The Avenger by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Author:E. Phillips Oppenheim [E. Phillips Oppenheim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-83-8148-334-6
Publisher: Ktoczyta.pl

XXII. THE CHTEAU OF ÉTARPE

“ONE would scarcely believe,” Wrayson remarked, leaning back in his chair and drawing in a long deep breath, “that we are within three miles of one of the noisiest and most bustling of French watering places.”

“It is incredible,” his companion admitted.

They were seated in a garden behind the old inn of the Lion d’Or, in the village of St. Étarpe. Before them was a round table, on whose spotless white cloth still remained dishes of fruit and a bottle of wine–not the vin ordinaire which had been served with their repast, but something which Wrayson had ordered specially, and which the landlord himself, all smiles and bows, had uncorked and placed before them. Wrayson produced his cigarette case.

“How did you hear of this place?” he asked, watching the smoke curl upwards into the breathless air. “I fancy that you and I are the only guests here.”

Wrayson’s companion, tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily bearded, was busy filling a pipe from a pouch by his side. His features were unmistakably Saxon, and his cheeks were tanned, as though by much exposure to all sorts of weathers. He was still apparently on the right side of middle age, but his manners were grave, almost reserved.

“I was in the neighbourhood many years ago,” he answered. “I had a fancy to revisit the place. And you?”

“I discovered it entirely by accident,” Wrayson admitted. “I walked out from Chourville this morning, stayed here for some luncheon, and was so delighted that I took a room and went straight back for my bag. There isn’t an emperor in Europe who has so beautiful a dining-room as this!”

Together they looked across the valley, a wonderful panorama of vine-clad slopes and meadows, starred with many-coloured wild flowers, through which the river wound its way, now hidden, now visible, a thin line of gleaming quicksilver. Tall poplars fringed its banks, and there were white cottages and farmhouses, mostly built in the shelter of the vine-covered cliffs. To the left a rolling mass of woods was pierced by one long green avenue, at the summit of which stretched the grey front and towers of the Château de St. Étarpe. Wrayson looked long at the fertile and beautiful country, which seemed to fade so softly away in the horizon; but he looked longest at the chateâu amongst the woods.

“I wonder who lives there,” he remarked. “I meant to have asked the waiter.”

“I can tell you,” the stranger said. “The château belongs to the Baroness de Sturm.”

“A Frenchwoman?” Wrayson asked.

“Half French, half Belgian. She has estates in both countries, I believe,” his companion answered. “As a matter of fact, I believe that this château is hers in her own right as a daughter of the Étarpes. She married a Belgian nobleman.”

“You seem well acquainted with the neighbourhood,” Wrayson remarked.

“I have been here before,” was the somewhat short answer.

Wrayson produced his card-case.

“As we seem likely to see something of one another during the next few days, nolens volens,” he remarked, “may I introduce myself? My name is Wrayson, Herbert Wrayson, and I come from London.

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