“At least that is over,” she said with a sigh of relief.
“Until we reach Marseilles,” he reminded her. “Tomorrow the real task will begin.”
“I know. It frightens me.”
Eric gave her a thin smile. “At least that’s a small improvement. You’re beginning to realize this is not all a pleasant game.”
“The other night brought me of age.”
They halted by the rail, and he gazed at her with loving eyes. “And you have also reached the age of wisdom regarding us.”
“I hope so,” she said quietly.
“When this chase is at an end, there should be no barrier between us,” he said, holding her hands in his.
“My hatred is gone,” she told him. “It was wrong of me to let my grief be twisted into a senseless rage at someone else.”
“You were misinformed,” he said. “Now you know the truth.”
She looked up at him. “Now I realize how lucky I have been.”
“Lucky?”
“Yes,” she said. “You might have been killed along with Richard, rather than merely being wounded. And I might never have come to know you.”
“Betsy!” he said with emotion as they embraced.
They remained on deck for a while longer. Then George Frederick Kingston came toward them, a trifle drunk and extremely happy. He demanded, “Young man, what are you doing with my Kate?”
Eric laughed. “Presuming to make love to her!”
“A fine kettle of fish!” Kingston complained with comic overtones. “After I have just made my reputation by my romancing her on stage! You undo me, sir!”
“You forget,” Eric said. “Your role in our little drama is that of my father. We must be more careful to stay in character.”
“Quashed!” Kingston lamented. “Completely ruined by a younger man with more appeal. Ah, well, that is the way of the world. What must be, must be!” And laughing, he placed his arms around their shoulders, and they all headed to their cabins.
The next morning the Maria entered the huge harbor of Marseilles. Long stretches of wharves and cargo docks extended out into the water to take care of the hundreds of vessels of all kinds anchored there. Betsy, standing with the other two in the bow of the ship, was awed by the busy scene. She had never known a harbor so large and bustling.
Eric smiled at her and said, “This has become the second most important city in France. And the greatest port.”
Betsy said, “It must have grown greatly since the revolution.”
“It has,” the young man said. “And it is a city where Napoleon once lived. And where he is still a hero.”
“He told me of his early days here,” she agreed with a smile. “He brought his family here when he was only a mere army captain.”
George Frederick Kingston was studying the city beyond the harbor with its white buildings, green hills, and blue cliffs. The veteran actor said, “That looks like a church on that high cliff!”
“It is,” Eric told him. “The church of Notre Dame de la Garde. And not far from it there are the dungeons of the Chateau d’If, where so many were imprisoned and died without ever seeing the sun again.”
“Grim business, the revolution!” the actor commented.
“Marseilles has a mixture of every race on earth,” Eric said. “And the best bouillabaisse, fish soup, in the world. But do not be deceived, behind its easygoing surface it is a city of massive criminal activity.”
Betsy asked him, “Has Mr. Black given us specific instructions about what we’re to do?”
“Yes,” Eric said. “When we reach the hotel, we will have a briefing session.”
Now there came the frantic bustle of disembarking from the vessel which Betsy had come to enjoy. The passengers scattered in various directions, and Eric found them an open carriage which took them up from the docks through colorful winding streets to an inn picturesquely situated on a hill overlooking the harbor.
An elderly man with a gray walrus moustache greeted them. Arrangements had been made in advance, and he now showed them to their rooms. Once again Betsy had a room adjoining that of the two men. Her windows looked out on a garden at the rear rather than having a harbor view. But the room was clean and neat. Only after they had eaten in the good-sized dining hall of the inn did they gather in Eric’s room for the promised briefing.
Holding a paper, he addressed Betsy and Kingston who sat in chairs before him. He said, “It is Felix Black’s wish that Betsy and you should call on Mademoiselle LaFlenche. She still lives in the family villa, quite alone with servants. She rarely sees anyone, but you must somehow reach her. He suggests that you pass yourself off as father and daughter. And that you, Kingston, are a retired merchant who did business with LaFlenche — buying shipments of dates and oranges from him for the London trade.”
Kingston nodded. “I can manage that, old chap. Just so long as she doesn’t ask too many questions.”
Eric turned to her and said, “You can be greatly interested in the city. And you might casually mention that someone told you Jean LaFlenche looked remarkably like Napoleon. See what her reaction may be.”
“If we get to her at all,” Betsy said.
“That will be the problem,” he agreed.
She asked, “What will you do?”
“While you and Kingston are trying to locate Mademoiselle LaFlenche, I shall be visiting his office and also calling on his lawyer and doctor. It will take the entire afternoon. We will meet here for dinner and a general discussion.”
Betsy smiled. “It doesn’t sound so dangerous.”
“But it could be,” Eric warned her again.
She wore her white bonnet and pale blue dress, and George Frederick Kingston decided on a dignified black jacket and gray pantaloons. They hired a carriage to take them to the villa and wait for them there. The driver knew the way and took them through the wealthier residential area of the city. Here it was all gardens, giant shade trees, and fine houses discreetly set in from the road.
