# The Chink in the Armour/Chapter 7
### CHAPTER VII

Two hours later Sylvia Bailey was having luncheon with Anna Wolsky in the Pension Malfait.
The two hostelries, hers and Anna's, were in almost absurd contrast the one to the other. At the Villa du Lac everything was spacious, luxurious, and quiet. M. Polperro's clients spent, or so Sylvia supposed, much of their time in their own rooms upstairs, or else in the Casino, while many of them had their own motors, and went out on long excursions. They were cosmopolitans, and among them were a number of Russians.
Here at the Pension Malfait, the clientèle was French. All was loud talking, bustle, and laughter. The large house contained several young men who had daily work in Paris. Others, like Madame Wolsky, were at Lacville in order to indulge their passion for play, and quite a number of people came in simply for meals.
Among these last, rather to Sylvia's surprise, were Monsieur and Madame Wachner, the middle-aged couple whom Anna Wolsky had pointed out as having been at Aix-les-Bains the year before, at the same time as she was herself.
The husband and wife were now sitting almost exactly opposite Anna and Sylvia at the narrow table d'hôte, and again a broad, sunny smile lit up the older woman's face when she looked across at the two friends.
"We meet again!" she exclaimed in a guttural voice, ​and then in French, addressing Madame Wolsky, "This is not very much like Aix-les-Bains, is it, Madame?"
Anna shook her head.
"Still it is a pretty place, Lacville, and cheaper than one would think." She leant across the table, and continued in a confidential undertone: "As for us—my husband and I—we have taken a small villa; he has grown so tired of hotels."
"But surely you had a villa at Aix?" said Anna, in a surprised tone.
"Yes, we had a villa there, certainly. But then a very sad affair happened to us——" she sighed. "You may have heard of it?" and she fixed her small, intensely bright eyes inquiringly on Anna.
Anna bent her head.
"Yes, I heard all about it" she said gravely. "You mean about your friend who was drowned in the lake? It must have been a very distressing thing for you and your husband."
"Yes, indeed! He never can bear to speak of it."
And Sylvia, looking over at the man sitting just opposite to herself, saw a look of unease come over his sallow face. He was eating his omelette steadily, looking neither to the right nor to the left.
"Ami Fritz!" cried his wife, turning suddenly to him, and this time she spoke English, "Say, 'How d'you do,' to this lady! You will remember that we used to see 'er at Aix, in the Casino there?"
"Ami Fritz" bowed his head, but remained silent.
"Yes," his wife went on, volubly, "that sad affair made Aix very unpleasant to us! After that we spent the ​winter in various pensions, and then, instead of going back to Aix, we came 'ere. So far, I am quite satisfied with Lacville."
Though she spoke with a very bad accent and dropped her aitches, her English was quick and colloquial.
"Lacville is a cosy, 'appy place!" she cried, and this time she smiled full at Sylvia, and Sylvia told herself that the woman's face, if very plain, was like a sunflower,—so broad, so kindly, so good-humoured!
When déjeuner was over, the four had coffee together, and the melancholy Monsieur Wachner, who was so curiously unlike his bright, vivacious wife, at last broke into eager talk, for he and Anna Wolsky had begun to discuss different gambling systems. His face lighted up; it was easy to see what interested and stimulated this long, lanky man whose wife addressed him constantly as "Ami Fritz."
"Now 'e is what the English call 'obby-'orse riding," she exclaimed, with a loud laugh. "To see 'im in all 'is glory you should see my Fritz at Monte Carlo!" she was speaking to Sylvia. "There 'as never been a system invented in connection with that devil-game, Roulette, that L'Ami Fritz does not know, and that 'e 'as not—at some time or other—played more to 'is satisfaction than to mine!" But she spoke very good-humouredly. "’E cannot ring many changes on Baccarat, and I do not often allow 'im to play downstairs. No, no, that is too dangerous! That is for children and fools!"
Sylvia was still too ignorant of play to understand the full significance of Madame Wachner's words, but she was vaguely interested, though she could not understand one word of the eager talk between Anna and the man.
​"Let us leave them at it!" exclaimed the older woman, suddenly. "It will be much nicer in the garden, Madame, for it is not yet too 'ot for out of doors. By the way, I forgot to tell you my name. That was very rude of me! My name is Wachner—Sophie Wachner, at your service."
"And my name is Bailey—Sylvia Bailey."
"Ah, I thought so—you are a Mees!"
"No," said Sylvia gravely, "I am a widow."
Madame Wachner's face became very serious.
"Ah," she said, sympathetically, "that is sad—very sad for one so young and so beautiful!"
Sylvia smiled. Madame Wachner was certainly a kindly, warm-hearted sort of woman.
They walked out together into the narrow garden, and soon Madame Wachner began to amuse her companion by lively, shrewd talk, and they spent a pleasant half hour pacing up and down.
