Nancy Dampier sat up in bed.
Through the curtain covering the square aperture in the wall which did duty
for a window the strong morning light streamed in, casting a pink glow over
the peculiar little room.
She drew the pearl-circled watch, which had been one of Jack's first gifts
to her, from under the big, square pillow.
It was already half-past nine. How very tiresome and strange that she
should have overslept herself on this, her first morning in Paris! And
yet--and yet not so very strange after all, for her night had been
curiously and disagreeably disturbed.
At first she had slept the deep, dreamless sleep of happy youth, and then,
in a moment, she had suddenly sat up, wide awake.
The murmur of talking had roused her--of eager, low talking in the room
which lay the other side of the deep cupboard. When the murmur had at last
ceased she had dozed off, only to be waked again by the sound of the porte
cochère swinging back on its huge hinges.
It was evidently quite true--as Jack had said--that Paris never goes to
sleep.
Jack had declared he would get up and go over to the studio early, so there
was nothing for it but to get up, and wait patiently till he came back.
Nancy knew that her husband wouldn't like her to venture out into the
streets alone. He was extraordinarily careful of her--careful and
thoughtful for her comfort.
What an angel he was--her great strong, clever Jack!
A girl who goes about by herself as much as Nancy Tremain had gone about
alone during the three years which had elapsed betwixt her leaving school
and her marriage, obtains a considerable knowledge of men, and not of the
nicest kind of men. But Jack was an angel--she repeated the rather absurdly
incongruous word to herself with a very tender feeling in her heart. He
always treated her not only as if she were something beautiful and rare,
but something fragile, to be respected as well as adored....
He had left her so little during the last three weeks that she had never
had time to think about him as she was thinking of him now; "counting up
her mercies," as an old-fashioned lady she had known as a child was wont to
advise those about her to do.
At last she looked round her for a bell. No, there was nothing of the sort
in the tiny room. But Nancy Dampier had already learned to do without all
sorts of things which she had regarded as absolute necessities of life when
she was Nancy Tremain. In some of the humbler Italian inns in which she and
Jack had been so happy, the people had never even heard of a bell!
She jumped out of bed, put on her pretty, pale blue dressing-gown--it was a
fancy of Jack's that she should wear a great deal of pale blue and
white--and then she opened the door a little way.
"Madame!" she called out gaily. "Madame Poulain?" and wondered whether her
French would run to the words "hot water"--yes, she thought it would. "Eau
chaude"--that was hot water.
But there came no answering cry, and again, this time rather impatiently,
she called out, "Madame Poulain?"
And then the shuffling sounds of heavy footsteps made Nancy shoot back from
the open door.
"Yuss?" muttered a hoarse voice.
This surely must be the loutish-looking youth who, so Nancy suddenly
remembered, knew a little English.
"I want some hot water," she called out through the door. "And will you
please ask your aunt to come here for a moment?"
"Yuss," he said, in that queer hoarse voice, and shuffled downstairs again.
And there followed, floating up from below, one of those quick, gabbling
interchanges of French words which Nancy, try as she might, could not
understand.
She got into bed again. Perhaps after all it would be better to allow them
to bring up her "little breakfast" in the foreign fashion. She would still
be in plenty of time for Jack. Once in the studio he would be in no hurry,
or so she feared, to come back--especially if on his way out he had opened
her door and seen how soundly she was sleeping.
She waited some time, and then, as no one came, grew what she so seldom
was, impatient and annoyed. What an odd hotel, and what dilatory,
disagreeable ways! But just as she was thinking of getting up again she
heard a hesitating knock.
It was Madame Poulain, and suddenly Nancy--though unobservant as is youth,
and especially happy youth--noticed that mine hostess looked far less well
in the daytime than by candle-light.
Madame Poulain's stout, sallow face was pale, her cheeks puffy; there were
rings round the black eyes which had sparkled so brightly the night before.
But then she too must have had a disturbed night.
