We came out into the sunlight and viewed with relief, by contrast with the dull museum, the very new and commonplace cathedral—oh, exceedingly poorly executed—and the castle or palace or residence of His Highness, the Prince of Monaco. I cannot imagine why Europe tolerates this man with his fine gambling privileges unless it is that the different governments look with opposition on the thought of any other government having so fine a source of wealth. France should have it by rights; and it would be suitable that the French temperament should conduct such an institution. The palace of the Prince of Monaco was as dull as his church and his museum; and the Monacoan Army drawn up in front of his residence for their morning exercise looked like a company of third-rate French policemen.
However I secured as fine an impression of the beauty of Monaco and the whole coast from this height, as I received at any time during my stay; for it is like the jewel of a ring projecting out of the sea. You climb up to the Oceanographical Museum and the palace by a series of stairways and walks that from time to time bring you out to the sheer edge of the cliff overlooking the blue waters below. There is expensive gardening done here, everywhere; for you find vines and flowers and benches underneath the shade of palms and umbrella trees where you can sit and look out over the sea. Lovely panoramas confront you in every direction; and below, perhaps as far down as three and four hundred feet, you can see and hear the waves breaking and the foam eddying about the rocks. The visitor to Monte Carlo, I fancy, is not greatly disturbed about scenery, however. Such walks as these are empty and still while the Casino is packed to the doors. The gaming-tables are the great center; and to these we ourselves invariably returned.
CHAPTER XXIX
A FIRST GLIMPSE OF ITALY
My days in Monte Carlo after this were only four, exactly. In spite of my solemn resolutions of the morning the spirit of this gem-like world got into my bones by three o’clock; and at four, when we were having tea at the Riviera Palace Hotel high above the Casino, I was satisfied that I should like to stay here for months. Barfleur, as usual, was full of plans for enjoyment; and he insisted that I had not half exhausted the charms of the place. We should go to some old monastery at Laghet where miracles of healing were performed, and to Cannes and Beaulieu in order to see the social life there.
A part of one of these days we spent viewing a performance in Mentone. Another day Barfleur and I went to Laghet and Nice, beginning with a luncheon at the Riviera Palace and winding up at the Hôtel des Fleurs. The last day we were in the Casino, gambling cheerfully for a little while, and then on the terrace viewing the pigeon shooting, which Barfleur persistently refused to contemplate. This (to me) brutal sport was evidently fascinating to many, for the popping of guns was constant. It is so curious how radically our views differ in this world as to what constitutes evil and good. To Scorp this was a legitimate sport. The birds were ultimately destined for pies anyhow; why not kill them here in this manner? To me the crippling of the perfect winged things was a crime. I would never be one to hold a gun in such a sport.
It was this last day in the Café de Paris that Barfleur and I encountered Marcelle and Mme. Y., our companions of that first dinner in Paris. Barfleur was leaving for London, Scorp was to stay on at Monte Carlo, and for the first time I faced the prospect of traveling alone. Acting on impulse I turned to Marcelle and said: “Come with me as far as Ventimiglia,” never thinking for a moment that she would. “Oui,” she replied, “oui, oui,” and seemed very cheerful over the prospect.
Marcelle arrived some fifteen minutes before my train was due, but she was not to speak to me until we were on the train. It took some manœuvering to avoid the suspicions of Scorp.
Barfleur left for the north at four-thirty, assuring me that we would meet in Paris in April and ride at Fontainebleau, and that we would take a walking tour in England. After he was gone, Scorp and I walked to and fro and then it was that Marcelle appeared. I had to smile as I walked with Scorp, thinking how wrathful he would have been if he had known that every so often we were passing Marcelle, who gazed demurely the other way. The platforms, as usual, were alive with passengers with huge piles of baggage. My train was a half hour late and it was getting dark. Some other train which was not bound for Rome entered, and Marcelle signaled to know whether she was to get into that. I shook my head and hunted up the Cook’s tourist agent, always to be found on these foreign platforms, and explained to him that he was to go to the young lady in the blue suit and white walking-shoes and tell her that the train was a half hour late and ask her if she cared to wait. With quite an American sang-froid he took in the situation at once, and wanted to know how far she was going. I told him Ventimiglia and he advised that she get off at Garaban in order to catch the first train back. He departed, and presently returned, cutting me out from the company of Sir Scorp by a very wise look of the eye, and informed me that the lady would wait and would go. I promptly gave him a franc for his trouble. My pocket was bulging with Italian silver lire and paper five- and ten-lire pieces which I had secured the day before. Finally my train rolled in and I took one last look at the sea in the fading light and entered. Sir Scorp gave me parting instructions as to simple restaurants that I would find at different places in Italy—not the showy and expensive cafés, beloved of Barfleur. He wanted me to save money on food and have my portrait painted by Mancini, which I could have done, he assured me, with a letter from him. He looked wisely around the platform to see that there was no suspicious lady anywhere in the foreground and said he suspected one might be going with me.
“Oh, Scorp,” I said, “how could you? Besides, I am very poor now.”