_Which introduces us to the First Lady of France_
A paddle-steamer cleared the long wooden jetties, and made Boulogne
Harbour, hooting the announcement of her coming to the echoing wharves
that flung back the chuckling hoot in answering welcome rollickingly;
and, churning with fussy thrashings of her paddle-wheels the waters of
the narrow sea-way as she settled to her moorings, she lurched against
the quay and was still.
To Betty and Noll, standing on deck with eyes bent on the swinging
prospect before them, there came the fragrance of a new world. The
tender greys, gentle blues, and silvery colours of France held out a
welcome to their ready senses, and from the many-windowed houses with
their hundred wooden shutters there drifted the pleasant odour of wood
fires.
So Betty, her happy eyes glancing at the shifting scenes that passed by
the wayside, and lolling in the grey carriage of her wedding journey,
was whirled through the pleasant garden of France.
Noll came and sat beside her.
“You’re very happy, my Betty,” said he.
She nodded--and her eyes filled with tears.
She put out her hand shyly to him, and he held it in his. He sat and
watched her. It was stupid to speak....
They swung past great sand-dunes by the sea--along the pleasant
plains with poplars all of a row--thundered over bridges that spanned
the shining river--clanked past villages--passing now and then a
picturesque château on a hilltop that stood sentry over the plains--and
always there was the sense of grey-green trees and white buildings
and tender blue skies that are the colour of France. Delicacy and
tenderness and graciousness and gentleness are written over the face of
the land, the subtle land of Corot.
And all the world was a-singing....
In the twilight the train dashed past St. Denis and the foundries of
Paris, swept under the lea of the hill where the scaffolding a-top
showed the building of the great church of Montmartre, and thundered
into the resounding grey gateway of the city that stands open to the
north--the Gare du Nord.
At the barriers they were met by a French student in black slouch
hat and great loose tie full flowing at the throat through the open
collar of his short black coat--he wore baggy corduroy pantaloons.
The golden-haired youth slapped Noll on the shoulder, pulled off his
hat, and held out a hand to Betty--welcoming them to Paris. And Horace
Malahide’s warm handshake brought a glow of happiness to them both. His
laugh sent all the strangeness flying; they were no longer alone amid
an alien people.
Horace, giving Noll a hand with the small baggage, called a porter and
told him to hail a cab. The blue-bloused fellow soon had the scanty
baggage stowed away on top. Horace smiled a little sadly at the girl’s
trunk and the narrow extent of Noll’s belongings.
As they drove off together, Horace explained:
“Now, I’ve got you a room, right at the top, in one of the most
delightful houses of the old student quarter. I have sent some of my
surplus furniture; but I had to get the concierge to buy you a stove
and one or two things.”
He laughed aside all thanks; then he coughed--a little embarrassedly:
“Of course--I told all the boys that you were coming--with a wife,
Noll. But the Frenchmen all winked at the word wife; so they’ll be
quite friendly and free.”
Horace was to show them everything and put them in the way of pleasant
economies.
In the morning he was to move down from his old studio on Montmartre to
be near them. Noll was to share his studio, when he was in the mood to
paint--Horace was at Gérôme’s atelier at the Beaux Arts.
The cab was rattling along the riverside--lurched aside and rattled
over a bridge--turned along the quays--up a narrow thoroughfare--took a
jolting turn or two--and came to a noisy standstill.
They got out, and walked through a high entrance into a cobbled
courtyard. And as they passed, to give them rude welcome, out of a
doorway that was a hole in the wall of the passage-way popped the stout
little woman who is the symbol and the tyrant and ultimate design
created by the machinery of the French constitution--the concierge.
Horace introduced them.
As they mounted the stairs to their first home, Horace discoursed on
the panting woman who led the way--in English.
The concierge, said he, is the government. The President of the
Republic is but her servant. Her newspaper has the greatest circulation
in the world--is the furthest reaching--_Le Petit Journal_. She stands
between the landlord and the tenant--that is her sole duty--and she
stands on her duty. She has usurped power as the Carlovingian mayors
of the palace plucked the sceptre from their Merovingian kings, the
Rois Fainéants of France. She is dragon over all the moralities--you
may commit any sin in France, if you do it gracefully, except shocking
the concierge. At eleven o’ the night she shuts the gates, and gets to
bed--and when you ring the bell for admittance, she pulls the bolts
by magic from that bed, scarce turning to break her snore, and you as
you pass must call your name--or you are lost. In her smile or in her
frown lies your honour, your repute, your good name.... France one
fine morning awoke, and her sunny smile died out, scared by the threat
of Revolution. Paris talked in anxious whispers. Paris frowned. For
on the walls of the Rue de Rivoli was writ _Long Live the King!_ At
mid-day Paris was laughing--the concealed troops marched out of the
courtyards and went home; the revolution was over: beneath _Long Live
the King_, a workman, mounting the shoulders of another, had writ:
“_Which?_” killing the danger with a jest.... At midnight Paris was a
riot of dancing--a third wag had written full answer to the sphinx: _Le
concierge_.
Arrived at the heights, Horace bade the lights to be lit, and when
their home was all ablaze with welcome, he handed Betty the key, wished
them happiness, and took his leave until the morning.