The Wachners seemed to have travelled a great deal about the world and especially in several of the British Colonies.
It was in New Zealand that Madame Wachner had learnt to speak English: "My 'usband, 'e was in business there," she said vaguely.
"And you?" she asked at last, fixing her piercing eyes on the pretty Englishwoman, and allowing them to travel down till they rested on the milky row of perfectly-matched pearls.
"Oh, this is my first visit to France," answered Sylvia, "and I am enjoying it very much indeed."
"Then you 'ave not gambled for money yet?" observed ​Madame Wachner. "In England they are too good to gamble!" She spoke sarcastically, but Sylvia did not know that.
"I never in my life played for money till last week, and then I won thirty francs!"
"Ah! Then now surely you will join the Club?"
"Yes," said Sylvia a little awkwardly. "I suppose I shall join the Club. You see, my friend is so fond of play."
"I believe you there!" cried the other, familiarly. "We used to watch Madame Wolsky at Aix—my 'usband and I. It seems so strange that there we never spoke to 'er, and that now we seem to know 'er already so much better than we did in all the weeks we were together at Aix! But there"—she sighed a loud, heaving sigh—"we 'ad a friend—a dear young friend—with us at Aix-les-Bains."
"Yes, I know," said Sylvia, sympathisingly.
"You know?" Madame Wachner looked at her quickly. "What is it that you know, Madame?"
"Madame Wolsky told me about it. Your friend was drowned, was he not? It must have been very sad and dreadful for you and your husband."
"It was terrible!" said Madame Wachner vehemently. "Terrible!"
The hour in the garden sped by very quickly, and Sylvia was rather sorry when it came to be time to start for the Casino.
"Look here!" cried Madame Wachner suddenly. "Why should not L'Ami Fritz escort Madame Wolsky to the Casino while you and I take a pretty drive? I ​am so tired of that old Casino—and you will be so tired of it soon, too!" she exclaimed in an aside to Sylvia.
Sylvia looked questioningly at Anna.
"Yes, do take a drive, dear. You have plenty of time, for I intend to spend all this afternoon and evening at the Casino," said Madame Wolsky, quickly, in answer to Sylvia's look. "It will do quite well if you come there after you have had your tea. My friend will never go without her afternoon tea;" she turned to Madame Wachner.
"I, too, love afternoon tea!" cried Madame Wachner, in a merry tone. "Then that is settled! You and I will take a drive, and then we will 'ave tea and then go to the Casino."
Mrs. Bailey accompanied her friend upstairs while Anna put on her things and got out her money.
"You will enjoy a drive on this hot day, even with that funny old woman," said Madame Wolsky, affectionately. "And meanwhile I will get your membership card made out for the Club. If you like to do so, you might have a little gamble this evening. But I do not want my sweet English friend to become as fond of play as I am myself"—there crept a sad note into her voice. "However, I do not think there is any fear of that!"
When the two friends came downstairs again, they found Monsieur and Madame Wachner standing close together and speaking in a low voice. As she came nearer to them Sylvia saw that they were so absorbed in each other that they did not see her, and she heard the man saying in a low, angry voice, in French: "There ​is nothing to be done here at all, Sophie! It is foolish of us to waste our time like this!" And then Madame Wachner answered quickly, "You are always so gloomy, so hopeless! I tell you there is something to be done. Leave it to me!"
Then, suddenly becoming aware that Sylvia was standing beside her, the old woman went on: "My 'usband, Madame, always says there is nothing to be done! You see, 'e is tired of 'is last system, and 'e 'as not yet invented another. But, bah! I say to 'im that no doubt luck will come to-day. 'E may find Madame Wolsky a mascot." She was very red and looked disturbed.
"I 'ave asked them to telephone for an open carriage," Madame Wachner added, in a better-humoured tone. "It will be here in three or four minutes. Shall we drive you first to the Casino?" This question she asked of her husband.
"No," said Monsieur Wachner, harshly, "certainly not! I will walk in any case."
"And I will walk too," said Anna, who had just come up. "There is no need at all for us to take you out of your way. You had better drive at once into the open country, Sylvia."
And so they all started, Madame Wolsky and her tall, gaunt, morose companion, walking, while Sylvia and Madame Wachner drove off in the opposite direction.
The country immediately round Lacville is not pretty; the little open carriage was rather creaky, and the horse was old and tired, and yet Sylvia Bailey enjoyed her drive very much.
Madame Wachner, common-looking, plain, almost ​grotesque in appearance though she was, possessed that rare human attribute, vitality.
Sometimes she spoke in French, sometimes in English, changing from the one to the other with perfect ease; and honestly pleased at having escaped a long, dull, hot afternoon in the Casino, the older woman set herself to please and amuse Sylvia. She thoroughly succeeded. A clever gossip, she seemed to know a great deal about all sorts of interesting people, and she gave Sylvia an amusing account of Princess Mathilde Bonaparte, whose splendid château they saw from their little carriage.
