31

THERE are a great many people who, without possessing any expert knowledge, are yet able to readjust an electrical connection after the mysterious occurrence known as a “short circuit”; or, with the aid of a penknife, to set a watch going again; or even, if necessary, to fry a cutlet. Albinus was not one of them. He could not tie a dress-tie nor pare his right-hand nails, nor make up a parcel; he could not uncork a bottle without picking to bits one half of the cork, and drowning the other. As a child he never built things like other boys. As a youth he had never taken his bicycle to pieces, nor, indeed, could do anything with it save ride it; and when he punctured a tire, he pushed the disabled machine—squelching like an old galosh—to the nearest repair shop. Later, when he studied the restoration of pictures, he was always afraid to touch the canvas himself. During the War he had distinguished himself by an amazing incapacity to do anything whatever with his hands. In view of all this it is less surprising that he was a very bad driver than that he could drive at all.

Slowly and with difficulty (and a complicated argument, the gist of which he failed to catch, with the policeman at the crossroads) he got his car out of Rouginard and then accelerated a little.

“Do you mind telling me where we are going, if you don’t mind?” asked Margot tartly.

He shrugged his shoulders and stared straight ahead along the shiny blue-black road. Now that they were out of Rouginard, where the narrow streets had been full of people and traffic and where he had had to sound his horn, pull up with a jerk and turn clumsily—now that they were bowling smoothly along the highway, various thoughts drifted darkly and confusedly through his brain: that the road climbed up and up into the mountains and that it would soon begin to wind dangerously, that Rex’s button had once got entangled in Margot’s lace and that his heart had never been so heavy and distraught as now.

“It’s all one to me where we go,” said Margot, “but I’d just like to know. And please do keep to the right. If you can’t drive, we had better take a train or hire a chauffeur at the nearest garage.”

He put on the brake violently because a motor coach had appeared in the distance.

“What are you doing, Albert? Keep to the right, that’s all you’ve got to do.”

The motor coach, filled with tourists, thundered past. Albinus started off again. The road began to curve round the mountain.

“Does it matter where we go?” He thought, “Wherever we go, I shall not escape this pain. ‘The cheapest, loudest, nastiest—’ I shall go mad.”

“I won’t ask you again,” said Margot, “but for God’s sake don’t wobble before the bends. It is ridiculous. What are you trying to do? If you knew how my head aches. I shall be thankful when we get somewhere.”

“You swear to me there was nothing in it?” asked Albinus in a faint voice, and he felt hot tears dimming his vision. He blinked, and the road reappeared.

“I swear,” said Margot. “I’m tired of swearing to you. Kill me, but don’t torture me any longer. By the way, I’m too hot. I think I’ll take off my coat.”

He put on the brake.

Margot laughed. “What need is there to stop for that? Oh, dear, oh, dear.”

He helped her out of her dustcoat and, as he did so, he recalled with extraordinary vividness how—long, long ago—he had noticed for the first time, in a wretched little café, the way she moved her shoulders and bent her lovely neck while she wriggled out of the sleeves.

Now the tears streamed down his cheeks uncontrollably. Margot put her arms round him and pressed her temple to his bent head.

Their car was standing close to the parapet, a stout stone wall a foot high, behind which a ravine, overgrown with brambles, sloped steeply down. Far below could be heard the swish and rumble of a rapid stream. On the left-hand side rose a reddish rocky slope with pine trees on its summit. The sun was scorching. A little way ahead a man with black spectacles was sitting on the edge of the road breaking stones.

“I love you so much,” groaned Albinus, “so much.”

He fondled her hands and stroked her convulsively. She laughed softly—a satisfied laugh.

“Let me drive now,” begged Margot. “You know I can do it better than you.”

“No, I’m improving,” he said, smiling, gulping, blowing his nose. “It’s curious, but I really don’t know where we are going. I think I’ve sent the luggage on to San Remo, but I’m not quite sure.”

He started the engine and they drove on. It seemed to him that the car now traveled more easily and obediently and he no longer clutched the steering wheel so nervously. The bends became more and more frequent. On one side soared the steep cliff; on the other was the ravine. The sun stabbed his eyes. The pointer of the speedometer trembled and rose.

A sharp bend was approaching and Albinus proposed to take it with special dexterity. High above the road an old woman who was gathering herbs saw to the right of the cliff this little blue car speed toward the bend, behind the corner of which, dashing from the opposite side, toward an unknown meeting, two cyclists crouched over their handlebars.