I
The omnibus stopped in the garden, or, to be more exact, at the porch of
the hotel opening into the garden. Not the ordinary omnibus with a
flapping door fastened with a strap leading to the boot-leg of the man
on top, a post-office box inside with a glass front, holding a smoky
kerosene lamp, and two long pew-cushioned seats placed so close together
that everybody rubs everybody else's knees when it is full; not that
kind of an omnibus at all, but a wide, low, yellow-painted (yellow as a
canary), morocco-cushioned, go-to-the-theatre-in kind of an omnibus
drawn by a pair of stout Normandy horses, with two men in livery on the
box in front and another on the lower step behind who helps you in and
out and takes your bundles and does any number of delightful and
courteous things.
This yellow-painted chariot, moreover, was just the kind of a vehicle
that should have moved in and out of this flower-decked garden. Not only
did its color harmonize with the surroundings--quite as a mass of yellow
nasturtiums harmonizes with the peculiar soft green of its leaves--but
its appointments were quite in keeping with the luxury and distinction
of the place. For only millionaires and princes, and people who travel
with valets and maids, and now and then a staid old painter like myself
who is willing to be tucked away anywhere, but whose calling is supposed
to lend éclat to the register, are ever to be found there.
The omnibus, then, stopped at the hotel porch and in front of the
manager, who stood with a bunch of telegrams in his hand. Behind him
smiled the clerk, and on his right bowed the Lord High Porter in gold
lace and buttons: everything is done in the best and most approved style
at the Baur au Lac in Zurich.
"Did you telegraph, sir? No? Well--let--me-see-- Ah, yes! I
remember--you were here last year. Number 13, Fritz, on the second
floor" (this to a boy), and the manager passed on and saluted the other
passengers--two duchesses in silk dusters, a count in a straw hat with a
green ribbon, and two Italian nobleman in low collars and mustaches. At
least, they must have been noblemen or something better, judging from
the profundity of the manager's bow and the alacrity with which Fritz,
the boy, let go my bag and picked up three of theirs.
Another personage now stepped up--a little man with the eyes of a fox--a
courier whom I had not seen for years.
"Why, Joseph! where did you drop from?" I asked.
"From the Engadine, my Lord, and I hope your Lordship is most well."
"Pretty well, Joseph. What are you doing here?"
"It is an Englishman--a lame Englishman--a matter of two weeks only. And
you, my Lord?"
"Just from Venice, on my way back to Paris," I answered.
By this time the manager was gazing with his eyes twice their size, and
the small boy was standing in the middle of a heap of bags, wondering
which one of the nobilities (including myself) he would serve first.
Joseph had now divested me of my umbrella and sketch-trap and was facing
the manager.
"Did I hear that thirteen was the number of his Lordship's room?" he
inquired of that gentleman. "I will myself go. Give me the bag" (this to
the boy). "This way, my Lord." And he led the way through the cool hall
filled with flowering plants and up a staircase panelled with mirrors. I
followed contentedly behind.
Joseph and I are old acquaintances. In my journeyings around Europe I
frequently run across him. He and I have had some varied experiences
together in our time--the first in Milan at the Hotel Imperial. A young
bride and groom, friends of mine--a blue-eyed, sweet-faced young girl
with a husband but one year her senior (the two with a £2,000 letter of
credit, the gift of a doting father)--had wired for rooms for the night
at the Imperial. It was about eight o'clock when the couple drove up in
one of those Italian hacks cut low-neck--a landau really--with coachman
and footman on the box, and Joseph in green gloves and a silk hat on the
front seat. My personal salutations over, we all mounted the stairs,
preceded by the entire staff with the proprietor at their head. Here on
the first landing we were met by two flunkeys in red and a blaze of
electric light which revealed five rooms. In one was spread a game
supper with every variety of salad known to an Italian lunch-counter; in
another--the salon--stood a mass of roses the size and shape of an
oleander in full bloom; then came a huge bedroom, a bathroom and a
boudoir.
The groom, young as he was, knew how little was left of the letter of
credit. The bride did not. Neither did Joseph.
"What's all this for, Hornblend?" asked the groom, casting his eyes
about in astonishment. Hornblend is the other half of Joseph's name.
"For Monsieur and Madame."
"What, for _one night_?"
Joseph worked both shoulders and extended his red fingers--he had
removed his gloves--till they looked like two bunches of carrots.
"Does it not Monsieur please?"
"Please! Do you think I'm a royal family?"
The carrots collapsed, the shoulders stopped, and a pained expression
overspread Joseph's countenance. The criticisms had touched his heart.
The groom and I put our heads together--mine is gray, and I have seen
many couriers in my time. His was blond and curly, and Joseph was his
first experience.