For out of the dark lemon-leaves to the left there emerged a head—a not unusual occurrence, one of the garden entrances from a terraced path being just there—a handsome young head, followed by well-braced shoulders and the whole figure of the Cyrano de Bergerac of the Carnival. Having risen to the garden level, he stopped and looked about as if considering the way to the house, while Ermengarde, conscious through occult sympathy of nervous tension near, looked at Agatha, who had made a slight quick movement, her hands clasped tightly together, her face vivid, and then with a deep sigh had drawn the mask of inexpression, now so familiar, over her features. It was at this moment that Cyrano caught sight of her; and, taking a step forward, paused doubtfully, took another step, smiled with nervous hesitation, very different from his usual gay assurance, looked appealingly at the sphinx-like face that was averted from him, gazing straight before her, and raised his hat.
At this, she turned her head slightly, bowed frigidly, almost imperceptibly, and turned away again.
A flash of anger and mortification crimsoned Cyrano's face; turning quickly, he walked up to the house, where he was distantly heard entering into a prolonged misunderstanding with Heinrich, the cheerful porter, the purport of which appeared to be that some one asked for was not in the house, but that there was a restaurant attached to the hotel where Monsieur would find excellent refreshment. This appeared to fill Cyrano with the utmost fury and indignation. "Did nobody keep the beastly place? Was there no secretary or manager or anything?" he shouted, coming to the end of his French.
The porter's vague reference to fiançailles and the desirability of leaving a message with the patron himself, who might possibly be induced to appear in the office if perseveringly rung for, suggested that Madame Bontemps and her daughter being both out, and M. Isidore absent, and M. Bontemps left in temporary and reluctant charge, anarchy reigned within.
But all this being entirely unintelligible to poor Cyrano, the well-known national swear-word came rolling vigorously out, and after some futile stamping on the gravel and further hopeless misunderstanding with the ever affable Swiss, the visitor went into the house with quick, angry steps, and was seen no more till soon after sunset. At that hour Mrs. Allonby, idling cosily between her wood-fire and the window, saw him walking and amicably talking with the hostile crocodile of the Carnival—who, with the Bontemps ladies, had come back half an hour before—from the private wing of the house to the gate, where they parted with ceremony, leaving Ermengarde in doubt as to whether it meant pistols and coffee or friendship and apology. The thin man subsequently averred that the young Englishman had been eating humble pie, and M. Isidore had graciously accepted his explanation, and duly presented it and the apologist to M. Bontemps, who had been equally gracious.
In the meantime Ermengarde put two facts together—that the woman of mystery had received and furtively read a letter from the Cyrano on one afternoon, and on the next had accorded him a recognition one remove from a dead cut.
And upon this occasion of meeting M. Isidore in the Casino Gardens walking with a woman of such distinguished appearance, with whom he appeared to be on equal and friendly, almost affectionate, terms, she remembered that the young Englishman's manner to him that afternoon at Les Oliviers had been quite that of an equal. Who and what, then, was this pleasant and mysterious youth, occupying a position so palpably anomalous? In any case, it was a great convenience to have such a delicate, Ariel-like being at hand as an attendant sprite, especially on this unfortunate occasion, of being so completely cleaned out at the tables as not even to have the price of a cup of tea.
"You are always our guardian angel at Les Oliviers," she told him, after imparting the history of the afternoon's ill-luck. "Evidently you possess a sixth sense, by virtue of which you invariably turn up whenever we come to grief. It was only yesterday that you saved Mr. Welbourne from a broken neck."
"Ah! ce pauvre monsieur! Mais il vaut bien la peine, n'est-ce pas, Madame?"
The sorrows of the roulette table vanished into the limbo of forgetfulness; Mrs. Allonby found herself magically installed in a cosy nook outside the café, with a full view of the craggy head of the gorge, the Roman tower of Turbia outlined above it on the sunset-flushed sky, and in the foreground the enchanted Armida gardens, promenaders streaming in and out of avenues of dark exotic trees, gorgeous parterres, the gleam of white masonry between palm and olive boughs, and the tide of smart carriages and snorting motors rolling along the main road under dark-leaved boughs. The band played the Overture to Tannhäuser, and the Pilgrim's Chorus, overpowered again and again by the scream of warring violins, surged out solemn and triumphant again and yet again.