When they reached the entrance road to the villa LaFlenche, they got out of the carriage and told the driver to wait on the roadway. Then they walked in the tree-lined narrower driveway to the front door of the white villa. A knock on the door brought a spare, anxious-looking woman in maid’s cap and uniform.
She stood warily in the doorway and asked, “What is it?”
In perfect French Betsy said, “My father is a former business partner of the late Monsieur LaFlenche. He has come from London to pay his respects to the daughter of his old friend. And I have come along as I’m more proficient in French.”
The maid glared at them. “Mademoiselle does not receive visitors!”
“We are not mere visitors,” Betsy protested. “My father was a friend of her father’s.”
“It does not matter,” the maid said firmly. “My mistress entertains no company!” And she withdrew and slammed the door in their faces.
Kingston turned to her bleakly and putting on his black top hat again said, “Well, I’d say that is the end of that!”
“It can’t be!” she protested.
“What can we do? The maid says the woman will not see anyone!”
Betsy’s pretty face was troubled under the white bonnet. She glanced around. “There must be some way to reach her.”
“We can’t break down the door,” the actor told her. “It would give a bad impression.”
She was thinking. She said, “Let us walk around to the rear of the house.”
They did and as Kingston pointed out, “No help in this direction. There’s a high brick wall attached to the rear of the house which closes in the big garden area.”
Betsy was holding up her skirt a little so she could move through the brush and grass more quickly. She said, “I’ll be much surprised if there isn’t an opening somewhere in this wall.”
“No doubt with an iron gate,” the old actor said. “This is a difficult woman to see!”
“That makes it mor
e interesting,” was her reply as she continued to move on ahead of him. And after awhile they did come to an iron gate just as Kingston had predicted.
“You see! What did I tell you?” The actor was delighted to have been proven right.
Betsy was staring at it. Then she said, “It is surely agate. But I see no lock on it.”
Kingston examined the tall gate and in surprise declared, “You’re right! It’s not locked!” And to prove his words, he easily moved it inward.
Betsy and he entered the garden area. It was a place of many colored flower beds with a fountain in the middle. She found herself amazed at the elegance of the quiet place.
“Flowers the equal of any London park,” was Kingston’s comment.
Suddenly Betsy halted, for ahead she saw a woman in black bonnet and dress kneeling by one of the flower beds selecting some blooms for a bouquet. Betsy tugged at her companion’s arm and whispered, “Ahead! We must catch her before she goes!”
Kingston nodded and said a quiet, “Righto!” And he let her lead the way to the woman they were seeking.
They reached the woman just as she stood up with some yellow roses in her hands. Only then did she see them and let the roses drop. She looked as if she were going to turn and run away. Kingston at once doffed his hat again and knelt down to gather the roses up hastily and present them to the stricken lady.
Betsy urged her, “Please do not be afraid of us.”
Mademoiselle LaFlenche was tall and thin. Her face was stern, and her dark hair was graying. She stared at them in dismay and demanded, “How did you get in here?”
“By the gate,” Betsy said. “It was not locked.”
The woman’s thin lips worked nervously. “What do you want-here?”
“Just to talk to you for a moment,” Betsy said.
The woman frowned. “What do you wish to talk to me about?”
Betsy smiled again. “We have come a long way. From London, mademoiselle. And we’ve made the journey because my father knew your parent and carried on a number of business transactions with him.”
Mademoiselle said stiffly, “Then let that be an end to it. You have been misinformed. I see no one.”
In friendly fashion Betsy told the thin woman, “You are seeing us, mademoiselle?”
“Because you are intruders!” the woman snapped. “You took advantage of a careless caretaker allowing the gate to remain unlocked.”
“I regret we were forced to intrude on you, mademoiselle,” she apologized. “But there seemed no other way. We have come such a distance. My father so wanted to pay his good wishes to the daughter of his old friend.”
The woman had drawn herself up suspiciously. “My father had no English friends! He hated the English!”
“My father was an exception,” Betsy persisted. “You see my father was one of the few Englishmen who had a high regard for the late Emperor Napoleon!”
The thin woman was surprised by this statement. She gave the sedately dressed Kingston a scorching glance. “You were an admirer of the Emperor?”
“Ah, yes, a truly great man!” Kingston said. “Your father and I often discussed him over a glass of wine. That was before the wars began!”
“I doubt if you speak the truth,” the thin woman sniffed. “But if you shared my father’s high regard for Napoleon, I can only think you were as misguided as he was.”
This came as a shock. The woman sounded angry and bitter — as if she had hated the Emperor! Betsy said, “I’m sure we are not making ourselves clear. We much liked Napoleon.”
“So did my poor fool of a father!” Mademoiselle said angrily. “And it cost him more than half his fortune! Attempting to restore him to power! Then all was lost at Waterloo!”
Betsy said, “It is evident you did not share your fathers patriotism for the Emperor and all for which he stood.”
“It is better now with Louis,” the thin woman said.
“But your father so resembled Napoleon,” Betsy said. “That may have had something to do with his interest in him.”
