BACK TO PARIS ALONE.
Coming home.--The breaking up of the party.--We
start for Paris alone.--Basle, and a search for a
hotel.--The twilight ride.--The shopkeeper whose
wits had gone "a wool-gathering."--"Two tickets
for Paris."--What can be the matter now?--'Michel
Angelo's Moses.--Paris at midnight.--The kind
_commissionaire_.--The good French gentleman, and
his fussy little wife.--A search for Miss
H.'s.--"Come up, come up."--"Can women travel
through Europe alone?"--A word about a woman's
outfit.
TO dash through the town, along the quay where we had walked so many
times beneath the trees or leaning over the low parapet fed the fishes,
past the two-spired cathedral, the cloisters of which had become so
familiar, to mount the hill and draw up before the door of the Bellevue
again, welcomed by the innkeeper, and greeted with outstretched hands by
"Charles," who had served our chocolate, while familiar faces met us at
every window or upon the stairs, to pull up the shutters, throw wide
open the windows, and drink in the glorious beauty of the scene before
our eyes--all this was delightful, but fleeting, like all earthly joys,
and mixed with pain; for here we were to say "good by."
Our pleasant party was to break up. The friends in whose care we had
been so long, were off for Germany, and Mrs. K. and I must turn our
faces towards home. We were to renew our early and brief experience in
travelling alone. It had been as limited as our French, which consisted
principally of "_Est-ce que vous avez?_" followed by a pantomimic
display that would have done credit to a professional, and "_Quel est le
prix?_" succeeded by the blankest amazement, since we could seldom, if
ever, understand a reply.
"Are you afraid?" queried our friends.
"No; O, no." The state of our minds transcended fear.
It was a hot day when we took our last view of the lake, as we rode down
the hill from the hotel, past the cathedral, past the shaded promenade
upon the quay, to the station; but we heeded neither the heat nor the
landscape when we were once in the train and on the way. Our hearts were
heavy with grief at parting from friends, our spirits weighed down by
nameless fears. It was a wicked world, we suddenly remembered. Wolves in
sheep's clothing doubtless awaited us at every turn. Roaring lions
guarded every station. We clutched our travelling-bags, umbrellas, and
wraps, with a grasp only attained by grim fate or lone women. Gradually,
however, as the uneventful hours wore away, we forgot that in eternal
vigilance lay our safety, and relaxed our hold.
We had left Lucerne at noon; at five o'clock we reached Basle. Here we
were to spend the night at the hotel _Les Trois Rois_. Every step of the
way to Paris had been made plain to us by our kind friends.
"Let me see; the hotel is close by the station?" queried Mrs. K., when
we had left our trunks, as our friends had advised, and followed the
crowd to the sidewalk.
"Yes," I replied with assurance, "close by, they said; I am sure."
Accordingly we turned away from the long line of hotel omnibuses backed
up against the curb-stone, to the fine hotels on each side of the
straight avenue, extending as far as the eye could see. Alas! among
their blazing names was no "_Trois Rois_." We read them over and over
again. We even tried to pronounce them. Not a king was there, to say
nothing of _three_.
In a kind of bewilderment we strayed down the avenue. Might not some one
of the fair dwellings gleaming out from the shrubbery prove the house we
sought? There was a rattle and clatter behind us; a passing omnibus.
Another, and still another followed. Serene faces beamed out upon our
perplexity. A cloud of dust enveloped us as the last rolled cheerfully
by, upon the end of which we read, with staring eyes, "_Les Trois
Rois_."
"Ah!" gasped Mrs. K.
"Sure enough," I replied.
"Why, suppose we take it?" said she, slowly.
"Suppose we do," I assented, with equal deliberation. But by this time
the little red omnibus was a speck in the distance.
"At least we can follow it." And we quickened our steps, when, with
almost human perversity, it turned a distant corner, and vanished from
sight.
Fixing our eyes steadily upon the point of disappearance, we hastened
on, and on, and on! I have a faint recollection of green trees, of
stately houses, of an immense fountain swaying its white arms in the
distance--mirage-like, for we never approached it; of the sun pouring
its fierce rays upon us as we toiled on, with our wraps and satchels
turning to lead in our arms.
We reached the corner at last. There was no omnibus; no hotel in sight;
only the meeting of half a dozen narrow, crooked streets, crowded with
carriages, and alive with humanity. All settled purpose left us then;
our wits, never very firmly attached, followed. We became completely
demoralized.
"Suppose you inquire," suggested Mrs. K., after a period of inaction,
during which we were pushed, and jostled, and trampled under foot by the
crowd.
If I possessed one capability above another, it was that of asking
questions, especially in a strange language. Upon this corner where we
were standing, rose an imposing building, in the open doorway of which
stood a portly gentleman, with a countenance like the setting sun, in
glow and warmth. A heavy mane flowed over his shoulders. Evidently this
was the first of the roaring lions! Taking our lives in our hands, we
approached him.
"Do you speak English?" I ventured.
"_Nein_," was his reply, with a shrug of the leonine shoulders.
I drew a long breath and began again.
"_Parlez-vous Francais?_"
His reply to this was as singular as unprecedented. He turned his back
and disappeared up the wide stairs in the rear.
