The Car of Destiny | Page 2

country you would like best to visit with the machine you love.
Pride kept me from answering that question with the name of "Spain"; but it was because Biarritz is at the door of Spain that I had just invited Dick Waring--the best of friends, the most delightful of Americans, who fought side by side with me, for fun, in China--to drive there in my Gloria car.
"Yes, they knew when I went to Barcelona," I admitted; for Dick was familiar with the story. "But that was different. Anyhow, I'm going to Biarritz, whatever happens. You can do as you like."
"If you will go, I'll go too," said Dick; "and if anything happens I'll be in it with you. But you may regret your rashness."
"I've never yet regretted rashness," I said. "Things done on impulse always turn out for the best."
So we started from Paris the next day, and had a splendid run, through scenery to set the spirit singing in tune with the thrumming of the motor.
Whatever was to happen in Biarritz, and I was far enough from guessing then, nothing happened by the way; and we arrived on a morning of blue and gold.
We put up at a private hotel out of the way from fashionable thoroughfares; and, as my childhood and early youth were passed in England, I could use an English name without making myself ridiculous by a foreign accent. As for my brown face and black eyes, many a Cornishman has a face as brown and eyes as black; therefore, I edited the name of Triana into Cornish Trevenna, and changed Cristóbal, my middle name, into Christopher.
We took our first meal in the restaurant, and everyone at the little tables near by, was talking of the King and "Princess Ena"; how pretty she was, how much in love he; how charming their romance. My heart quite warmed to my youthful sovereign, who has had seven fewer years on earth than I. I felt that, if I had had a fair chance, I should have been his loyal subject.
"I'd like to have a look at him," said I to Waring after lunch. "The lady with the nose who sat on our left said to her husband with the chin, that the King and the two Princesses motor every afternoon. We'll motor too; and where they go, there we'll go also."
"Take care," said Dick.
"A cat may look at a king. So may Chris Trevenna."
"No good advising you to be cautious."
"Of course not. You wouldn't care a rap for me if there was."
"Shouldn't I? Anyhow, Chris Trevenna might as well wear goggles."
"There's no dust to-day," said I. "It rained in the night."
"I give you up," said Dick. And if giving me up meant going out with me in my big blue car directly after lunch, then he kept his word. Ropes, my chauffeur, and right-hand man, who sits always in the tonneau, had already heard all about the King's automobile, and was primed with particulars. He leaned across to describe its appearance, as well as mention the make; and when such a car as he was in the act of picturing passed us, going round a bend of the road which leads to Spain, there was no mistaking it.
"Let's follow," said I.
Dick sighed, but naturally I paid no attention to that.
There were five persons in the King's car. The slim young owner, three ladies, two very slender and young, and the chauffeur, all five masked or goggled, so that it was impossible to see their faces.
"I wish something would happen to them," I said.
Waring looked shocked.
"Just enough of a something to stop the car, and tempt the ladies to take off their motor-veils. I may never have another chance to see the future Queen of Spain."
When I was a small lad in England, I used to lie under a favourite apple-tree in the orchard of the old place where we lived, and wish with all my might for the fall of a certain apple on which eyes and heart were fixed. It was extraordinary how often the apple would fall.
In a flash I remembered those wishes and those apples as we began to gain upon the King's car. Its pace slackened, and then it stopped. The chauffeur jumped out, and two of the ladies were raising their thick veils as we came up.
As we were not supposed to know the King, who was "incog," the ordinary civilities between motorists were in order. I slowed down, and taking off my hat, inquired in French if there were anything I could do.
The two girls, who had hastily whipped off their veils, turned and glanced at me. Both were more than pretty; blond, violet-eyed, with radiant complexions; but one seemed to me beautiful as the Blessed Damozel looking down from the star-framed window