“What of that?”

“Oh, the trip might as well be new for everybody except myself; and as you like adventures—­”

“You think it’s the Turnours’ duty to have them.”

“Just so.  If only to punish her ladyship for grinding you down to fifty francs a month.  What a reptile!”

“If she’s a reptile, I’m a cat to plot against her.”

“Do cats plot?  Only against mice, I think.  And anyhow, I’m doing all the plotting.  I’ve felt a different man since yesterday.  I’ve got something to live for.”

“Oh, what?” The question asked itself.

“For a comrade in misfortune.  And to see her to her journey’s end.  I suppose that end will be in Paris?”

“No-o,” I said.  “I rather think I shall go on all the way to England with Lady Turnour—­if I can stand it.  There’s a person in England who will be kind to me.”

“Oh!” remarked Mr. Dane, suddenly dry and taciturn again.  I didn’t know what had displeased him—­unless he was sorry to have my company as far as England; yet somehow I couldn’t quite believe it was that.

All this talk we had while dodging furious trams and enormous waggons piled with merchandise, in that maelstrom of traffic near the Marseilles docks, which must be passed before we could escape into the country.  At last, coasting down a dangerously winding hill with a too suggestively named village at the bottom—­L’Assassin—­the Aigle turned westward.  The chauffeur let her spread her wings at last, and we raced along a clear road, the Etang already shimmering blue before us, like an eye that watched and laughed.

Then we had to swing smoothly round a great circle, to see in all its length and breadth that strange, hidden, and fishy fairy-land of which Martigues is the door.  Once the Phoenicians found their way here, looking for salt, which is exploited to this day; Marius camped near enough to take his morning dip in the Etang, perhaps; and Jeanne, queen of Naples, held Martigues for herself.  But now only fish, and fishermen, and a few artists occupy themselves in that quaint little world which one passes all regardlessly in the flying “Cote d’Azur.”

As we sailed round the road which rings the sleepy-looking salt lake, Lady Turnour had a window opened on purpose to ask what on earth the Prince of Monaco found to admire in this flat country, where there were no fine buildings?  And her rebellion made me take alarm for the success of our future plots.  But the chauffeur (anxious for the same reason, maybe, that she should be content) explained things nicely.

Why, said he, for one thing the best fish eaten at the best restaurants of Monte Carlo came out of the Etang de Berre.  The bouillabaise which her ladyship had doubtless tasted at La Reserve last night, originally owed much to the same source; and talking of bouillabaise, Martigues was almost as famous for it as La Reserve itself.  One had but to lunch at the little hotel Paul Chabas to prove that.  And then, for less material reasons, His Serene Highness might be influenced by the fact that Corot had loved this ring of land which clasped the Etang de Berre—­Ziem, too, and other artists whose opinion could not be despised.