Gaston, this time, stared at him.
“Up? But, Monsieur, the barge——”
“What is my barge to you, dear Gaston? Besides, it is no longer mine. It now belongs to the Sheikh of Mohamera—with whatever objects of virtue it still contains. He has long teased me for it. And none of them can read the note they are carrying to him! Didn’t I tell you I was going to give them a little surprise? Well, there it is. I am not a man, you see, to be tied to objects of virtue. Which reminds me: where are my portmanteaux?”
“Here, on the tank.”
“Fi! And you a chauffeur! Give them to me. I will arrange myself a little. As for you, turn around and see how quickly you can carry me to the charming resort of Bund-i-Kir—where Antigonus fought Eumenes and the Silver Shields for the spoils of Susa, and won them. Did you ever hear, Gaston, of that interesting incident?”
“Monsieur is too strong for me,” replied Gaston, cryptically. He took off his cap, wiped his face, and sat down at the wheel.
“If a man is not strong, what is he?” rejoined Magin. “But you will not find this cigar too strong,” he added amicably.
Gaston did not. What he found strong was the originality of his passenger—and the way that cognac failed, in spite of its friendly warmth, to cheer him. For he kept thinking of that absurd Bakhtiari, and of the telegraph operator, and of M’sieu Guy, and the others, as he sped northward on the silent moonlit river.
“This is very well, eh, Gaston?” uttered the Brazilian at last. “We march better without our objects of virtue.” Gaston felt that he smiled as he lay smoking on his rug in the bottom of the boat. “But tell me,” he went on presently. “How is it, if I may ask, that you didn’t happen to go in the steamer too, with your Monsieur Guy? You do not look to me either old or incapable.”
There it was, the same question, which really seemed to need no answer at first, but which somehow became harder to answer every time! Why was it? And how could it spoil so good a cognac?