The End of Her Honeymoon by Marie Belloc Lowndes (literature books to read .TXT) 📖

in threading narrow, shadowed thoroughfares which wound through what might have been a city of the dead. From midnight till cock-crow old-world Paris sleeps, and the windows of the high houses on either side of the deserted streets through which they were now driving were all closely shuttered.

“Here we have the ceremonious, the well-bred, the tactful Paris of other days,” exclaimed Dampier whimsically. “This Paris understands without any words that what we now want is to be quiet, and by ourselves, little girl!”

A gas lamp, burning feebly in a corner wine shop, lit up his exultant face for a flashing moment.

“You don’t look well, Jack,” Nancy said suddenly. “It was awfully hot in Lyons this morning—”

“We stayed just a thought too long in that carpet warehouse,” he said gaily,—“And then—and then that prayer carpet, which might have belonged to Ali Baba of Ispahan, has made me feel ill with envy ever since! But joy! Here we are at last!”

After emerging into a square of which one side was formed by an old Gothic church, they had engaged in a dark and narrow street the further end of which was bastioned by one of the flying buttresses of the church they had just passed.

The cab drew up with a jerk. “C’est ici, monsieur.”

The man had drawn up before a broad oak porte cochère which, sunk far back into a thick wall, was now inhospitably shut.

“They go to bed betimes this side of the river!” exclaimed Dampier ruefully.

Nancy felt a little troubled. The hotel people knew they were coming, for Jack had written from Marseilles: it was odd no one had sat up for them.

But their driver gave the wrought-iron bell-handle a mighty pull, and after what seemed to the two travellers a very long pause the great doors swung slowly back on their hinges, while a hearty voice called out, “C’est vous, Monsieur Gerald? C’est vous, mademoiselle?”

And Dampier shouted back in French, “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Dampier. Surely you expect us? I wrote from Marseilles three days ago!”

He helped his wife out of the cab, and they passed through into the broad, vaulted passage which connected the street with the courtyard of the hotel. By the dim light afforded by an old-fashioned hanging lamp Nancy Dampier saw that three people had answered the bell; they were a middle-aged man (evidently mine host), his stout better half, and a youth who rubbed his eyes as if sleepy, and who stared at the newcomers with a dull, ruminating stare.

As is generally the case in a French hotel, it was Madame who took command. She poured forth a torrent of eager, excited words, and at last Dampier turned to his wife:—“They got my letter, but of course had no address to which they could answer, and—and it’s rather a bore, darling—but they don’t seem to have any rooms vacant.”

But even as he spoke the fat, cheerful-looking Frenchwoman put her hand on the young Englishman’s arm. She had seen the smart-looking box of the bride, the handsome crocodile skin bag of the bridegroom, and again she burst forth, uttering again and again the word “arranger.”

Dampier turned once more, this time much relieved, to his wife: “Madame Poulain (that’s her name, it seems) thinks she can manage to put us up all right to-night, if we don’t mind two very small rooms—unluckily not on the same floor. But some people are going away to-morrow and then she’ll have free some charming rooms overlooking the garden.”

He took a ten-franc piece out of his pocket as he spoke, and handed it to the gratified cabman:—“It doesn’t seem too much for a drive through fairyland”—he said aside to his wife.

And Nancy nodded contentedly. It pleased her that her Jack should be generous—the more that she had found out in the last three weeks that if generous, he was by no means a spendthrift. He had longed to buy a couple of Persian prayer carpets in that queer little warehouse where a French friend of his had taken them in Lyons, but he had resisted the temptation—nobly.

Meanwhile Madame Poulain was talking, talking, talking—emphasising all she said with quick, eager gestures.

“They are going to put you in their own daughter’s room, darling. She’s luckily away just now. So I think you will be all right. I, it seems, must put up with a garret!”

“Oh, must you be far away from me?” she asked a little plaintively.

“Only for to-night, only till to-morrow, sweetheart.”

And then they all began going up a winding staircase which started flush from the wall to the left.

First came Madame Poulain, carrying a candle, then Monsieur Poulain with his new English clients, and, last of all, the loutish lad carrying Nancy’s trunk. They had but a little way to go up the shallow slippery stairs, for when they reached the first tiny landing Madame Poulain opened a curious, narrow slit of a door which seemed, when shut, to be actually part of the finely panelled walls.

