The Car of Destiny

								

complexions; but one seemed to me beautiful as the Blessed Damozel looking
down from the star-framed window of heaven; and I was suddenly sick with
jealousy of the King, because I believed that she was his Princess.
It was he who answered, in French better than mine. He thanked me for my
kind offer, and referred me to his chauffeur, who had not yet discovered
the cause of the car's sudden loss of power. But even as he spoke, the
mystery was solved. There was a leak in the petrol-tank, near the bottom;
the last drop of essence had run away, and, as they had come out for a
short spin, there was none in reserve.
An odd chance it seemed that brought me, the son of a banished rebel, to
the King's aid; but life is odd. I rejoiced because it was odd, and more
because of the girl.
I had a spare bidon of petrol which, with conventional expressions of
pleasure, I gave to my fellow motorist. We exchanged compliments, and as
nobody stared at me askance, I had reason to believe that neither words,
actions, nor looks were out of the way. Yet what I said and did was said
and done with no more guidance of the mind than the gestures and speech of
a mechanical doll.
I was conscious only of the girl's eyes, for I had done that unreasonable,
indefinable thing--fallen in love at first sight, and I had fallen very
far, and very deep. She did not glance at me often, and after the first I
scarcely glanced at her at all, lest my eyes should be indiscreet. It was
the most curious thing in the world, and far beyond anything that had ever
happened to me; but already I knew that I could not lose her out of my
life. Sooner could I lose life itself. If she were the Princess who was to
be Queen of Spain, I would follow her to Madrid, come what might, just for
the joy of breathing the air she breathed, of seeing her drive past me in
her carriage sometimes. I had wondered, knowing the traditions of our
family, many of them tragic, when love would come to me. Now it had come
quickly, in a moment; but not to go as it had come. It and I would be one,
for always. The girl was little more than a child, but I knew she was to
be the one woman for me; and that was what I feared my eyes might tell
her. So I would not look; yet the air seemed charged with electricity to
flash a thousand messages, and my blood tingled with the assurance that
she had had my message, that unconsciously she was sending back a message
to me.
All this was going on in my inner self, while the outer husk of self
delivered itself of conventional things.
A leak was mended, a tank filled, while my life was being remade. Then
there were bows, lifting of caps, many politenesses, and the King's car
shot away.
"What's the matter?" inquired Waring by and by.
"Nothing," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"You act as if you'd had a stroke. Aren't you going to drive on?"
"No. Yes. I'm going back," I said, and turned the car.