"This _may_ be foreign politeness," I was beginning, doubtfully, when he
reappeared, accompanied by an intensified counterpart of himself. The
setting sun in the face of this man gave promise of a scorching day.
"_Parlez-vous Francais, monsieur?_" I began again, when we had bowed and
"_bon-jour_"-ed for some time.
"_Oui, oui, mademoiselle._"
Here was an unexpected dilemma. A terrible pause ensued. Then, with an
effort which in some minds would have produced a poem at least, I
attempted to make known the object of our quest. I cannot begin to tell
of the facial contortions which accompanied this sentence, nor of the
ineffable peace which followed its conclusion. It made no manner of
difference that his reply was a jargon of unintelligible sounds. Virtue
is its own reward. One sentence alone I caught, as the indistinguishable
tones flew by. We were to take the first street, and then turn to the
right.
"What did he say?" asked Mrs. K., when we had _merci_-d ourselves out of
their radiant presences.
I explained the direction we were to follow.
"Horrible countenance he had," she remarked, as we pursued our way.
"O, dreadful," I assented.
"Nobody knows where he may send us," she continued.
Sure enough! In our alarm we stopped short in the street, and stared at
each other with horrified countenances.
"I have heard--" I began.
"Yes; and so have I," she went on, shaking her head, and expressing by
that gesture most fearful possibilities.
A bright thought seized me. "He told us to turn to the _right_; we will
turn to the _left_!" And with that happy, womanly instinct, said to
transcend all judgment, _we did_. Strange as it may appear, though we
went on for a long half hour, no "_Trois Rois_" gladdened our eyes.
Suddenly Mrs. K. struck an attitude. "A fine appearance we shall
present," said she; "two lone women, dusty and heated, our arms full of
baggage, straggling up to a hotel two mortal hours after the arrival of
the train. We'll take a carriage."
To me this inglorious advent was so distant in prospect that it held no
terrors, nothing of mortification even. "_Les Trois Rois_" had become a
myth, an idea towards which we vainly struggled.
"If it were only across the street," she went on, rising to the occasion
and warming with the subject, "we would go in a carriage."
One approached at that moment. We motioned to it _a la Mandarin_, with
our heads, our hands and arms being full. The driver raised his whip and
pointed solemnly into the distance. We turned to gaze, seeing nothing
but the heavens in that direction. When we looked back, he was gone. We
should not like to affirm--we hardly dare suggest--we are sure of
nothing but that he vanished from before our eyes.
A second appeared in the distance. We began in time. We pawed the air
wildly with our umbrellas. The very satchels and wraps upon our arms
nodded and beckoned. In serene unconsciousness the driver held to his
course.
"Well!" I exclaimed, indignantly.
"I should think so," added Mrs. K., with emphasis.
"Is there anything peculiar, anything unusual in our personal
appearance?" I asked, glancing down upon our dusty appointments. As we
concentrated our energies and belongings for one final effort, a
benignant countenance smiled out upon us from above a _cipher_. We were
storming a private carriage!
The third attempt was more successful. The driver paused. We requested
him, in English, to take us to "The Three Kings." He only stared and
shook his head. We tried him with "_Les Trois Rois_." He seemed still
more mystified.
"What can be done with people who do not understand their own language!"
I exclaimed in despair.
We tried it again with our purest Parisian accent. An inkling of our
meaning pierced his dull understanding. He rolled heavily down from his
seat, and opened the door with the usual "_Oui, oui_." We entered and
were driven away.
"Do you think he understood you?" queried Mrs. K.
"No-o."
"Well, where do you suppose he will take us?"
"I don't know, and I don't much care," I responded, in desperation.
We settled back upon the cushions. The peace that follows resignation
possessed our souls. O, the luxury of that jolting, rattling ride, as we
wound in and out among the tortuous streets! A full half hour passed
before the dusky old hotel darkened above us, surmounted by "The Three
Kings" arrayed in Eastern magnificence, and wearing gilded crowns upon
their heads.
Fate had been propitious. This was our destination, without doubt,
though we had made a grand mistake as to its location. We descended at
the entrance with the air, I trust, of being equal to the occasion. We
calmly surveyed the assembled porters, who hastened to seize our
satchels and wraps. We demanded a room, and inquired the hour of _table
d'hote_, as though we had done the same thing a thousand times before.
Mrs. K. was right; there was a moral support in that blessed carriage.
_Table d'hote_ over, we strayed into a pretty _salon_ opening from the
_salle a manger_. Both were crowded--over doors and windows, and within
cabinets filling every niche and corner--with quaint specimens of
pottery--pitchers, vases, and jars, ancient enough in appearance to have
graced the domestic establishment of the original "Three Kings." The
glass doors thrown back enticed us upon a long, low balcony, almost
swept by the rushing river below--the beautiful Rhine hastening on to
its hills and vineyards. We leaned over, smitten with sudden
homesickness, and sent a message back to Rolandseck of happy memory.
With the faint shadows of coming twilight we wandered out into the
square before the hotel. A line of _voitures_ extended down one side,
every one of which was quickened into life at our approach. We paused,
with foot upon the step of the first, for the _carte_ always proffered,
upon which is the number of the driver and the established rate of
fares. He only touched his shiny hat and prepared to gather up his
reins.
