The Car of Destiny | Page 3

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 of heaven; and I
was suddenly sick with jealousy of the King, because I believed that
she was his Princess.
It was he who answered, in French better than mine. He thanked me for
my kind offer, and referred me to his chauffeur, who had not yet
discovered the cause of the car's sudden loss of power. But even as he
spoke, the mystery was solved. There was a leak in the petrol-tank, near
the bottom; the last drop of essence had run away, and, as they had
come out for a short spin, there was none in reserve.
An odd chance it seemed that brought me, the son of a banished rebel,
to the King's aid; but life is odd. I rejoiced because it was odd, and
more because of the girl.
I had a spare bidon of petrol which, with conventional expressions of
pleasure, I gave to my fellow motorist. We exchanged compliments,
and as nobody stared at me askance, I had reason to believe that neither
words, actions, nor looks were out of the way. Yet what I said and did
was said and done with no more guidance of the mind than the gestures
and speech of a mechanical doll.
I was conscious only of the girl's eyes, for I had done that unreasonable,
indefinable thing--fallen in love at first sight, and I had fallen very far,
and very deep. She did not glance at me often, and after the first I
scarcely glanced at her at all, lest my eyes should be indiscreet. It was
the most curious thing in the world, and far beyond anything that had
ever happened to me; but already I knew that I could not lose her out of
my life. Sooner could I lose life itself. If she were the Princess who was

to be Queen of Spain, I would follow her to Madrid, come what might,
just for the joy of breathing the air she breathed, of seeing her drive
past me in her carriage sometimes. I had wondered, knowing the
traditions of our family, many of them tragic, when love would come to
me. Now it had come quickly, in a moment; but not to go as it had
come. It and I would be one, for always. The girl was little more than a
child, but I knew she was to be the one woman for me; and that was
what I feared my eyes might tell her. So I would not look; yet the air
seemed charged with electricity to flash a thousand messages, and my
blood tingled with the assurance that she had had my message, that
unconsciously she was sending back a message to me.
All this was going on in my inner self, while the outer husk of self
delivered itself of conventional things.
A leak was mended, a tank filled, while my life was being remade.
Then there were bows, lifting of caps, many politenesses, and the
King's car shot away.
"What's the matter?" inquired Waring by and by.
"Nothing," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"You act as if you'd had a stroke. Aren't you going to drive on?"
"No. Yes. I'm going back," I said, and turned the car.
"You don't mean to follow, then?"
"There's something I need to do at once at Biarritz," I answered. It was
true. I needed to find out whether she was the Princess, or--just a girl.

II
THE GIRL
It was easy to learn that she was not the Princess. I did that by going

into a stationer's shop and asking for a photograph of the royal lovers. It
was not quite so easy to find out who she was, without pinning my new
secret on my sleeve; but luckily everyone in Biarritz boasted
knowledge of the King's affairs, and the affairs of the pretty Princess.
Christopher Trevenna made himself agreeable after dinner to the lady
with the nose, who would probably have shrunk away in fear if she had
known that she was talking with the Marqués de Casa Triana.
I, in my character of Trevenna, found out that the Princess had a friend,
Lady Monica Vale, daughter of the widowed Countess of Vale-Avon,
who, when at home, lived in the Isle of Wight. At present, the two were
staying at Biarritz, in a villa; and Lady Monica, a girl of eighteen or
nineteen, sometimes had the honour of