I do not know that I have the best temper in the world. Some of my friends say I have the worst when you rouse it; but that is an exaggeration. Anyhow, I could not stay in the ball-room and see our fortune swinging over a gulf of disaster on the frail thread of the Marquis’ amorous folly any longer. I went out to smoke and to swear.
The next day it was my turn to wear the Sorcerer’s Stone, and I was ready enough to claim it. We had cased it in a piece of silk and sewn that up again in a piece of chamois leather, safely attached to a strong cord. No one wears waistcoats in Port Moresby, but I took care to select a shirt some sizes too wide for me when I wore the stone, and with a coat on, the loose folds concealed it effectively.
I was feeling a little easier about the Marquis, since I had succeeded in extracting from him a solemn promise that he would not, on any account or for any reason, betray to any person the secret of the diamond. At the same time, I managed to persuade him into altering his clothing a little, so that the stone could not be noticed unless any one went actually feeling about after it. More than this I could not do.
There is very little in the capital of Papua to occupy the mind of any reasonable person. When you have been out to see the native village, gone for a walk to Koki, where the native servants employed in the town hold nightly dances, and taken a boat across to one or two of the islands, you have about exhausted the interests of the place. It is barren and rather ugly; the white people are more civilized, and therefore less interesting, than those of Samarai; the natives speak English, wear trade clothing and cheat the tourist over curios. To any one recently returned, like the Marquis and myself, from the mysteries, horrors and adventures of the unknown interior, nothing could be more flat and tiresome than the silly little capital town.
All the more was I uncomfortable over my companion’s evident fascination by Mrs. Vandaleur, whom I frankly took for an adventuress. Her very name was against her; it savored too much of stage posters to be natural. She was clever enough, I could see, to keep free of scandals; the dead or missing Vandaleur had not divorced her; cards were religiously left at her door by the ladies of the capital, who seemed to find a weird delight in playing at a strange imitation of the strange game called Society, here away in the wilderness of New Guinea. (“Like your Israelites of the Bible,” said the Marquis, who always spoke of the Old Testament as if it were the exclusive property of the English race—“these dear ladies make brick in the desert without no straw; it is for that reason, I observe, that their bricks do not hold together the one with the other.” And, indeed, the inhabitants of Port Moresby love each other scarcely better than do those of Samarai.)
But, though “Daisie” Vandaleur was quite respectable, according to the canons of the card-tray, and though, in any case, there was no risk of the Marquis’ historic coronet descending upon her well-dressed head, I thought her none the less dangerous; perhaps rather the more.
“That dear little one, she desires quite simply to marry herself with me. I find that very touching, though I can not accord her her desire,” he said, sentimentally. “Flint, I can’t tell you how much pity I have for all those beautiful women who so desire to marry with me. Of course, the day shall come at last when one of those lovely ones shall—what do you call it?—yank me in. But the rest—my heart is bleeding for those!”
He took out his embroidered silk handkerchief and looked lovingly at the coronet. I knew he was minded to tell me the history of the lady who had worked it for him, so I got away before he had made a start. That was where I made my mistake. He went right off to Mrs. Vandaleur’s and told her.
They invited him to join the tennis club after this. I never had time or inclination myself to learn how to throw balls at a man who doesn’t want them, and work hard trying to get them back when I don’t want them myself—so I didn’t see very much of the Marquis at this period, although for want of room we were sharing our quarters at the hotel. After all, I had not been brought up at the Court of France; I did not know half the kings of Europe and I did not possess even a shanty in New Guinea, let alone a castle on the Loire. These things had not seemed to matter when we were away in the wilds together getting chased by cannibals or being shipwrecked or having snakes set on us by sorcerers—going ragged and hungry sometimes and at all times not being quite as sure as we could have wished that we were ever going to get safely back again. But here, in the little tin-pot capital, the kings and castles and things began to crop up again. And—as they say in sentimental novels—the Marquis and I drifted apart.