"O, dear!" we said; "this will never do; we must not go." And we
stepped down. The porters upon the hotel steps began to cast inquiring
glances. One or two stray passers added their mite of curiosity, when
the knight-errant, who always breaks a lance for distressed womanhood,
appeared upon the scene. We recognized him at once, though his armor was
only a suit of gray tweed, and he wore a fashionable round-topped hat
for a casque.
Almost before we knew it, we were seated in the carriage, the _carte_ in
our hands, and were slowly crawling out of the square--for a subdued
snail-pace is the highest point of speed attained by these public
vehicles.
The memory of Basle is as shadowy, dim, delightful, as was that twilight
ride. Where we were going, we neither knew nor cared; nor, later, where
we had been. We wound in and out the close streets of the old part of
the city, full of a busy life so far removed from our own, that it
seemed a show, a picture; below the surface we could not penetrate. We
rolled along wide avenues where the houses on either side were white as
the dust under the wheels. Once in a quiet square, we paused before an
old _Hotel de Ville_, frescoed in warm, rich colors. Again upon the
outskirts of the city, before a monument; but whether it had been
erected to hero or saint I cannot now recall. And somewhere, when the
dusk was deepening, we found an old church, gray as the shadows
enveloping it, with a horseman, spear in hand, cut in _bas relief_ upon
one side. What dragon he made tilt against in the darkness we never
knew.
Even our driver seemed to warm beneath the influences which subdued and
dissipated our cares. He nodded gently and complacently to
acquaintances, eliciting greetings in return, in which we, in a measure,
shared. He hummed a guttural, though cheerful song, which found an echo
in our hearts. He stood up in his place to point the way to misguided
strangers, in whose perplexities we could so well sympathize. And once,
having laid down the reins, and paused in our slow advance, he held a
long and seemingly enjoyable conversation with a passing friend. To all
this we made no manner of objection, rather we entered into the spirit
of the hour, and were filled with a complacency which was hastily
banished upon our return to the hotel, where, as we put into the hand of
our benevolent driver his due, and the generous _pour boire_ which gave
always such a twinge to our temperance principles, he demanded more.
"He claims," said the porter, who was assisting our descent, "that he
has been driving with the carriage lamps lighted. There is an extra
charge for that."
"But he left his seat to light them this moment, just before we turned
into the square," we replied, indignantly.
The porter shrugged his shoulders. That is the end of an argument. There
is never anything more to be said. We submitted at once, though our
faith in benevolent humanity went to the winds.
Somewhat dispirited, we climbed the stairs to our room. "One day more,"
we said, "and our troubles will be at an end." But, alas! one day was as
a thousand years!
It was to be an all-day's ride to Paris, from nine o'clock in the
morning until half past nine or ten at night. So, while waiting for
breakfast, we hastened out into the town, in search of a bookstore, and
something to while away the dull hours before us.
A young man, of preternaturally serious countenance, was removing the
shutters as we entered a musty little shop. We turned over the
Tauchnitz's editions of English novels until we had made a choice, the
value of our purchases amounting to four or five francs, and gave him a
napoleon. With profuse apologies he left us to get it changed. Returning
presently, he threw the silver into a drawer, and handed the books to
us, with a "_Merci_."
"Yes," we said; "but--" Arithmetic had never been my strength; still
something was clearly wrong here.
"The change," said Mrs. K. "He has given us no change." Sure enough; but
still he continued to bow and thank us, evidently expecting us to go.
We tried to explain; eliciting only one of the blank stares that usually
followed our attempts at explanation.
"The man must be an idiot," Mrs. K. said, gravely.
"He certainly has an imbecile expression of countenance," I assented. He
stood still, bowing at intervals, while we calmly weighed and balanced
his wits before his eyes. We tried signs; having through much practice
developed a system to which the deaf and dumb alphabet is as nothing. We
attempted to convince him that a part of the money was ours.
He smiled, and assured us, in a similar way, that the books belonged to
us, the money to him.
There was so much justice in this, that we should doubtless have
assented, had not his own wits finally asserted themselves. Blushing
like a bashful boy, he suddenly exclaimed, counted out the change, and
poured it into our hands with so many apologies, that we were glad to
retreat.
It was a discouraging beginning for the new day. Still we would not
despair. We had assured our anxious friends that we were quite able to
take care of ourselves. We would triumphantly prove our own words.
Breakfast over, and our bill settled without mishap or misunderstanding,
we started for the station in the hotel omnibus, in company with a
stout, genial Frenchman, who spoke a little English, and his fussy
little wife. When we entered the station, the line formed before the
ticket-window was already formidable. It lacked fifteen minutes of the
hour when the train would start, and our baggage was--where? We seized a
_commissionaire_, slipped a piece of money into his hand in a very
bungling, shamefaced way, and, presto! in a moment our trunks appeared
among the other baggage, though we had looked in vain for them before.
Then, with a sensation of self-consciousness approaching guilt, I
stepped to the foot of the line before the ticket-window.
