In the old days there was a little hotel on the Rue Dannou, midway
between the Rue de la Paix and what later along became the Avenue de
l’Opéra, called the Hôtel d’Orient. It was conducted by a certain
Madame Hougenin, whose family had held the lease for more than a
hundred years, and was typical of what the comfort-seeking visitor,
somewhat initiate, might find before the modern tourist onrush
overflowed all bounds and effaced the ancient landmarks—or should I say
townmarks?—making a resort instead of a home of the gay French capital.
The d’Orient was delightfully comfortable and fabulously cheap.
The wayfarer entered a darksome passage that led to an inner court.
There were on the four sides of this seven or eight stories pierced by
many windows. There was never a lift, or what we Americans call an
elevator. If you wanted to go up you walked up; and after dark your
single illuminant was candlelight. The service could hardly be
recommended, but cleanliness herself could find no fault with the beds
and bedding; nor any queer people about; changeless; as still and
stationary as a nook in the Rockies.
A young girl might dwell there year in and year out in perfect
safety—many young girls did so—madame a kind of duenna. The food—for it
was a _pension_—was all a gourmet could desire. And the wine!