“Never mind,” said the Frenchman.
With an oath the Count drew from his pocket-book the licence headed “République Francaise.” The man took it and scrutinised it carefully, comparing the little photograph pasted on its left-hand side with the original before him, wrinkling his brow as he read the name, Alexis Slavianski, the birthplace, Borisoglebsk, and the other details required by the authorities. This wasted another five minutes. Then the Count lost his temper utterly, and exchanged a wordy war with the gate-keeper, which had no other result than to waste more time. It was twenty minutes before the train ran by, and not till then did the man open the gates for the passage of the motor-car.
“We have forgotten 1870, have we?” he said with a chuckle, as the car disappeared in a cloud of dust.
At every crossing the Count had the same experience, with slight variations, chiefly against him, in the period of waiting. His eagerness, impatience, and finally abuse convinced the gate-keepers that they were serving their country in delaying him, and the absence of other traffic on the road enabled them to give free play to their patriotism without inconveniencing their fellow-countrymen. Consequently the green motor reached Modane nearly two hours after the gyro-car had left it.
At Modane occurred the worst check of all. The Customs officer took a long time in weighing the car, and then, by an unfortunate miscalculation, asked for a hundred francs more than was due. He demanded to see the Count’s certificat de capacité, and made out with great deliberation a similar licence for Italy. He was equally deliberate in preparing the certificate for importation temporaire, and the Count, fume as he might, had to wait for that document. Every impatient word he spoke lengthened the delay; the officer broke a pen, made a blot which he erased until not a vestige of it was visible, all with the most charming courtesy and frank apologies. He entertained the Count with a full description of an extraordinary car which had passed through on the way to Venice a little earlier, noting with keen enjoyment the exasperation which the traveller, weary after his long journey, vainly tried to conceal. By the time the motor-car once more took up the pursuit, the Bucklands had finished their supper, filled their tanks, and run forty miles beyond Turin in the direction of Venice.
This was, however, only a blind. If the Count could be deluded into rushing on to Venice, so much the better. About forty miles from Turin George turned into the road leading southward through Alessandria to Genoa. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and clear, the sky a dark blue vault spangled with stars, and a rising moon shedding a white radiance over everything. The road was good and fairly level. The brothers took turns at driving and napping, and kept up an even pace of about thirty miles an hour. It was five o’clock in the morning when they reached Genoa. Putting up at a quiet hotel where Maurice had formerly stayed, they got a bath, breakfasted, and spent some time in studying the map. In Italy the Guide Taride no longer served them, and they had to choose their own route. They decided to run to Rome by way of Pisa and Leghorn, then to Naples, and thence across the Peninsula to Brindisi. By six o’clock they were again on the road.
“This is the Grand Tour with a vengeance,” said George as they sped along, with the blue Mediterranean on their right, and on their left the olive-clad slopes of the Apennines. “I should like to do it at a more leisurely pace.”
“I don’t know. I find the speed exhilarating.”
“That’s a confession for a cautious old diplomat! Well, if you like it you shall have it. There’s no one about.”
He opened the throttle, and soon had the car spinning along at nearly seventy miles an hour.