"Two tickets for Paris," I gasped, finding myself, after a time, brought
face to face with the sharp-eyed official. "What is the price?" But
before I could utter the words, the reply rattled through my head like a
discharge of grape-shot. Every finger resolved itself into ten, as I
essayed to open my purse and count out the gold pieces. What should I
do! I had not enough into ten francs; it might as well have been ten
thousand! Mrs. K. was waiting at a little distance; but the place once
lost in the line could not be regained, and there was our baggage yet to
be weighed, and the hands of the clock frightfully near the hour of
departure. There was an impatient stamping of feet behind me, as I stood
for a moment dizzy, bewildered, with an angry buzz of voices ringing
with the din and roar in my ears. Then I rushed down the room to Mrs.
K., and explained as hastily as possible. She filled my purse, and I
flew back to find the line pushed forward and my place gone. One glance
at the hands of the clock, at the discouraging line of ticket-seekers
yet to be served,--how could I go to the foot again! Then I walked
straight to the window with the courage of despair. A low growl ran down
the line, the _gendarme_ on guard stepped forward, expostulating
excitedly; but, blessings on the man at the head of the line, who pushed
the others back, and gave me a place, and even upon the grim official
behind the window, who smiled encouragement, and gave me the tickets,
while the _gendarme_ stormed. I stepped out again, conscious only of the
wish--strong as a prayer--that we were safe again in Lucerne, or--some
other place of peaceful rest.
Wedged in among the crowd, we saw one trunk after another weighed and
removed, while ours remained untouched. I pulled the sleeve of a porter.
My hand held my purse. The suggestion was enough. In a moment our trunks
were weighed, and the little paper ticket corresponding to our "check"
safe in our possession. I turned, conscientiously, to reward the
porter; but we were jostled by a score of elbows, each encased in the
sleeve of a blue blouse. Which was the one I sought? I could not tell.
Each answered my glance of puzzled inquiry with one of expectation.
Diving to the depths of my purse, I found it to contain one solitary
centime--nothing more. I slipped it into the hand nearest, and from the
start of surprise and delight was immediately convinced that it was the
wrong man. However, it did not matter. There was no time to explain. The
doors opening upon the platform, which remain locked until the last
moment, were thrown open, and we hurried away, found places upon the
train, and sank back upon the cushions exhausted, but happy. For ten
hours at least, nothing could happen to us. The guard passed the window,
examining the tickets, and slamming the doors, making our safety doubly
sure. A moment more, and with a noiseless motion we were off. Hardly had
the train started before it stopped again. One after another our
companions left us--for we were not alone in the compartment. "Strange,"
we said, yet too thoroughly exhausted to be curious. It was still more
strange when, after a short time, they each and all returned. They began
to whisper among themselves, pointing to us. "What _can_ be the matter
_now_?" we queried, suddenly mindful that life is a warfare, and roused
to interest.
Our fellow-travellers proceeded to enlighten us in chorus, and in the
confusion of the outburst, we caught--by inspiration--at their meaning.
We had crossed the frontier into France, and the baggage was examined
here. We hastened out and into the station. All the trunks but our own
had been checked. With his hand upon one of these, an official demanded
the key, upon our appearance. Remembering an episode in its packing, we
demurred, and proffered the key of another. Already vexed by the delay,
his suspicions were roused now. He demanded the key of the first, which
we gave up with wicked delight. The by-standers drew near. Indeed, a
crowd was the embarrassing accompaniment to all our unfortunate
experiences. The official turned the key with the air of doing his duty
if he perished in the attempt, when the lid flew open, and a hoop-skirt,
compressed to the final degree, sprang up into his startled face, like a
Jack-in-the-box. The spectators laughed--French though they were--as,
very red in the face, he vainly tried to replace it, entirely forgetting
to search for contraband articles.
No other incident disturbed the quiet of that long day's ride to Paris.
At some queer little station we descended to lunch, and returned to our
places, laden, like the spies of Eschol, with luscious grapes. Our
fellow-travellers dropped out along the way, only, however, to be
replaced by others. We had not succeeded in securing places in the
compartment reserved for ladies alone; but the French gentlemen who were
our companions proved most courteous in their polite indifference to our
movements. An old gentleman among these, elicited our outspoken
admiration for his grand head. We were secure in our native language, we
knew.
"Lovely face!" we exclaimed, unblushingly. "What a head for a sculptor!
Quite like Michel Angelo's Moses, I declare."
Before the day was over, "Michel Angelo's Moses" addressed us in
excellent English.
When the darkness gathered, when the night settled down, something of
its gloom oppressed us. Once safely housed in Paris, we should be at
rest; but there were still difficulties to be overcome. Our friends had
telegraphed to Miss H. that we should arrive by this train; but the
number of her house we did not know, nor did they. We were only sure
that her apartments were over the _Magasin au Printemps_. Still that was
tolerably exact; we would not be uneasy. At ten o'clock at night we
stepped down from the train into a confusion of tongues and elbows which
I cannot describe, and followed the crowd into the baggage-room. I say
_followed_--we were literally lifted from our feet and borne along.
There was no baggage in sight. We waited until an hour seemed to have
passed, and still no trunks appeared.