“Here’s my daughter’s room,” said the landlady proudly. “It is very comfortable and charming.”

“What an extraordinary little room!” whispered Nancy.

And Dampier, looking round him with a good deal of curiosity, agreed.

In the days when the Hôtel Saint Ange belonged to the great soldier whose name it still bears, this strange little apartment had surely been, so the English artist told himself, a powdering closet. Even now the only outside light and air came from a small square window which had evidently only recently been cut through the thick wall. In front of this aperture fluttered a bright pink curtain.

Covering three of the walls as well as the low ceiling, was a paper simulating white satin powdered with rose-buds, and the bed, draped with virginal muslin curtains, was a child’s rather than a woman’s bed.

“What’s that?” asked Dampier suddenly. “A cupboard?”

He had noticed that wide double doors, painted in the pale brownish grey called grisaille, formed the further side of the tiny apartment.

Madame Poulain, turning a key, revealed a large roomy space now fitted up as a cupboard. “It’s a way through into our bedroom, monsieur,” she said smiling. “We could not of course allow our daughter to be far from ourselves.”

And Dampier nodded. He knew the ways of French people and sympathised with those ways.

He stepped up into the cupboard, curious to see if this too had been a powdering closet, and if that were so if the old panelling and ornamentation had remained in their original condition.

Thus for a moment was Dampier concealed from those in the room. And during that moment there came the sound of footsteps on the staircase, followed by the sudden appearance on the landing outside the open door of the curious little apartment of two tall figures—a girl in a lace opera cloak, and a young man in evening dress.

Nancy Dampier, gazing at them, a little surprised at the abrupt apparition, told herself that they must be brother and sister, so striking was their resemblance to one another.

“We found the porte cochère open, Madame Poulain, so we just came straight in. Good night!”

The young lady spoke excellent French, but as she swept on up the staircase out of sight there came a quick low interchange of English words between herself and the man with her.

“Daisy? Did you notice that beautiful young woman? A regular stunner! She must be that daughter the Poulains are always talking about.”

And then “Daisy’s” answer floated down. “Yes, I noticed her—she is certainly very pretty. But do be careful, Gerald, I expect she knows a little English—”

Dampier stepped down out of the cupboard.

“That American cub ought to be put in his place!” he muttered heatedly.

Nancy turned her face away to hide a little smile. Jack was so funny! He delighted in her beauty—he was always telling her so, and yet it annoyed him if other people thought her pretty too. This young American had looked at her quite pleasantly, quite respectfully; he hadn’t meant to be offensive—of that Nancy felt sure.

“I suppose you have a good many Americans this year?” went on Dampier in French, turning to Monsieur Poulain.

“No, monsieur, no. Our clientèle is mostly French. We have only this young lady, her brother, and their father, monsieur. The father is a Senator in his own country—Senator Burton. They are very charming people, and have stayed with us often before. All our other guests are French. We have never had such a splendid season: and all because of the Exhibition!”

“I’m glad you are doing well,” said Dampier courteously. “But for my part”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I’m too much of a Parisian to like the Exhibition.”

Then he turned to Nancy: “Well, you’ll be quite safe, my darling. Monsieur and Madame Poulain are only just through here, so you needn’t feel lonely.”

And then there came a chorus of bonsoirs from host, from hostess, and from the lad who now stood waiting with the Englishman’s large portmanteau hitched up on his shoulder.

Dampier bent and kissed his wife very tenderly: then he followed Monsieur Poulain and the latter’s nephew up the stairs, while Madame Poulain stayed behind and helped Mrs. Dampier to unpack the few things she required for the night.

And Nancy, though she felt just a little bewildered to find herself alone in this strange house, was yet amused and cheered by the older woman’s lively chatter, and that although she only understood one word in ten.

Madame Poulain talked of her daughter, Virginie, now in the country well away from the holiday crowds brought by the Exhibition, and also of her nephew, Jules, the lad who had carried up the luggage, and who knew—so Madame Poulain went to some pains to make Nancy understand—a little English.

Late though it was, the worthy woman did not seem in any hurry to go away, but at last came the kindly words which even Nancy, slight as was her knowledge of French, understood: “Bonsoir, madame. Dormez bien.”