A "GRANDE OCCASION."
"Well, these Paris tradespeople are the most extraordinary persons in the
world," cried Sophonisba's mamma, and the absolute ruler of Mr.
Cockayne. "I confess I can't make them out. They beat me. My dear, they
are the most independent set I ever came across. They don't seem to care
whether you buy or you don't; and they ask double what they intend to
take."
"What is the matter now, my dear?" Mr. Cockayne ventured, in an
unguarded moment, to ask, putting aside for a moment Mr. Bayle St.
John's scholarly book on the Louvre.
"At any rate, Mr. Cockayne, we do humbly venture to hope that you will
be able to spare us an hour this morning to accompany us to the
_Magasins du Louvre_. We would not ask you, but we have been told the
crowd is so great that ladies alone would be torn to pieces."
"I forget how many thousands a day, papa dear," Sophonisba mercifully
interposed, "but a good many, visit these wonderful shops. I confess I
never saw anything like even the outside of them. The inside must be
lovely."
"I have no doubt they are, my dear," Mr. Cockayne observed. "They were
built about ten years ago. The foundations were----"
"There," cried Mrs. Cockayne, rising, "there, your papa is off with his
lecture. I shall put on my bonnet." And Mrs. Cockayne swept grandly from
the room.
Mrs. Cockayne re-entered the room with her bonnet on; determination was
painted on the lady's countenance. Cockayne should not escape this time.
He should be led off like a lamb to the slaughter. Were not the silks
marked at ridiculously low prices? Was not the shawl-room a sight more
than equal to anything to be seen in any other part of Paris? Was not
the folding department just as much a sight of Paris as that wretched
collection of lumber in the Hôtel Cluny?
Some wives had only to hint to have; but that was not the case with the
hapless Mrs. Cockayne. She was sure nobody could be more economical than
she was, both for herself and the children, and that was her reward. She
had to undergo the most humiliating process of asking point-blank; even
when twenty or thirty thousand pairs of gloves were to be sold at prices
that were unheard of! Men were so stupid in their meanness!
"Buy the shop," Mr. Cockayne angrily observed.
Perhaps Mr. Cockayne would be pleased to inform his lawful wife and the
unfortunate children who were subjected by fate to his cruel
tyranny--perhaps he would inform them when it would be convenient for
him to take them home. His insults were more than his wife could bear.
"What's the matter now?" asked the despairing Cockayne, rubbing his hat
with his coat-sleeve.
"Mamma dear, papa is coming with us," Sophonisba expostulated.
"Well, I suppose he is. It has not quite come to that yet, my dear. I am
prepared for anything, I believe; but your father will, I trust, not
make us the laughing-stock of the hotel."
"I am ready," said Cockayne, grimly, between his teeth.
"I am obliged, you see, children, to speak," icily responded the lady he
had sworn to love and cherish. "Hints are thrown away. I must suffer the
indignity for your sakes, of saying to your father, I shall want some
money for the purchases your mother wants to make for you. It is not the
least use going to this Grande Occasion, or whatever they call it,
empty-handed."
"Will you allow me time to get change?" And Mr. Cockayne headed the
procession through the hotel court-yard to the Boulevards.
"Walk with your father," the outraged lady said to Sophonisba. "It's
positively disgraceful, straggling out in this way. But I might have
known what it was likely to be before I left home."
Mr. Cockayne, as was his wont, speedily re-assumed his equanimity, and
chatted pleasantly with Sophonisba as they walked along the Rue de la
Paix, across the Place Vendôme, into the Rue Castiglione. Mrs. Cockayne
followed with Theodosia; Carrie had begged to be left behind, to write a
long letter to her intellectual friend, Miss Sharp.
Mr. Cockayne stopped before the door of Mr. John Arthur.
"What on earth can your father want here?" said Mrs. Cockayne, pausing
at the door, while her husband had an interview with Mr. John Arthur
within.
Theodosia, peering through the window, answered, "He is getting change,
mamma dear."
"At last!"
Mr. Cockayne issued radiant from Mr. John Arthur's establishment.
"There," said he to his wife, in his heartiest voice; "there, my dear,
buy what you and the girls want."
"I will do the best I can with it. Perhaps we can manage our shopping
without troubling you."
"It's not the least trouble in the world," gaily said Cockayne, putting
that bright face of his on matters.
"I thought you had some idea of going to the Museum of Artillery this
afternoon, to see whether or not you approved of the French guns."
Mr. Cockayne laughed at the sarcasm, and again gave Sophonisba his arm,
and went under the colonnades of the Rue de Rivoli, wondering, by the
way, why people stared at him in his plaid suit, and at his daughter in
her brown hat and blue veil. Mrs. Cockayne wondered likewise. The French
were the rudest people on the face of the earth, and not the politest,
as they had the impudence to assert.
When the party reached the colonnades of the Grand Hôtel du Louvre, they
found themselves in the midst of a busy scene.
The _Magasins du Louvre_ stretch far under the Hôtel, from the Rue de
Rivoli to the Rue Saint-Honoré. Year after year has the stretching
process continued; but now the great company of linen drapers and
hosiers have all the space that can be spared them. The endless lines of
customers' carriages in the Rue Saint-Honoré and on the _Place_ opposite
Prince Napoleon's palace betoken the marvellous trade going on within.
