The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

From the Terraces of the Chateau d’Yls, the valley of Var was spread out below Gattiere, threaded with the broad bed of the River Var, swirling over its stony reaches from its cradle in the Hautes-Alpes. The snow-crowned mountains frowned ominously down but in the valley summertime warmth prevailed — quietude disturbed only by the song of birds and the voice of the river.

On the shaded promenade of the Chateau, the pretty Countess d’Yls stared thoughtfully at the unwinding river of the dust-powdered highway, twisting off into the dim distance. Beside her, a tall, well-built young man in tweeds absently flicked the ash from his cigarette and tinkled the ice in the thin glass he held.

Once or twice he surreptitiously considered the woman who reclined so indolently in the padded depths of a black wicker chair. The Countess seemed rarely lovely on this warm, lazy afternoon.

Her ash-blond hair caught what sunshine came in under the sand-colored awning above.

Her blue eyes were dreamy and introspective, her red lips meditatively pursed. Yet for all of her abstraction there was something regal and almost imperious in her bearing; a subtle charm and distinction that was entirely her own.

“I do believe,” the Countess remarked at length, “we are about to entertain visitors.”

She motioned casually with a white hand toward the dust-filled road. The man beside her leaned a little forward. A mile or less distant he observed an approaching motor car that crawled up the road between clouds of dust.

“Visitors?”

The Countess inclined her head.

“So it would appear. And visitors, mon ami, who have come a long way to see us. Observe that the machine is travel-stained, that it appears to be weighted down with luggage. Possibly it is our old friend Murgier,” she added almost mischievously.

The face of the man in tweeds paled under its tan.

“Murgier!” he exclaimed under his breath.

The Countess smiled faintly.

“But it is probably only a motoring party up from Georges de Loup who have wandered off the main road, Armand.”

The man in tweeds had torn the cigarette between his fingers into rags. As if held in the spell of some strange fascination he watched the motor grow larger and larger.

“There are men in it!” he muttered, when the dusty car was abreast the lower wall of the Chateau. “Four men!”

The woman in the wicker chair seemed suddenly to grow animated.

“Mon Dieu!” she said in a low voice. “If it is he, that devil!”

The man she addressed made no reply, only the weaving of his fingers betraying his suppressed nervousness. The hum of the sturdy motor was heard from the drive, way among the terraces now.

There was an interlude — voices around a bend in the promenade — finally the appearance of a liveried automaton that was the butler.

“Monsieur Murgier, madame.”

The man in tweeds stifled a groan. The Countess turned slowly in her chair.

“You may direct Monsieur Murgier here, Henri.”

The butler bowed and turned away. The man in tweeds closed his hands until the nails of them bit into the palms.

“God!”

The Countess laid a tense hand on his arm.

“Smile!” she commanded.

The Monsieur Murgier who presently sauntered down the shaded promenade of the Chateau was a tall, loose-jointed individual with a melancholy mustache and a deeply wrinkled face. A shabby, dusty suit hung loosely and voluminously about his spare figure. A soft straw hat was in one hand; he was gray at the temples.

When he bowed over the slender fingers of the Countess there was a hidden glow in his somber eyes.

“To be favored by the presence of the great!” the woman murmured softly. “Monsieur, this is an honor! May I make you acquainted with the Marquis de Remec?”

She introduced the visitor to the man in tweeds, who bowed stiffly. Somewhere back around the corner of the promenade the drone of the voices of those who had been in the car sounded faintly.

“A liqueur, m’sieu?” the Countess asked. “A cigar?”

Her visitor shook his head, gazed on the peaceful panorama of the valley of the Var.

“Thank you, no. My time is limited. My journey has been a long one and I must make a start for Paris with all due haste. You,” he explained courteously, “and the Marquis will put yourselves in readiness with as much rapidity as possible. You are both my guests for the return journey!”

The man in tweeds whitened to the lips. His startled glance darted to the Countess. The woman had settled herself back in the black wicker chair again and had joined her fingers, tip to tip.

“Accompany you to Paris?” she drawled. “Are you quite serious?”

The wrinkled face of Monsieur Murgier grew inflexible, brass-like!