In her halting French Mrs. Dampier explained that she would like coffee and
rolls, and then some hot water.
"C'est bien, mademoiselle!"
And Nancy blushed rosy-red. "Mademoiselle?" How odd to hear herself so
addressed! But Madame Poulain did not give her time to say anything, even
if she had wished to do so, for, before Mrs. Dampier could speak again, the
hotel-keeper had shut the door and gone downstairs.
And then, after a long, long wait, far longer than Nancy had ever been made
to wait in any of the foreign hotels in which she and her husband had
stayed during the last three weeks, Madame Poulain reappeared, bearing a
tray in her large, powerful hands.
She put the tray down on the bed, and she was already making her way
quickly, silently to the door, when Nancy called out urgently, "Madame?
Madame Poulain! Has my husband gone out!"
And then she checked herself, and tried to convey the same question in her
difficult French--"Mon mari?" she said haltingly. "Mon mari?"
But Madame Poulain only shook her head, and hurried out of the room,
leaving the young Englishwoman oddly discomfited and surprised.
It was evidently true what Jack had said--that tiresome Exhibition had
turned everything in Paris, especially the hotels, topsy-turvy. Madame
Poulain was cross and tired, run off her feet, maybe; her manner, too,
quite different now from what it had been the night before.
Nancy Dampier got up and dressed. She put on a pale blue linen gown which
Jack admired, and a blue straw hat trimmed with grey wings which Jack said
made her look like Mercury.
She told herself that there could be no reason why she shouldn't venture
out of her room and go downstairs, where there must surely be some kind of
public sitting-room.
Suddenly remembering the young American's interchange of words with his
sister, she wondered, smiling to herself, if she would ever see them again.
How cross the young man's idle words had made Jack! Dear, jealous Jack, who
hated it so when people stared at her as foreigners have a trick of
staring. It made Nancy happy to know that people thought her pretty, nay
beautiful, for it would have been dreadful for Jack, an artist, to marry an
ugly woman....
Locking her box she went out onto the shallow staircase, down the few steps
which led straight under the big arch of the porte cochère. It was thrown
hospitably open on to the narrow street now full of movement, colour, and
sound. But in vivid contrast to the moving panorama presented by the busy,
lane-like thoroughfare outside, was the spacious, stone-paved courtyard of
the hotel, made gay with orange trees in huge green tubs. Almost opposite
the porte cochère was another arch through which she could see a glimpse of
the cool, shady garden Jack remembered.
Yes, it was a strangely picturesque and charming old house, this Hôtel
Saint Ange; but even so Nancy felt a little lost, a little strange,
standing there under the porte cochère. Then she saw that painted up on a
glass door just opposite the stairs leading to her room was the word
"Bureau": it was doubtless there that Jack had left word when he would
be back.
She went across and opened the door, but to her surprise there was no one
in the little office; she hadn't, however, long to wait, for Madame
Poulain's nephew suddenly appeared from the courtyard.
He had on an apron; there was a broom in his hand, and as he came towards
her, walking very, very slowly, there came over Nancy Dampier, she could
not have told you why, a touch of repulsion from the slovenly youth.
"I wish to know," she said, "whether my husband left any message for me?"
But the young man shook his head. He shuffled first on one foot and then on
the other, looking miserably awkward. It was plain that he did not know
more than a word or two of English.
"I am sure," she said, speaking slowly and very distinctly, "that my
husband left some kind of message with your uncle or aunt. Will you please
ask one of them to speak to me?"
He nodded. "Si, mademoiselle" and walked quickly away, back into the
courtyard.
"Mademoiselle" again! What an extraordinary hotel, and what bad manners
these people had! And yet again and again Jack had compared English and
French hotels--always to the disadvantage of the former.
Long minutes went by, and Nancy began to feel vexed and angry. Then there
fell on her listening ears a phrase uttered very clearly in Madame
Poulain's resonant voice: "C'est ton tour maintenant! Vas-y, mon ami!"