The father of the English family here turned his back upon the great
shop, and glancing towards the Louvre and the Church of Saint Germain
l'Auxerrois, exclaimed--"Marvellous scene! A sight not to be equalled in
the world. Yonder is the old church, the bell of which tolled the----"
"You're making a laughing-stock of yourself," Mrs. Cockayne exclaims,
taking her husband firmly by the arm. "One would think you were an hotel
guide, or a walking handbook, or--or a beadle or showman. What do you
want to know about the massacre of St. Bartholomew now? There'll not be
a mantle or a pair of gloves left. Come in--do! You can go gesticulating
about the streets with Carrie to-morrow, if you choose; but do contrive
to behave like an ordinary mortal to-day."
Mr. Cockayne resigned himself. He plunged into the magnificent shop. He
was dragged into the crowd that was defiling past the fifteen-sous
counter, where the goods lay in great tumbled masses on the floor and
upon the counter. He was surprised to see the shopmen standing upon the
counter, and, with marvellous rapidity, telling off the yards of the
cheap fabrics to the ladies and gentlemen who were pressing before them
in an unbroken line. Beyond were the packers. Beyond again, was the
office where payment was made, each person having a note or ticket, with
the article bought, showing the sum due. A grave official marshalled the
customer to the pay-place. There was wonderful order in the seeming
confusion. The admirable system of the establishment was equal to the
emergency. An idea of the continuous flow of the crowd past the silk
and mixed fabric counters may be got from the fact that many ladies
waited three and four hours for their turn to be served. One Parisian
lady told Mrs. Cockayne that, after waiting four hours in the crowd, she
had gone home to lunch, and had returned to try her fortune a second
time.
Poor Cockayne! He was absolutely bewildered. His endeavours to steer the
"three daughters of Albion" who were under his charge, in the right
direction, were painful to witness. First he threaded corridors, then he
was in the carpet gallery, and now he was in the splendid, the palatial
shawl-hall, where elegant ladies were trying on shawls of costly fabric,
with that grace and quiet for which Parisians are unmatched.
"This is superb! Oh, this is very, very fine!" cried the ladies. "How on
earth shall we find our way out?"
Now they sailed among immensities of silk and satin waves. Now they were
encompassed with shawls; and now they were amid colonnades of rolls of
carpet.
Mrs. Cockayne stayed here and there to make a purchase, by the help of
Sophonisba's French, which was a source of considerable embarrassment to
the shopmen. They smiled, but were very polite.
"This is not a shop, it is a palace dedicated to trade," cried Cockayne.
"Stuff and nonsense," was his answer; "take care of the parcels. Yon
know better, of course, than the people to whom it belongs."
The Cockaynes found themselves borne by the endless stream of customers
into a vast and lofty gallery. Pater paused.
"This is superb! It would have been impossible to realize----"
"Don't be a fool, Cockayne," said his wife; "this is the lace
department. We must not go away without buying something."
"Let us try," was saucily answered.
Mrs. Cockayne immediately settled upon some Chantilly, and made her
lord, as she expressed it in her pretty way, "pay for his impudence."
The silk gallery was as grand and bewildering as the lace department;
and here again were made some extraordinary bargains.
Obliging officials directed the party to the first staircase on the
right, or to turn to the left, by the furnishing department. They made a
mistake, and found themselves in the _salons_ devoted to made linen,
where Mrs. Cockayne hoped her husband would not make his daughters blush
with what he considered to be (and he was much mistaken) witty
observations. He was to be serious and silent amid mountains of feminine
under linen. He was to ask no questions.
In the Saint Honoré gallery--which is the furnishing department--Mr.
Cockayne was permitted to indulge in a few passing expressions of
wonder. He was hushed in the splendour of the shawl gallery--where all
is solid oak and glass and rich gold, and where the wearied traveller
through the exciting scene of a _Grande Occasion_ at the marvellous
shops of the Louvre, can get a little rest and quiet.
"A wonderful place!" said Pater, as he emerged in the Rue de Rivoli,
exhausted.
"And much more sensible than the place opposite," his wife replied,
pointing to the palace where the art treasures of Imperial France are
imperially housed.
"_Grande Occasion!_" muttered Mr. Cockayne, when he reached the
hotel--"a grand opportunity for emptying one's pocket. The cheapness is
positively ruinous. I wonder whether there are any cheap white elephants
in Paris?"
"White elephants, Cockayne! White fiddlesticks! I do really think,
girls, your father is gradually--mind, I say, _gradually--gradually_
taking leave of his senses."
"La! mamma," unfortunate Carrie interposed, raising her eyes from a
volume on Paris in the Middle Ages--"la! mamma, you know that in
India----"
"Hold your tongue, Miss--of course I know--and if I didn't, it is not
for _you_ to teach me."
Mr. Timothy Cockayne heaved a deep sigh and rang for his bill.
He was to leave for London on the morrow--and his wife and daughters
were to find lodgings.