Said The Boy. "I've

Been Looking Forward To It More Than To Anything Else, But I Shan't

Have Courage To Do It Alone."

 

"Courage?" I Echoed. "After The Brazen Way In Which You Stalked

Through The Scattered Belongings Of The Family At Aymaville, You Would

Stop At Nothing."

 

"In Other Words, I Suppose You Think Me A Typical Yankee Boy? But I

Really Was Nervous, And Inclined To Apologise To Somebody For Being

Alive. That's Why I Can't Go Through Another Such Ordeal Without

Company; Yet I Wouldn't Miss This Eleventh-Century Castle For A Bag Of

Your English Sovereigns."

 

"If Only It Had Been Left Alone, And Not Restored!" I Groaned. "In

That Case We Should Meet No One But Bats."

 

"We? Then You Will Go With Me?"

 

"I Suppose So," I Sighed. "It Can't Add More Than A Dozen Grey Hairs,

And What Are They Among So Many?"

 

A Few Kilometres Further On We Reached The "Bizarre Monticule," From

Which Sprouted A Still More Bizarre Château. From Our Low Level, It

Was Impossible To Tell Where The Rock Stopped, And Where The Castle

Began, So Deftly Had Man Seized Every Point Of Vantage Offered By

Nature--And "Points" They Literally Were.

 

The Ascent From The Road To The Château