“It quite turned his head!” Mademoiselle exclaimed with anger. “People would approach him and say, but you are an absolute double of Napoleon! And my father would enjoy it!”
“You feel that was wrong of him?” Betsy asked.
“It was stupid of him,” the woman snapped. “Made him an easy victim of those who were trying to bring Napoleon back. Much of my fathers fortune financed the return from Elba.”
Kingston said, “But you cannot be bitter. They are both dead now. Both your father and Napoleon!”
Mademoiselle gave him another grim look. “I think my poor fool of a father began to feel ill when word reached him that Napoleon had been stricken with a dread malady. I swear my doting father decided that he was suffering from the same thing!”
Betsy pretended deep sympathy. “He died at the same time as the emperor?”
“He died before him,” the thin woman said. “But in the same manner. I think my father willed himself to die. He could not bear to live on without his double. And that is why I had him buried privately without any period of mourning! I hated my father for his madness!”
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle,” Betsy said. “We did not mean to touch on tender feelings.”
“You have!” the daughter of LaFlenche said sternly. “So now you know the whole sad story and why I have no interest in your parent’s mewling about his love for my father and for Napoleon.”
“We are truly sorry, dear lady,” George Frederick Kingston said in his best manner. “We had no idea what your feeling in the matter might be.”
“Well you know now!” she snapped at him.
“And we will impose on you no longer,” Betsy said with haste. “Pardon us for opening your grief once again!”
“You forced yourself on me! I bid you leave!” the thin woman said arrogantly, pointing toward the gate.
Kingston bowed. “On the double, mademoiselle!” And he took Betsy by the arm and hurried her out, murmuring, “Let us get away quickly! I have a feeling there are fierce dogs tied up somewhere, and they’ll be unleashed on us!”
“You mustn’t be so timid!” Betsy remonstrated with him.
But they had barely let themselves out and closed the gate when the angry barking of dogs could be heard in the distance, and a moment later two large hounds appeared and came angrily to the gate, barking and springing up at it!
Kingston eyed the ferocious animals weakly and told her, “At least I was right this time!”
“So you were!” she said, stunned by his prediction coming true.
They made their way back around the fence and out to the road where the carriage waited in the sun. The driver had fallen asleep and had to be wakened and directed to take them back to the inn.
As they rode through the warm flower-scented streets, she asked Kingston, “What did you make of her?”
“Sour spinster!” he said promptly as he sat beside her in the slowly moving open carriage. “A proper vixen!”
“Beyond that?”
“She hated Napoleon and her father’s interest in him.”
Betsy nodded. “She made that clear.”
“Crystal clear!” the actor commented.
“If she was acting, she did very well.”
“I think she told us the truth.”
“Perhaps,” Betsy agreed. “In that case it would explain the strange events surrounding her father’s illness. She had always resented his likeness to Napoleon. And finding him dying at the same time as his idol and in the same fashion was too much for her to accept.”
The actor said, “That sums it up. She had been fed up with Napoleon and her father being compared to him.”
“So she shut him off from friends and visitors and let him die alone. There could have been no great love between those two.”
“No love in her for anyone. Mark me!” Kingston said.
“And to avoid any odious comparisons after his death, she had him bur
ied privately,” Betsy went on. “It’s strange, but it all makes sense when you understand her reasons.”
“Robs the whole business of any mystery.”
Betsy nodded. “The man who looked more like Napoleon than possibly anyone else had a daughter who resented the likeness and who actually hated the late emperor.”
“Be easy for her,” the little actor said. “She certainly didn’t like us either.”
Betsy sat back with a sigh. “I wonder what Eric will say?”
“He’ll give us marks for getting to see the woman at all. Wouldn’t have if you hadn’t stayed at it!”
“It wasn’t all that hard.”
“Still it needed wits and determination,” Kingston said.
She smiled at him. “At least you were right about the dogs.”
He chuckled. “The place had the air of a house with ugly dogs guarding it. Lucky for us they were locked up somewhere while we were talking to her.”
“She likely had them locked up purposely while she was picking flowers. Those great angry beasts were not pets by any means.”
“True,” Kingston agreed.
“So we have come up with strong evidence that the whole fable of LaFlenche taking Napoleon’s place was wild fantasy.”
The actor sighed. “Mr. Black will be sorry to hear that. Ends our project before it begins.”
She gave him a sharp glance. “Not really.”
“I don’t follow.”
“There may be someone else impersonating Napoleon. It is not only whether he is actually alive or dead, though that is important, but if we’re dealing with an impostor in Valmy’s hands, we must unmask him.”
“We wouldn’t know Valmy if we met him!” the actor protested.
“But we will when the time comes,” she said. “Right now we want to match our results with Eric’s and see what we have managed.”
“Very little, in my opinion,” Kingston said.
They reached the inn, but Eric had not returned. This made her a little uneasy. She knew how much she had come to care for the dashing young army major turned secret agent. If he came to any harm, it would be another grim ordeal for her. She had never dreamed that one day she would find herself in love with the man she’d blamed for her brother’s death. But fate had played a cruel prank on her.
Vintage Love Page 15