The Counts Chauffeur

The Count's Chauffeur
by William Le Queux.
1906
A MOVE ON THE "FORTY"
IN Paris, in Rome, in Florence, in Berlin, in Vienna -- in fact, over half
the face of Europe, from the Pyrenees to the Russian frontier -- I am
now known as "The Count's Chauffeur."
An Englishman, as my name, George Ewart denotes, I am of
cosmopolitan birth and education, my early youth being spent on the
Continent, where my father was agent for a London firm. When I was
fourteen, my father, having prospered, came to London, and established
himself as an agent in Wood Street, City, representing a great firm of
silk manufacturers in Lyons. At twenty I tried City life, but an office
with a high stool, a dusty ledger, and sandwich lunches, had no
attraction for me. I had always had a turn for mechanics, but was never
allowed to adopt engineering as a profession, my father's one idea
being that I should follow in his footsteps -- a delusive hope entertained
by many a fond parent.
Six months of office life sufficed me. One day I went home to
Teddington and refused to return again to Wood Street. This resulted in
an open quarrel between my father and myself, with the result that a
week later I was on my way to Canada. In a year I was back again, and,
after some months of semi-starvation in London, I managed to obtain a
job in a motor factory. I was then entirely in my element. During two
years I learned the mechanism of the various petrol-driven cars until I
became classed as an expert driver and engineer.
Where I was employed there was manufactured one of the best and
most expensive makes of English car, and, being at length placed on

the testing staff, it was my duty to take out each new chassis for its
trial-run before being delivered to a customer.
Upon my certificate each chassis was declared in perfect running order,
and then handed over to the body-makers indicated by the purchaser.
Being an expert driver, my firm sent me to drive in the Tourist Trophy
races in the Isle of Man, and I likewise did the Ardennes Circuit and
came in fourth in the Brescia race for the Florio Cup, my successes, of
course, adding glory and advertisement to the car I drove.
Racing, however, aroused within me, as it does in every motorist, an
ardent desire to travel long distances. The testing of those chassis in
Regent's Park, and an occasional run with some wealthy customer out
on the Great North road or on the Bath or Brighton roads, became too
quiet a life for me. I was now seized by a desire to tour and see Europe.
True, in my capacity of tester, I met all classes of men. In the seat
beside me have sat Cabinet Ministers, Dukes, Indian Rajahs, Members
of Parliament, and merchant princes, customers or prospective
purchasers, all of whom chatted with me, mostly displaying their
ignorance of the first principles of mechanics. It was all pleasant
enough -- a merry life and good pay. Yet I hated London, and the
height of my ambition was a good car to drive abroad.
After some months of waiting, the opportunity came, and I seized it.
By appointment, at the Automobile Club one grey December morning,
I met Count Bindo di Ferraris, a young Italian aristocrat, whose aspect,
however, was the reverse of a Southerner. About thirty, he was tall,
lithe, and well dressed in a dark brown lounge suit. His complexion, his
chestnut hair, his erect, rather soldierly bearing, his clean-shaven face,
and his open countenance gave him every appearance of an English
gentleman. Indeed, I took him at first for an Englishman, for he spoke
English perfectly.
When he had examined my testimonials and made a number of
inquiries, he asked:

"You speak French?"
"Yes," was my reply; "a little Italian, and a little German."
"Italian!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Excellent!"
Then while we sat alone, with no one within hearing, he told me the
terms upon which he was willing to engage me to drive on the
Continent, and added:
"Your salary will be doubled -- providing I find you entirely loyal to
me. That is to say, you must know how to keep your mouth closed --
understand?"
And he regarded me rather curiously, I thought.
"No," I answered; "I don't quite understand."
"Well, well, there are matters -- private family matters -- of which you
will probably become cognisant. Truth to tell, I want help -- the help of
a good careful driver who isn't afraid, and who is always discreet. I
may as well tell you that before I wrote to you I made certain secret
inquiries regarding you, and