And before she had time to try and puzzle out the sense of the words, she
saw Monsieur Poulain's portly figure emerge from the left side of the
courtyard, and then--when he caught sight of the slim, blue-clad figure
standing under his porte cochère--beat a hasty retreat.
Nancy's sense of discomfort and indignation grew. What did these people
mean by treating her like this? She longed with a painful, almost a sick
longing for her husband's return. It must be very nearly eleven o'clock.
Why did he stay away so long?
A painful, choking feeling--one she had very, very seldom experienced
during the course of her short, prosperous life, came into her throat.
Angrily she dashed away two tears from her eyes.
This was a horrid hotel! The Poulains were hateful people! Jack had made a
mistake--how could he have brought her to such a place? She would tell him
when he came back that he must take her away now, at once, to some
ordinary, nice hotel, where the people knew English, and where they treated
their guests with ordinary civility.
And then there shot through Nancy Dampier a feeling of quick relief, for,
walking across the courtyard, evidently on their way out, came a
pleasant-looking elderly gentleman, accompanied by the girl whom Nancy had
seen for a brief moment standing on the landing close to her bedroom door
the night before.
These were English people? No, American of course! But that was quite as
good, for they, thank heaven! spoke English. She could ask them to be her
interpreters with those extraordinary Poulains. Jack wouldn't mind her
doing that. Why, he might have left quite an important message for her!
She took a step forward, and the strangers stopped. The old
gentleman--Nancy called him in her own mind an old gentleman, though
Senator Burton was by no means old in his own estimation or in that of his
contemporaries--smiled a very pleasant, genial smile.
Nancy Dampier made a charming vision as she stood under the arch of the
porte cochère, her slender, blue-clad figure silhouetted against the dark
background by the street outside, and the colour coming and going in
her face.
"May I speak to you a moment?" she said shyly.
"Why certainly."
The American took off his hat, and stood looking down at her kindly. "My
name is Burton, Senator Burton, at your service! What can I do for you?".
The simple little question brought back all Nancy's usual happy confidence.
How silly she had been just now to feel so distressed.
"I'm Mrs. Dampier, and I can't make the hotel people understand what I
say," she explained. "I mean Monsieur and Madame Poulain--and the nephew--I
think his name is Jules--though he is supposed to speak English, is so
very stupid."
"Yes, indeed he is!" chimed in the girl whom her brother had called
"Daisy." "I've long ago given up trying to make that boy understand
anything, even in French. But they do work him most awfully hard, you know;
they have women in each day to help with the cleaning, but that poor lad
does everything else--everything, that is, that the Poulains don't do
themselves."
"What is it that you can't make them understand?" asked Senator Burton
indulgently. "Tell us what it is you want to ask them?"
"I only wish to know at what time my husband went out, and whether he left
any message for me," answered Nancy rather shamefacedly. "You see the hotel
is so full that they put us on different floors, and I haven't seen him
this morning."
"I'll find that out for you at once. I expect Madame Poulain is in her
kitchen just now."
The Senator turned and went back into the courtyard, leaving his daughter
and the young Englishwoman alone together.
"The Poulains seem such odd, queer people," said Nancy hesitatingly.
"D'you think so? We've always found them all right," said the girl,
smiling. "Of course they're dreadfully busy just now because of the
Exhibition. The hotel is full of French people, and they give Madame
Poulain a great deal of trouble. But she doesn't grudge it, for she and her
husband are simply coining money! They're determined that their daughter
shall have a splendid dowry!" She waited a moment, and then repeated, "Oh,
yes, the Poulains are very good sort of people. They're very kindly and
good-natured."
To this remark Nancy made no answer. She thought the Poulains both rude and
disagreeable, but she had no wish to speak ill of them to this nice girl.