"Suppose we leave them, and send a porter from the house in the morning
to find them;" and acting upon this, we struggled out of the station
into the great paved square at one side. The night was dark; but the
gas-lights dimly lighted up a line of carriages at the farther side,
towards which we hastened, and had seated ourselves in one, when a
_commissionaire_ came running across the square, and putting his head in
at the carriage window, asked if we had any baggage.
"Yes," we replied; but the rattling words that followed brought only
confusion to us. Our minds, already overtaxed, gave way at once. It is
pleasant to recall the patience and good-nature of that official. It is
pleasant, when old things have so entirely passed away, to remember the
Paris of 1869 as, at least, a city into which women might come at
midnight, alone, unprotected, and be not only free from insult and
imposition, but actually cared for, and sent to their rightful
destination, in spite of their own ignorance and incompetence.
"Stay here," said our friend in uniform; and he disappeared, to return
in a moment with the stout French gentleman who had been our companion
in the hotel omnibus at Basle. We met with mutual surprise, and pleasure
on our side at least.
"_Do_ any one look for your baggage?" he asked.
"No," we replied. "We thought we might leave it."
"You must go," he said.
The _commissionaire_ took possession of our check and the driver's
_carte_, and I followed the two back to the station, leaving Mrs. K. to
guard our satchels, &c., in the carriage.
"Wait one leetle moment," said the kind French gentleman; "I bring
madame." And in a moment he dragged the fussy little woman from the
crowd, handing her over with the triumphant air of having now settled
all difficulties.
"Madame speak ze Eengleesh fine," he said.
Looking down from an immeasurable height, the little madam condescended
to remark that their servant was looking for their baggage.
"Ah!" I responded. "Then we are not permitted to leave our trunks."
"I am sure I don't know," she replied, looking so greatly bored, not to
say exhausted, that I did not think it best to press the matter. "Our
servant is attending to it," she repeated.
Her husband's face fairly glowed with satisfaction while this side
conversation was being carried on. Evidently he believed the whole
French baggage system to have been elucidated for my benefit. I thanked
him heartily, as we exchanged cordial adieus. Even the fussy little
woman gathered, for the moment, sufficient life to attempt to bow;
which, alas! never got beyond a stare. The _commissionaire_ seized upon
a blue-bloused porter, and gave me to him with the check, the _carte_,
and a few sharply-spoken directions. Clinging to that blue sleeve, I was
borne through the swaying, surging mass of humanity, into the
baggage-room--how, I never knew. Our trunks were identified, lifted, not
thrown, by my porter upon a hand-truck, which dragged for itself and us
an opening in the crowd. Once out upon the platform, the porter pushed
doggedly on into the darkness, though I had left Mrs. K. and the
carriage in the square at one side. I expostulated. He held persistently
to his course. I gave one thought to poor Mrs. K., resigned to what fate
I knew not, and then, woman-like, followed my trunks.
It was all explained, when, dimly outlined in the darkness before the
station, we espied a sea of shiny hats and shadowy cabs; and when, after
long shouting of the number of our own, by the porter and everybody
else, it finally crawled up to the steps where we were standing, Mrs.
K.'s anxious face looking out of the window.
"I began to think you were lost," she said. "You can fancy my feelings
when the driver gathered up the reins and drove out of that square."
We made a thank-offering upon the palm of every grimy hand, suddenly
outstretched; then the driver paused, whip in the air, for the address
of our destination.
"_Magasin au Printemps_, Boulevard Haussman." He stared, as everybody
had, and did, along the way. If they only wouldn't! We repeated it. He
conferred, in a low tone, with the man on the next box, who got down
from his place, and came around to our window to look at us. One or two
lounging porters joined him. The _Magasin au Printemps_ is a large dry
and fancy goods establishment, which had been closed, of course, for
hours, since it was now nearly midnight. It was as though we had reached
New York late at night, and insisted upon being driven to _Stewart's_.
The little crowd stared at us solemnly, in a kind of pitiful curiosity,
I fancied. I think, by this time, our countenances may have expressed
incipient idiocy. We attempted to explain that Miss H.'s apartments were
over the _Magasin_, and the driver mounted to his seat, though, I am
obliged to confess, with an ominous shake of his head.
As we rolled out into the wide boulevards our spirits rose. The
sidewalks were crowded with promenaders, the streets with carriages. The
light of a glorious day seemed to have burst upon our dazzled eyes.
Paris, gay, beautiful Paris, which never sleeps, was out, disporting
herself.
"We will not be anxious," we said; nor were we in the least. "Even if we
cannot find Miss H.'s, some hotel will take us in. Or, failing in that,
we can drive about until morning."
A thought of our respective and respectable families did cross our minds
with this lawless suggestion. In happy unconsciousness, they believed us
still safe with our friends.
We crawled up the Boulevard Haussman. There were the closed doors and
shutters of the _Magasin au Printemps_. Two or three other doors met our
gaze. The driver paused before one. We descended, and pulled the bell.
You must know there are no doorsteps, in Paris, leading to front doors,
as with us. The first floor is, almost without exception, given up to
shops; and dwellings, unless pretentious enough to be houses enclosing a
court-yard and entered from the street by passing through great gates,
are simply apartments in the two, three, and four stories above these
shops.