Madame Wachner also showed the most sympathetic interest in Sylvia and Sylvia's past life. Soon the Englishwoman found herself telling her new acquaintance a great deal about her childhood and girlhood—something even of her brief, not unhappy, married life. But she shrank back, both mentally and physically, when Madame Wachner carelessly observed, "Ah, but soon you will marry again; no doubt you are already engaged?"
"Oh, no!" Sylvia shook her head.
"But you are young and beautiful. It would be a crime for you not to get married again!" Madame Wachner persisted; and then, "I love beauty," she cried enthusiastically. "You did not see me, Madame, last week, but I saw you, and I said to my 'usband, 'There is a very beautiful person come to Lacville, Fritz!' 'E laughed at me. 'Now you will be satisfied—now you will 'ave something to look at,' 'e says. And it is quite true! When I come back that night I was very sorry to see you not there. But we will meet often now," she ​concluded pleasantly, "for I suppose, Madame, that you too intend to play?"
That was the second time she had asked the question.
"I shall play a little," said Sylvia, blushing, "but of course I do not want to get into the habit of gambling."
"No, indeed, that would be terrible! And then there are not many who can afford to gamble and to lose their good money." She looked inquiringly at Sylvia. "But, there," she sighed—her fat face became very grave—"it is extraordinary 'ow some people manage to get money—I mean those 'oo are determined to play!"
And then, changing the subject, Madame Wachner suddenly began to tell her new acquaintance all about the tragic death by drowning of her and her husband's friend at Aix-les-Bains the year before. She now spoke in French, but with a peculiar guttural accent.
"I never talk of it before Fritz," she said quickly, "but, of course, we both often think of it still. Oh, it was a terrible thing! We were devoted to this young Russian friend of ours. He and Fritz worked an excellent system together—the best Fritz ever invented—and for a little while they made money. But his terribly sad death broke our luck"——she shook her head ominously.
"How did it happen?" said Sylvia sympathetically.
And then Madame Wachner once again broke into her h-less English.
"They went together in a boat on Lake Bourget—it is a real lake, that lake, not like the little fishpond 'ere. A storm came on, and the boat upset. Fritz did his best to save the unfortunate one, but 'e could not swim. You ​can imagine my sensations? I was in a summer-'ouse, trembling with fright. Thunder, lightning, rain, storm, all round! Suddenly I see Fritz, pale as death, wet through, totter up the path from the lake. 'Where is Sasha?' I shriek out to 'im. And 'e shake 'is 'ead despairingly—Sasha was in the lake!"
The speaker stared before her with a look of vivid terror on her face. It was almost as if she saw the scene she was describing—nay, as if she saw the pale, dead face of the drowned man. It gave her companion a cold feeling of fear.
"And was it long before they found him?" asked Sylvia in a low tone.
"They never did find 'im," said Madame Wachner, her voice sinking to a whisper. "That was the extraordinary thing—Sasha's body was never found! Many people thought the money 'e 'ad on 'is person weighed 'im down, kept 'im entangled in the weeds at the bottom of the lake. Did not your friend tell you it made talk?"
"Yes," said Sylvia.
"’E 'ad not much money on 'is person," repeated Madame Wachner, "but still there was a good deal more than was found in 'is bed-room. That, of course, was 'anded over to the authorities. They insisted on keeping it."
"But I suppose his family got it in the end?" said Sylvia.
"No. 'E 'ad no family. You see, our friend was a Russian nobleman, but he had also been a Nihilist, so 'e 'ad concealed 'is identity. It was fortunate for us that we 'ad got to know an important person in the police; ​but for that we might 'ave 'ad much worry"—she shook her head. "They were so much annoyed that poor Sasha 'ad no passport. But, as I said to them—for Fritz quite lost 'is 'ead, and could say nothing—not 'alf, no, not a quarter of the strangers in Aix 'as passports, though, of course, it is a good and useful thing to 'ave one. I suppose, Madame, that you 'ave a passport?"
She stopped short, and looked at Sylvia with that eager, inquiring look which demands an answer even to the most unimportant question.
"A passport?" repeated Sylvia Bailey, surprised. "No, indeed! I've never even seen one. Why should I have a passport?"
"When you are abroad it is always a good thing to 'ave a passport," said Madame Wachner quickly. "You see, it enables you to be identified. It gives your address at 'ome. But I do not think that you can get one now—no, it is a thing that one must get in one's own country, or, at any rate," she corrected herself, "in a country where you 'ave resided a long time."
"What is your country, Madame?" asked Sylvia. "Are you French? I suppose Monsieur Wachner is German?"
Madame Wachner shook her head.
"Oh, 'e would be cross to 'ear that! No, no, Fritz is Viennese—a gay Viennese! As for me, I am"—she waited a moment——"well, Madame, I am what the French call 'une vraie cosmopolite'—oh, yes, I am a true citizeness of the world."