How lucky it was that these kind Americans had come to her rescue! Though
still feeling indignant and uncomfortable with regard to the way in which
she had been treated by the hotel-keeper and his wife, she felt quite happy
again now.
Senator Burton was away for what seemed, not only to Mrs. Dampier, but also
to his daughter, a considerable time. But at last they saw him coming
slowly towards them. His eyes were bent on the ground; he seemed to be
thinking, deeply.
Nancy Dampier took a step forward. "Well?" she said eagerly, and then a
little shyly she uttered his name, "Well, Mr. Burton? What do they say? Did
my husband leave any message?"
"No, he doesn't seem to have done that." And then the Senator looked down
searchingly into the young Englishwoman's face. It was a very lovely face,
and just now the look of appeal, of surprise, in the blue eyes added a
touch of pathetic charm. He thought of the old expression, "Beauty in
distress."
His daughter broke in: "Why, Mrs. Dampier, do come upstairs and wait in our
sitting-room," she said cordially. "I'll come with you, for we were only
going out for a little stroll, weren't we, father?"
Nancy Dampier hesitated. She did not notice that the American Senator
omitted to endorse his daughter's invitation; she hesitated for a very
different reason: "You're very kind; but if I do that I shall have to tell
Madame Poulain, for it would give my husband a dreadful fright if he came
in and found I had left my room and disappeared"--she blushed and smiled
very prettily.
And again Senator Burton looked searchingly down into the lovely, flushed
little face; but the deep-blue, guileless-looking eyes met his questioning
gaze very frankly. He said slowly, "Very well, I will go and tell Madame
Poulain that you will be waiting up in our sitting-room,
Mrs.--ah--Dampier."
He went out across the courtyard again, and once more he seemed, at any
rate to his daughter, to stay away longer than was needed for the delivery
of so simple a message.
Growing impatient, Miss Burton took Nancy Dampier across the sunlit
courtyard to the wide old oak staircase, the escalier d'honneur, as it was
still called in the hotel, down which the Marquis de Saint Ange had
clattered when starting for Fontenoy.
When they were half-way up the Senator joined them, and a few moments later
when they had reached the second landing, he put a key in the lock of a
finely carved door, then he stood back, courteously, to allow his
daughter's guest to walk through into the small lobby which led to the
delightful suite of rooms which the Burtons always occupied during their
frequent visits to Paris.
Nancy uttered an exclamation of delight as she passed through into the
high-pitched, stately salon, whose windows overlooked one of those leafy
gardens which are still the pride of old Paris. "This is delightful!" she
exclaimed. "Who would ever have thought that they had such rooms as this in
the Hôtel Saint Ange!"
"There are several of these suites," said Daisy Burton pleasantly. "In
fact, a good many French provincial people come up here, year after year,
for the winter."
While Mrs. Dampier and his daughter were exchanging these few words the
Senator remained silent. Then--"Is your brother gone out?" he
said abruptly.
"Yes, father. He went out about half an hour ago. But he said he'd be back
in ample time to take us out to luncheon. He thought we might like to go to
Foyot's to-day."
"So we will. Daisy, my dear--?" He stopped short, and his daughter looked
at him, surprised.
"Yes, father?"
"I'm afraid I must ask you to leave me with this young lady for a few
moments. I have something to say to her which I think it would be as well
that I should say alone."
Nancy got up from the chair on which she had already seated herself, and
fear flashed into her face. "What is it?" she cried apprehensively. "You're
not going to tell me that anything's happened to Jack!"
"No, no," said the Senator quickly, but even as he uttered the two short,
reassuring little words he averted his eyes from Mrs. Dampier's questioning
anxious eyes.
His daughter left the room.
"What is it?" said Nancy again, trying to smile. "What is it, Mr. Burton?"
And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair, sat down too.
"The Poulains," he said gravely--he was telling himself that he had never
come across so accomplished an actress as this young Englishwoman was
proving herself to be--"the Poulains," he repeated very distinctly,
"declare that you arrived here last night alone. They say that they did not
know, as a matter of fact, that you were married. You do not seem to have
even given them your name."
Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, "There must be some extraordinary
mistake," she said quietly. "The Poulains must have thought you meant
someone else. My husband and I arrived, of course together, late last
night. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn't take us in as the hotel
was full. But at last she said that they could give us two small rooms.
They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to them from Marseilles. He
and I were only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our honeymoon.
My husband, who is an artist, is now at his studio. We're going to move
there in a day or two."
She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt oddly
relieved by her words.
He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the Poulains
had said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the left
of the courtyard.
He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his very
good French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of a
young English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named Dampier, had
left any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in a
rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice that she feared the young
lady was toquée--i. e., not quite all right in her head--as, saving
Monsieur le Sénateur's presence, English ladies so often were! At great
length she had gone on to explain that the young lady in question had
arrived very late the night before, and that seeing that she was so young
and pretty, and also that she knew so very little French, they had allowed
her, rather than turn her out, to occupy their own daughter's room, a room
they had never, never, under any circumstances, allowed a client to sleep
in before.
Then Madame Poulain had gone out and called Monsieur Poulain; and the
worthy man had confirmed, in every particular, what his wife had just
said--that is, he had explained how they had been knocked up late last
night by a loud ringing at the porte cochère; how they had gone out to the
door, and there, seized with pity for this pretty young English lady, who
apparently knew so very, very little French, they had allowed her to occupy
their daughter's room....
Finally, the good Poulains, separately and in unison, had begged the
Senator to try and find out something about their curious guest, as she
apparently knew too little French to make herself intelligible.
Now that he heard Nancy's quiet assertion, the Senator felt sure there had
been a mistake. The Poulains had evidently confused pretty Mrs. Dampier
with some wandering British spinster.
"Let me go down with you now," she said eagerly. "The truth is--I know
you'll think me foolish--but I'm afraid of the Poulains! They've behaved so
oddly and so rudely to me this morning. I liked them very much last night."
"Yes," he said cordially. "We'll go right down now; and my girl, Daisy, can
come too."
When his daughter came into the room, "There's been some mistake," said
Senator Burton briefly. "It's my fault, I expect. I can't have made it
clear to Madame Poulain whom I meant. She has confused Mrs. Dampier with
some English lady who turned up here alone late last night."
"But we turned up late last night," said Nancy quickly. "Very, very late;
long after midnight."
"Still, my brother and I came in after you," said Daisy Burton suddenly.
And then she smiled and reddened. Mrs. Dampier must certainly have
overheard Gerald's remark.
"It was an awful job getting a cab after that play, father, and it must
have been nearly one o'clock when we got in. As we felt sure this side of
the house was shut up we went up that queer little back staircase, and so
past the open door of Mrs. Dampier's room," she explained.
To the Senator's surprise, Mrs. Dampier also grew red; indeed, she blushed
crimson from forehead to chin.
"My brother thought you were French," went on Daisy, a little awkwardly.
"In fact, we both thought you must be Madame Poulain's daughter. We knew
that was Virginie's room, and we've always been hearing of that girl ever
since we first came to stay in Paris. She used to be at a convent school,
and she's with her grandmother in the country just now, to be out of the
Exhibition rush. The Poulains simply worship her."
The Senator looked very thoughtful as he walked downstairs behind the two
girls. The mystery was thickening in a very disagreeable way. Both
hotel-keepers had stated positively that the "demoiselle anglaise," as they
called her, had slept in their daughter's room....
But what was this the lady who called herself Mrs. Dampier saying?
"My husband and I realised you thought I was Mademoiselle Poulain," said
Nancy, and she also spoke with a touch of awkwardness.
Senator Burton put out his right hand and laid it, rather heavily, on his
daughter's shoulder.
She stopped and turned round. "Yes, father?"
"Then I suppose you also saw Mr. Dampier, Daisy?"
