P G Wodehouse – Man Upstairs

His brain became preternaturally alert, so that when, rounding a corner, he perceived entering the main road from a side-street in front of him a small knot of pedestrians, he did not waver, but was seized with a keen spasm of presence of mind. Without pausing in his stride, he pointed excitedly before him, and at the same moment shouted the words, “Là! Là! Vite! Vite!”

His stock of French was small, but it ran to that, and for his purpose it was ample. The French temperament is not stolid. When the French temperament sees a man running rapidly and pointing into the middle distance and hears him shouting, “Là! Là! Vite! Vite!” it does not stop to make formal inquiries. It sprints like a mustang. It did so now, with the happy result that a moment later George was racing down the

road, the centre and recognized leader of an enthusiastic band of six, which, in the next twenty yards, swelled to eleven.

Five minutes later, in a wine-shop near the harbour, he was sipping the first glass of a bottle of cheap but comforting vin ordinaire while he explained to the interested proprietor, by means of a mixture of English, broken French, and gestures that he had been helping to chase a thief, but had been forced by fatigue to retire prematurely for refreshment. The proprietor gathered, however, that he had every confidence in the zeal of his still active colleagues.

It is convincing evidence of the extent to which love had triumphed over prudence in George’s soul that the advisability of lying hid in his hotel on the following day did not even cross his mind. Immediately after breakfast, or what passed for it at Roville, he set out for the Hotel Cercle de la Méditerranée to hand over the two louis to their owner.

Lady Julia, he was informed on arrival, was out. The porter, politely genial, advised monsieur to seek her on the Promenade des Etrangers.

She was there, on the same seat where she had left the book.

“Good morning,” he said.

She had not seen him coming, and she started at his voice. The flush was back on her face as she turned to him. There was a look of astonishment in the grey eyes.

He held out the two louis.

“I couldn’t give them to you last night,” he said.

A horrible idea seized him. It had not occurred to him before.

“I say,” he stammered-“I say, I hope you don’t think I had run off with your winnings for good! The croupier wouldn’t give them up, you know, so I had to grab them and run. They came to exactly two louis. You put on five francs, you know, and you get seven times your stake. I-”

An elderly lady seated on the bench, who had loomed from behind a parasol towards the middle of these remarks, broke abruptly into speech.

“Who is this young man?”

George looked at her, startled. He had hardly been aware of her presence till now. Rapidly he diagnosed her as a mother-or aunt. She looked more like an aunt. Of course, it must seem odd to her, his charging in like this, a perfect stranger, and beginning to chat with her daughter, or niece, or whatever it was. He began to justify himself.

“I met your-this young lady”-something told him that was not the proper way to put it, but hang it, what else could he say?-“at the casino last night.”

He stopped. The effect of his words on the elderly lady was remarkable. Her face seemed to turn to stone and become all sharp points. She stared at the girl.

“So you were gambling at the casino last night?” she said.

She rose from the seat, a frozen statue of displeasure.

“I shall return to the hotel. When you have arranged your financial transactions with your-friend, I should like to speak to you. You will find me in my room.”

George looked after her dumbly.

The girl spoke, in a curiously strained voice, as if she were speaking to herself.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m glad.”

George was concerned.

“I’m afraid your mother is offended, Lady Julia.”