PIERRETTE TELLS HER STORY
Pierrette Dumont—for that was her name, she told me—proved a most charming and entertaining companion, and could, I found, speak English quite well.
She had lived nearly seven years in England—in London, Brighton, and other places—and as we set the car along that beautiful road that runs for so many miles beside the Yonne, she told me quite a lot about herself.
Her admiration for M’sieur Bellingham was very pronounced. It was not difficult to see that this pretty girl, who, I supposed, had escaped from her convent, was madly in love with the handsome Bindo. The Count was a sad lady-killer, and where any profit was concerned was a most perfect lover, as many a woman possessed of valuable jewels had known to her cost. From the pretty Pierrette’s bright chatter, I began to wonder whether or not she was marked down as a victim. She had met the gay Bindo in Paris, it seemed, but how and in what circumstances, having regard to her religious habit, she did not inform me.
That Bindo was using the name of Bellingham showed some chicanery to be in progress.
By dint of careful questioning I tried to obtain from her some facts concerning her escape from the convent, but she would tell me nothing regarding it. All she replied was—
“Ah! M’sieur Bellingham! How kind and good he is to send you for me—to get me clean away from that hateful place!” and then, drawing a deep breath, she added, “How good it is to be free again—free!”
The car was tearing along, the rush of wind already bringing the colour to her soft, delicate cheeks. The bulb of a wind-horn was at her side, and she sat with her hands upon it, sounding a warning note whenever necessary as we flashed through the long string of villages between Sens and Chatillon. The wintry landscape was rather dull and cheerless, yet with her at my side I began to find the journey delightful. There is nothing so dreary, depressing, and monotonous as to cross France alone in a car without a soul to speak to all day through.
“I wonder when we shall arrive at Monte Carlo?” she queried presently in English, with a rather pronounced accent, turning her fresh, smiling face to me—a face that was typically French, and dark eyes that were undeniably fine.
“It all depends upon accidents,” I laughed. “With good fortune we ought to be there to-morrow night—that is, if we keep going, and you are not too tired.”