The Cafe of Terror

The Marquis always talked very bad English when he was angry, and this
morning he was very angry indeed. Climbing up narrow and precipitous
paths upon a surface of loose stones, pushing his way occasionally
through brambles and undergrowth, and looking downwards from heights,
which always made him giddy, had been undertakings which had combined to
incense him. He was not dressed or built for such mad escapades. The
sight of Madelon, bare-headed, and laughing, having the air of one to
whom such excursions, instead of being a torture, were a keen pleasure,
only irritated him, whereas the final note of exasperation he discovered
in the pleasant good temper of Mr. Samuel T. Billingham, their guide and
host, who, with a huge cigar in his mouth, was walking with springy
steps and unabated cheerfulness up the path which the Marquis had
passionately declared to be only fit for goats and idiots.

"I can no further make this absurd promenade," the Marquis announced,
sinking on to a heap of stones and dabbing with a scented
pocket-handkerchief drops of moisture upon his forehead, which must not
be allowed to reach his eyebrows. "It is an absurdity! I have a pain of
the stomach, a pain of the knees, a pain of the back. It is not for this
I came. Where is the automobile?"

"Poor uncle!" Madelon sympathised. "I had forgotten that you were not
used to walking. You should have lived in England as I have done. But
the view--you must admit that the view is marvellous!"

The comments of the Marquis upon the view were delivered in fluent and
sacrilegious French. He displayed an acquaintance with the various forms
of blasphemy peculiar to his language which moved even Mr. Billingham to
wondering admiration.

"When I feel better," he concluded, after a moment's electric pause, "I
shall apologise. At present I will only say that the view from the
window of my salon, which takes in the Casino and all that glorious
sea, is better worth having."

"Less than a kilometre to go," Mr. Billingham declared. "I reckon we
shall strike the main road just beyond that clump of firs, and that's
where I told the car to pick us up. Another quarter of an hour, Marquis,
and we shall be in St. Félix."

"If one could only drink something!" the latter observed pettishly, as
he rose to his feet. "I miss my morning aperitif."

"That's coming to you, sure," Mr. Billingham promised. "I've done this
tramp before, and unless I'm mistaken there's a little café where this
path joins the cart track."

The prospect was sufficiently encouraging to induce the Marquis to
struggle to his feet. They clambered another fifty yards or so up the
stony path and found themselves in a rough track which had evidently
been made by the carting of timber from the other side of the ravine. A
little way along there was a small white-plastered building, to which
Mr. Billingham pointed.

"The Café du Forêt!" he exclaimed. "The worst ever, so far as I
remember, but a Dubonnet won't poison us."

The Marquis almost smiled.

"A Dubonnet will be acceptable," he admitted. "The place appears
poverty-stricken, but if one can secure an unopened bottle----"

"We'll find that," Mr. Billingham interrupted confidently.

A few minutes' further climb brought them to the café. It was small,
dilapidated and uninviting. Nevertheless it proclaimed itself in rudely
painted black letters to be a restaurant where "Vins et Consommations"
were to be obtained. There were three iron tables outside with a couple
of chairs at each, but no sign of life. The door stood open and his two
companions followed Mr. Billingham inside. There was no one behind the
little counter, no one in the rude little compartment with its sanded
floor and benches in place of chairs. There were bottles upon the
shelves, however, and a tumbler half full of brandy upon the counter.
Mr. Billingham raised his voice and the glasses around shook.