Some invisible mechanism swung back the great double doors as we pulled
the bell, disclosing a pretty, paved court-yard, with a fountain in the
centre, surrounded by pots of flowers. A glass door at one side,
revealed wide marble stairs, down which a charming little portress was
tripping.
"Is this Miss H.'s?" we asked in English. She only shook her head. We
paraded our French. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then, with
a "_Oui, oui_," ran past us to the carriage, and gave some directions to
the driver, emphasizing her words with a pair of plump little hands.
Then, with a "_bon nuit_," she disappeared, and the great doors closed
again. Evidently we were being taken care of, we thought, as we settled
back again in the carriage. We stopped before another door, already
open, and disclosing a flight of wide, stone stairs, ascending almost
from the sidewalk. Immediately upon pulling the bell--as though the wire
had been attached to it--a long, loose-jointed, grotesque, yet horrible
figure appeared at the head of the stairs, half-stooping to bring
himself within the range of my vision, swinging his arms like a Dutch
windmill, and grinning in a way which seemed to open his whole head.
[Illustration: "Together we stared at him with rigid and severe
countenances." Page 240.]
"Is--is this Miss H.'s?" I ventured from the sidewalk.
He only beckoned still more wildly for me to ascend. I drew back. Good
Heavens! What was the matter with him? And still, while I stared
fascinated, yet horror-stricken, he continued, without intermission,
these speechless contortions and evolutions. Although he uttered not a
sound, he seemed to say with every cracking joint, "Come up, come up,"
while he scooped the air with his bony hands.
I remembered that it was midnight; that we were alone, and in wicked
Paris; that we had been religiously brought up; that Mrs. K.'s husband
was the superintendent of a large and flourishing Sunday school; that my
father was a minister of the gospel. I planted my feet firmly upon the
sidewalk. I folded my arms rigidly. I shook my head virtuously. Come up?
Chains should not drag me. Then I turned to the carriage.
"Mrs. K., do come and see this man."
She came. Together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances.
"Dreadful!" said I, remembering the Sunday school.
"Awful!" said she, recalling the pious ancestors. And again we shook our
heads at his blandishments to the point of dislocation. The driver, who
had been all this time tipped back against a tree, began to show
symptoms of impatience. Something must be done.
"Suppose you ask for some one who can speak English," suggested Mrs. K.
"Sure enough." And I did. With one last, terrible grimace the ogre's
heels disappeared up the second flight of stairs.
There came down in a moment a thoroughly respectable appearing porter,
who informed us, in English, that we were expected, our telegram having
been received; though, through the ambiguity of its address, it had been
sent first to a house below. The people there had promised to forward
us, however, in case we followed the telegram. This accounted for the
movements of the little portress.
The _ogre_ proved to be a most good-natured _concierge_, who had been
instructed to keep the door open in anticipation of our arrival.
So our fears had been but feathers, after all, blown away by a breath;
our troubles only a dream, to be laughed over in the awakening.
* * * * *
Here the story of our journeying may end. The remaining distance,
through the kindness of friends, new and old, was accomplished without
difficulty or annoyance. We reached our own homes in due time, and like
the princess in the fairy tales, "lived happily forever afterwards."
A few practical words suggest themselves here which would pass unnoticed
in a preface--where, perhaps, they belong. First, in regard to the
question often asked, "Can women travel alone through Europe?" Recalling
our own experience,--too brief to serve as a criterion,--I should still
say, "_Yes_." We met, frequently, parties of ladies who had made the
whole grand tour alone. In Switzerland we found English women,
constantly, without escort. The care of choosing routes, of looking
after baggage and buying tickets, of managing the sometimes complicated
affairs attendant upon sight-seeing, with the vexations and impositions
met with and suffered on every hand, no woman would voluntarily accept
without great compensation, I am sure. But if she prefers even these
cares to seeing nothing of the world, they can be borne, and the
annoyances, to a great extent overcome, through patience and growing
experience.
Then, if you start alone, or without being consigned to friends upon the
other side,--which no _young_ woman would think of doing,--you are
almost sure to join, at different times, other parties, whose way is
your own; and far preferable this is to making up a large company before
leaving home--the members of which usually disagree before reaching the
continent, and often part in mutual disgust. "There is nothing like
travelling to bring out a person's real nature," say some. But this is
untrue. Travelling develops, rather than reveals, I think, and under
conditions favorable only to the worse side of one's nature. You are
bewildered by the multitude of strange sights and ways; the very
foundation of usages is broken up; you are putting forth physical
exertions that would seem superhuman at home, and are mentally racked
until utterly exhausted,--for there is nothing so exhausting as
continued sight-seeing,--and at this point people say they begin "to
find each other out."
An occasional period of rest--not staying within doors to study up the
guide-books, but entire cessation from seeing, hearing, or doing--and a
scrap from the mantle of charity, will save many a threatened friendship
at these times. We learned to know our strength--how weak it was; and to
await in some delightful spot, chosen for the purpose, returning energy,
courage, and _interest_; for even that would be banished at times by
utter weariness and exhaustion.