Eagerly he hoped for confirmation of the charming stranger's story. But--
"No," she said reluctantly. "We only saw Mrs. Dampier and the Poulains,
father--they were all in the room together. You see, we were outside on the
dark staircase, and just stopped for a minute on the landing to say
good-night to the Poulains, and to tell them that we had come in."
"I suppose, Mrs. Dampier, that by then your husband had already gone to his
room?" But in spite of his efforts to make his voice cordial the Senator
failed to do so.
"No, he hadn't gone upstairs then." Nancy waited a moment, puzzled, then
she exclaimed, "I remember now! Jack had just stepped up into a big
cupboard which forms one side of the little room. He came out again just as
Miss Burton and--and your son had gone on upstairs." Again she reddened
uncomfortably, wondering if this nice, kind girl had heard Jack's
unflattering epithets concerning "the young American cub." But no, Jack's
voice, if angry, had been low.
When they were at the bottom of the staircase the Senator turned to his
daughter.
"Daisy," he said quietly, "I think it will be best for this lady to see
Madame Poulain with me alone." And as his daughter showed no sign of having
understood, he said again, with a touch of severity in his voice: "Daisy, I
desire you to go upstairs."
"You'll bring Mrs. Dampier up again, father?"
He hesitated--and then he said, "Yes, should she wish it, I will do so."
And Daisy Burton turned away, up the stairs again, very reluctantly. Her
indulgent father was not given to interfere with even the most casual of
her friendships, and she already felt as if this attractive young
Englishwoman was to be her friend.
Madame Poulain came slowly across the courtyard, and the Senator was struck
by her look of ill-health, of languor. Clearly the worthy woman was
overtaxing her strength. It was foolish of the Poulains not to have more
help in, but French people were like that!
Senator Burton knew that these good folks were trying to amass as large a
dowry as possible for their adored only child. Virginie was now of
marriageable age, and the Poulains had already selected in their own minds
the man they wished to see their son-in-law. He was owner of an hotel at
Chantilly, and as he was young, healthy, and reputed kind and
good-tempered, he had the right to expect a good dowry with his future
wife. The fact that this was an Exhibition Year was a great stroke of luck
for the Poulains. It almost certainly meant that their beloved Virginie
would soon be settled close to them in charming salubrious Chantilly....
The proprietress of the Hôtel Saint Ange now stood close to Senator Burton
and his companion. Her voluble tongue was stilled for once: she was
twisting a corner of her blue check apron round and round in her strong,
sinewy-looking fingers.
"Well, Madame Poulain," the American spoke very gravely, "there has
evidently been some strange misunderstanding. This lady asserts most
positively that she arrived here last night accompanied by her husband,
Mr. Dampier."
A look of--was it anger or pain?--came over Madame Poulain's face. She
shook her head decidedly. "I have already told monsieur," she said quickly,
"that this lady arrived here last night alone. I know nothing of her
husband: I did not even know she was married. To tell you the truth,
monsieur, we ought to have made her fill in the usual form. But it was so
late that we put off the formality till to-day. I now regret very much that
we did so."
The Senator looked questioningly at Nancy Dampier. She had become from red
very white. "Do you understand what she says?" he asked slowly,
impassively.
"Yes--I understand. But she is not telling the truth."
The Senator hesitated. "I have known Madame Poulain a long time," he said.
"Yes--and you've only known me a few minutes."
Nancy Dampier felt as though she were living through a horrible
nightmare--horrible and at the same time absurd. But she made a great
effort to remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman. So she added
quietly: "I can't tell--I can't in the least guess--why this woman is
telling such a strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth of
what I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name is John Dampier. He is an artist,
and has a studio here in Paris."
"Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"
"Of course I do." The question stung her, this time past endurance. "I
think I had better have a cab and drive there straight," she said stiffly.
"Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage all
right by myself now."
Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened,
hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of
concern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl--she
looked even younger than his daughter--pretend that she had come here
accompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?
Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no very
pleasant expression on her face.
"Well," she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieur
le Sénateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse
us of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrived
with a man--as to that I say nothing--but I assert most positively that in
that case he left her before she actually came into the Hôtel Saint Ange."
"Will you please ask her to call me a cab?" said Nancy trembling.
And he transmitted the request; adding kindly in English, "Of course I am
coming with you as far as your husband's studio. I expect we shall find
that Mr. Dampier went there last night. The Poulains have forgotten that he
came with you: you see they are very tired and overworked just now--"
But Nancy shook her head. It was impossible that the Poulains should have
forgotten Jack.
Madame Poulain went a step nearer to Senator Burton and muttered something,
hurriedly. He hesitated.
"Mais si, Monsieur le Sénateur."
And very reluctantly he transmitted the woman's disagreeable message. "She
thinks that perhaps as you are going to your husband's rooms, you had
better take your trunk with you, Mrs. Dampier."
Nancy assented, almost eagerly. "Yes, do ask her to have my trunk brought
down! I would far rather not come back here." She was still quite collected
and quiet in her manner. "But, Mr. Burton, hadn't I better pay? Especially
if they persist in saying I came alone?" she smiled, a tearful little
smile. It still seemed so--so absurd.
She took out her purse. "I haven't much money, for you see Jack always pays
everything. But I've got an English sovereign, and I can always draw a
cheque. I have my own money."
And the Senator grew more and more bewildered. It was clear that this girl
was either speaking the truth, or else that she was a most wonderful
actress. But, as every man who has reached the Senator's age is ruefully
aware, very young women can act on occasion in ordinary every day life, as
no professional actress of genius ever did or ever will do on a stage.
Madame Poulain went off briskly, and when she came back a few moments
later, there was a look of relief, almost of joy, on her face. "The cab is
here," she exclaimed, "and Jules has brought down madame's trunk."
Nancy looked at the speaker quickly. Then she was "madame" again? Well,
that was something.
"Three francs--that will quite satisfy us," said Madame Poulain, handing
over the change for her English sovereign. It was a gold napoleon and a
two-franc piece. For the first time directly addressing Mrs. Dampier,
"There has evidently been a mistake," she said civilly. "No doubt monsieur
left madame at the door, and went off to his studio last night. I expect
madame will find monsieur there, quite safe and sound."
Senator Burton, well as he believed himself to be acquainted with his
landlady, would have been very much taken aback had he visioned what
followed his own and Mrs. Dampier's departure from the Hôtel Saint Ange.
Madame Poulain remained at the door of the porte cochère till the open
carriage turned the corner of the narrow street. Then she looked at
her nephew.
"How much did she give you?" she asked roughly. And the young man
reluctantly opened a grimy hand and showed a two franc piece.
She snatched it from him, and motioned him back imperiously towards the
courtyard.
After he had gone quite out of sight she walked quickly up the little
street till she came to a low, leather-bound door which gave access to the
church whose fine buttress bestowed such distinction on the otherwise
rather sordid Rue Saint Ange. Pushing open the door she passed through into
the dimly-lit side aisle where stood the Lady Altar.
This old church held many memories for Madame Poulain. It was here that
Virginie had been christened, here that there had taken place the funeral
service of the baby son she never mentioned and still bitterly mourned, and
it was there, before the High Altar, to the right of which she now stood,
that she hoped to see her beloved daughter stand ere long a happy bride.
She looked round her for a moment, bewildered by the sudden change from the
bright sunlit street to the shadowed aisle. Then she suddenly espied what
she had come to seek. Close to where she stood an alms-box clamped to the
stone wall had written upon it the familiar legend, "Pour les Pauvres."
Madame Poulain took a step forward, then dropped the three francs Nancy
Dampier had just paid her, and the two francs she had extracted from
Jules's reluctant hand, into the alms-box.