The Marquis always talked very bad English when he was angry, and thismorning he was very angry indeed. Climbing up narrow and precipitouspaths upon a surface of loose stones, pushing his way occasionallythrough brambles and undergrowth, and looking downwards from heights,which always made him giddy, had been undertakings which had combined toincense him. He was not dressed or built for such mad escapades. Thesight of Madelon, bare-headed, and laughing, having the air of one towhom such excursions, instead of being a torture, were a keen pleasure,only irritated him, whereas the final note of exasperation he discoveredin the pleasant good temper of Mr. Samuel T. Billingham, their guide andhost, who, with a huge cigar in his mouth, was walking with springysteps and unabated cheerfulness up the path which the Marquis hadpassionately 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 scentedpocket-handkerchief drops of moisture upon his forehead, which must notbe allowed to reach his eyebrows. "It is an absurdity! I have a pain ofthe stomach, a pain of the knees, a pain of the back. It is not for thisI came. Where is the automobile?""Poor uncle!" Madelon sympathised. "I had forgotten that you were notused to walking. You should have lived in England as I have done. Butthe view--you must admit that the view is marvellous!"The comments of the Marquis upon the view were delivered in fluent andsacrilegious French. He displayed an acquaintance with the various formsof blasphemy peculiar to his language which moved even Mr. Billingham towondering admiration."When I feel better," he concluded, after a moment's electric pause, "Ishall apologise. At present I will only say that the view from thewindow of my salon, which takes in the Casino and all that glorioussea, is better worth having.""Less than a kilometre to go," Mr. Billingham declared. "I reckon weshall strike the main road just beyond that clump of firs, and that'swhere 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, ashe rose to his feet. "I miss my morning aperitif.""That's coming to you, sure," Mr. Billingham promised. "I've done thistramp before, and unless I'm mistaken there's a little café where thispath joins the cart track."The prospect was sufficiently encouraging to induce the Marquis tostruggle to his feet. They clambered another fifty yards or so up thestony path and found themselves in a rough track which had evidentlybeen made by the carting of timber from the other side of the ravine. Alittle way along there was a small white-plastered building, to whichMr. Billingham pointed."The Café du Forêt!" he exclaimed. "The worst ever, so far as Iremember, but a Dubonnet won't poison us."The Marquis almost smiled."A Dubonnet will be acceptable," he admitted. "The place appearspoverty-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 rudelypainted black letters to be a restaurant where "Vins et Consommations"were to be obtained. There were three iron tables outside with a coupleof chairs at each, but no sign of life. The door stood open and his twocompanions followed Mr. Billingham inside. There was no one behind thelittle counter, no one in the rude little compartment with its sandedfloor and benches in place of chairs. There were bottles upon theshelves, however, and a tumbler half full of brandy upon the counter.Mr. Billingham raised his voice and the glasses around shook.