In former times, Americans fitted themselves out for Europe as though
bound to a desert island. Wider intelligence and experience have opened
their eyes and reformed their judgment; still, a word upon this subject
will not be unwelcome, I am sure, to girls especially, who contemplate a
trip over the ocean.
In the first place, your steamer outfit is a distinct affair. You are
allowed to take any baggage you wish for into your state-room; but, if
wise, you will not fill the narrow space, nor encumber yourself with
anything larger than a lady's _hat box_, which may offer a tolerable
seat to the stewardess, or visitors of condolence, in case seasickness
confines you to berth or sofa. Even preferable to this is a flat,
English portmanteau, which can be slipped under the lower berth. If you
sail for Liverpool, you can leave this at your hotel there in charge of
the head waiter until you return, and thus avoid the expense and care of
useless baggage.
Its contents your own good sense will in a measure suggest. Let me
add--a double gown or woollen wrapper, in which you may sleep, flannels
(even though you cross the ocean in summer), merino stockings, warm
gloves or mittens, as pretty a hood as you please, only be sure that it
covers the back of your head, since you will ignore all cunning craft of
hair dressing, for a few days at least, and even after you are well
enough to appear at the table, perhaps. Bear in mind that the Northern
Atlantic is a cold place, and horribly open to the wind _at all seasons
of the year_; that you will live on the deck when not in your berth or
at your meals, and that the deck of an ocean steamer partakes of the
nature of a whirlwind. Fur is by no means out of place, and skirts
should be sufficiently heavy to defy the gales, which convert everything
into a sail. Take as many wraps as you choose--and then you will wish
you had one more. A large shawl, or, better, a carriage-robe, is
indispensable, as you will very likely lie rolled up like a cocoon much
of the time. A low sea-chair, or common camp-chair, is useful to older
people; but almost any girl will prefer a seat upon the deck itself;
there are comfortable crannies into which no chair can be wedged.
By all means avoid elaborate fastenings to garments. A multiplicity of
unmanageable "hooks and eyes" is untold torment at sea; and let these
garments be few, but warm. You will appreciate the wisdom of this
suggestion, when you have accomplished the herculean task of making your
first state-room toilet.
If you are really going abroad for a season of _travel_, take almost
nothing. You can never know what you will need until the necessity
arises. If you anticipate, you misjudge. Your American outfit will
render you an oddity in England. But do not change there, or you will
be still more singular in Paris. It is as well to start with but one
dress besides the one you wear on the steamer--anything you chance to
have; a black alpaca, or half-worn black silk, is very serviceable. When
you reach Paris, circumstances and the season will govern your
purchases; and this same dress will be almost a necessity for constant
railway journeys, rainy-day sight-seeing, and mule-riding in
Switzerland. A little care and brushing, fresh linen, and a pretty
French tie, will make it presentable--if not more--at any hotel dinner
table.
A warm shawl or wrap of some kind you will need for evenings,--even
though you travel in summer,--for visiting the cathedrals, which are
chill as a tomb; and for weeks together among the mountains you will
never throw it aside. But if you can take but one, _don't_ provide
yourself with a _water-proof_. They are too undeniably ugly, and not
sufficiently warm for constant wear. If it rains slightly, the umbrella,
which you will buy from force of necessity and example in England, will
protect you; if in torrents, you will ride. Indeed, you will always
ride, time is so precious, cab-hire so cheap, and distances so great in
most foreign cities.
Lastly, let me beg of you to provide yourself with an abundant supply of
patience and good-nature. Without these, no outfit is complete. Try to
laugh at annoyances. Smile, at least. And do not anticipate
difficulties. Above all, enjoy yourself, and then everybody you meet
will enjoy you. And so good by, and "God bless us every one."
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=JOHN THORN'S FOLKS.= By ANGELINE TEAL. Cloth.
$1.00.
=BARBARA THAYER.= By MISS ANNIE JENNESS. Cloth.
$1.00. Popular Edition. Paper. 50 cents.
=THE ONLY ONE.= A Novel by HARRY W. FRENCH, author
of "Castle Foam," "Nuna, the Bramin Girl," "Our
Boys in China," "Our Boys in India," etc. 16mo.
Cloth. $1.00.
This work was published as a serial in "The Boston Globe," and made a
sensation. It will have a large sale in its new dress.
=LORD OF HIMSELF.= A Novel by FRANCIS H.
UNDERWOOD, author of "Handbook of English
Literature," etc. A new edition. 16mo. Cloth.
$1.00.
"This novel is one that has come into American literature to
stay."--_Boston Post._
"Spirited, fresh, clean-cut, and deeply thoughtful."--_Boston Gazette._
=DORA DARLING:= The Daughter of the Regiment. By
J. G. AUSTIN. 16mo. Cloth, $l.00. A thrilling
story of the great Rebellion.
=OUTPOST.= By J. G. AUSTIN. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. A
Sequel to "Dora Darling," but each story complete
in itself.
=NUMA ROUMESTAN.= By ALPHONSE DAUDET. Translated
from the French by Virginia Champlin. With ten
illustrations. Cloth. $1.00.
The latest work of fiction from the pen of Alphonse Daudet, and derives
its main interest from the generally accepted belief that the hero of
the novel is really Gambetta, the French statesman.
=KINGS IN EXILE.= By ALPHONSE DAUDET. A new
edition. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.
=LIKE A GENTLEMAN.= By Mrs. MARY A. DENISON. A
Temperance Novel, by a well-known author. Cloth.
$1.00.
Mrs. Denison is well known as the author of "That Husband of Mine," a
summer book which exceeded in sale any thing published in America. This
book is in a more thoughtful vein, but is very entertaining. The style
is bright and witty.
=HIS TRIUMPH.= By the author of "That Husband of
Mine," "Like a Gentleman," etc. Cloth. $1.00.
=A TIGHT SQUEEZE.= The adventures of a gentleman,
who, on a wager of ten thousand dollars, undertook
to go from New York to New Orleans in three weeks,
without money or the assistance of friends. Cloth,
$1.00. Paper, 50 cents.
=PUDDLEFORD PAPERS;= or, Humors of the West. By H.
R. RILEY. Illustrated. A new edition. $1.00.
"This is a rich book. Any one who wants a genuine, hearty laugh, should
purchase this volume."--_Columbus Gazette._
=THE FORTUNATE ISLAND=, and other Stories. By MAX
ADELER. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.00.
"Max Adeler is a fellow of infinite humor."--_Albany Evening Journal._
"Extravagant, of course, are these stories, but entertaining and
amusing, and instructive too."--MARGERY DEANE, _Newport News._
_Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on
receipt of price._
LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.
YOUNG FOLKS' HEROES OF HISTORY.
By GEORGE MAKEPEACE TOWLE.
Handsomely Illustrated. Price per vol., $1.25. Sets in neat boxes.
VASCO DA GAMA: HIS VOYAGES AND ADVENTURES.
"Da Gama's history is full of striking adventures, thrilling incidents,
and perilous situations; and Mr. Towle, while not sacrificing historical
accuracy, has so skilfully used his materials, that we have a charmingly
romantic tale."--_Rural New-Yorker._
PIZARRO: HIS ADVENTURES AND CONQUESTS.
"No hero of romance possesses greater power to charm the youthful reader
than the conqueror of Peru. Not even King Arthur, or Thaddeus of Warsaw,
has the power to captivate the imagination of the growing boy. Mr. Towle
has handled his subject in a glowing but truthful manner; and we venture
the assertion, that, were our children led to read such books as this,
the taste for unwholesome, exciting, wrong-teaching boys' books--dime
novels in books' clothing--would be greatly diminished, to the great
gain of mental force and moral purpose in the rising generation."--_Chicago
Alliance._
MAGELLAN; OR, THE FIRST VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.
"What more of romantic and spirited adventures any bright boy could want
than is to be found in this series of historical biography, it is
difficult to imagine. This volume is written in a most sprightly manner;
and the life of its hero, Fernan Magellan, with its rapid stride from
the softness of a petted youth to the sturdy courage and persevering
fortitude of manhood, makes a tale of marvellous fascination."--_Christian
Union._
MARCO POLO: HIS TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES.
"The story of the adventurous Venetian, who six hundred years ago
penetrated into India and Cathay and Thibet and Abyssinia, is pleasantly
and clearly told; and nothing better can be put into the hands of the
school boy or girl than this series of the records of noted travellers.
The heroism displayed by these men was certainly as great as that ever
shown by conquering warrior; and it was exercised in a far nobler
cause,--the cause of knowledge and discovery, which has made the
nineteenth century what it is."--_Graphic._
RALEGH: HIS EXPLOITS AND VOYAGES.
"This belongs to the 'Young Folks' Heroes of History' series, and deals
with a greater and more interesting man than any of its predecessors.
With all the black spots on his fame, there are few more brilliant and
striking figures in English history than the soldier, sailor, courtier,
author, and explorer, Sir Walter Ralegh. Even at this distance of time,
more than two hundred and fifty years after his head fell on the
scaffold, we cannot read his story without emotion. It is graphically
written, and is pleasant reading, not only for young folks, but for old
folks with young hearts."--_Woman's Journal._
DRAKE: THE SEA-LION OF DEVON.
Drake was the foremost sea-captain of his age, the first English admiral
to send a ship completely round the world, the hero of the magnificent
victory which the English won over the Invincible Armada. His career was
stirring, bold, and adventurous, from early youth to old age.
_Sold by all Booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
price._
=LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers BOSTON.=
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Varied hyphenation was retained. Boldface type is depicted by = and
italic by _.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 28, repeated word "a" removed from text (blossomed into a bell)
Page 35, "iniquitious" changed to "iniquitous" (most iniquitous
proceeding)
Page 39, "beginnnig" changed to "beginning" (my heart beginning)
Page 82, "heartly" changed to "heartily" (were heartily ashamed)
Page 101, "Sevres" changed to "Sevres" (pier of Sevres)
Page 101, "Sevres" changed to "Sevres" (transferred to Sevres)
Page 130, "Hotel" changed to "Hotel" (and the old Hotel de Ville)
Page 212, "beautifull" changed to "beautiful" (head, past beautiful)
Page 216, "momentry" changed to "momentary" (a momentary life)
End of Project Gutenberg's An American Girl Abroad, by Adeline Trafton