LOST IN THE LOUVRE.
"Oh how I wish that I had lived
In the ages that are gone!"
A CHILD'S WISH.
It was--did I say so before? the children's first visit to Paris. They
had travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a _very_ good
deal," as Molly used to maintain for the benefit of their less
experienced companions. They knew England, "of course," Ralph would say
in his lordly, big-boy fashion, Scotland too, and Wales, and they had
spent some time in Germany. But they had never been in Paris, and the
excitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really there
was very considerable.
"And, Molly," said Sylvia, on their way from the railway station to the
hotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've _promised_
not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin thinking about
the top of the bed coming down."
"And, oh, Sylvia! I _wish_ you hadn't reminded me of it just now," said
Molly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was a
somewhat curt observation from Sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly.
For Sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, was
sometimes inclined to be "short" with poor Molly. Sylvia was clever and
quick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as it
were, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through his
or her spectacles. While Molly had not got further than opening wide her
eyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the way
that only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the whole
case, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the best
thing to be said or done. And Molly would wonderingly admire, and wish
she could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did.
They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired,
and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--are
tried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. And
when aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned round
to beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless of
them to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up in
Molly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was taking
them and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and she
thought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, after
all, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to Paris, were to turn out not
delightful at all. And through Sylvia's honest little heart there darted
a quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to Molly. How was it
that she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and so
conscientiously made? How was it that she could not succeed in
remembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted to
be snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive for
peculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promise
she had made, now so many years ago, to the mother Molly could scarcely
even remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little,
flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had loved
so piteously.
"Eight years ago," said Sylvia to herself. "I was five and Molly only
three and a half then. Poor little Molly, how funny she was!"
And a hand crept in under Molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear.
"I don't mean to be cross or to tease you, Molly."
And Molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little self
again.
"Dear Sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. You never
do, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, I'm sure I'd pull you out
first, however sleepy I was. Only of course I know it _won't_, and it's
just my silly way, but when I'm as big as you, Sylvia, I'll get out of
it, I'm sure."
"You're as big as me now, you silly girl," said Sylvia laughingly, which
was true. Molly was tall and well-grown for her age, while Sylvia was
small, so that very often, to Molly's delight, they were taken for twins.
"In my body, but not in my mind," rejoined Molly, with a little sigh. "I
wish the growing would go into my mind for a little, though I wouldn't
like to be _much_ smaller than you, Sylvia. Perhaps we shouldn't be
dressed alike, then."
"Do be quiet, Molly, you are such an awful chatterbox," growled Ralph
from his corner. "I was just having a nice little nap."
He was far too "grown-up" to own to the eagerness with which, as they
went along, he had been furtively peeping out at the window beside
him--or to join in Molly's screams of delight at the brilliance of the
illumined shop windows, and the interminable perspective of gas lamps
growing longer and longer behind them as they rapidly made their way.
A sudden slackening of their speed, a sharp turn, and a rattle over the
stones, told of their arrival at their destination. And "Oh!" cried
Molly, "I _am_ so glad. Aren't you awfully hungry, Sylvia?"
And grandmother, who, to tell the truth, had been indulging in a
peaceful, _real_ little nap--not a sham one like Ralph's--quite woke up
at this, and told Molly it was the best sign in the world to be hungry
after a journey; she was delighted to find her so good a traveller.
The "dinner-tea" which, out of consideration for the children's home
hours, had been ordered for them, turned out delicious. Never had they
tasted such butter, such bread, such grilled chicken, and fried potatoes!
And to complete Molly's satisfaction the beds proved to have no tops to
them at all.
"I told you so," said Ralph majestically, when they had made the tour of
the various rooms and settled who was to have which, and though neither
Sylvia nor Molly had the slightest recollection of his "telling you so,"
they were wise enough to say nothing.
"But the little doors in the walls are quite as bad, or worse,"
Ralph continued mischievously. "There's one at the head of your bed,
Molly,"--Molly and Sylvia were to have two little beds in the same room,
standing in a sort of alcove--"which I am almost sure opens on to a
secret staircase."
Molly gave a little shiver, and looked up appealingly.
"Ralph, you are not to tease her," said aunty. "Remember all your
promises to your father."
Ralph looked rather snubbed.
"Let us talk of something pleasant," continued aunty, anxious to change
the subject. "What shall we do to-morrow? What shall we go to see first?"
"Yes," said grandmother. "What are your pet wishes, children?"
"Notre Dame," cried Molly.
"The Louvre," said Sylvia.
"Anything you like. I don't care much for sightseeing," said Ralph.
"That's a pity," said aunty drily. "However, as you are the only
gentleman of the party, and we are all dependent on you, perhaps it is
just as well that you have no special fancies of your own. So to-morrow
I propose that we should go a drive in the morning, to give you a general
idea of Paris, returning by Notre Dame. In the afternoon I have some
calls to make, and a little shopping to do, and you three must not forget
to write to your father. Then the next day we can go to the Louvre, as
Sylvia wished."
"Thank you, aunty," said Sylvia. "It isn't so much for the pictures I
want to go, but I do so want to see the room where poor Henry the Fourth
was killed. I am _so_ fond of Henry the Fourth."
Aunty smiled, and Ralph burst out laughing.
"What a queer idea!" he said. "If you are so fond of him, I should think
you would rather _not_ see the room where he was killed."
Sylvia grew scarlet, and Molly flew up in her defence.
"You've no business to laugh at Sylvia, Ralph," she cried. "_I_
understand her quite well. And she knows a great deal more history than
you do--and about pictures, too. Of course we want to see the pictures,
too. There's that beautiful blue and orange one of Murillo's that papa
has a little copy of. _It's_ at the Louvre."
"I didn't say it wasn't," retorted Ralph. "It's Sylvia's love of horrors
I was laughing at."
"She _doesn't_ love horrors," replied Molly, more and more indignant.
"_You_ needn't talk," said Ralph coolly. "Who was it that took a box of
matches in her pocket to Holyrood Palace, and was going to strike one to
look for the blood-stains on the floor? It was the only thing you cared
to see, and yet you are such a goose--crying out if a butterfly settles
on you. I think girls are----"
"Ralph, my boy," said grandmother, seeing that by this time Molly was
almost in tears; "whatever you think of girls, you make me, I am sorry to
say, think that boys' love of teasing is utterly incomprehensible--and
oh, _so_ unmanly!"
The last touch went home.
"I was only in fun, grandmother," said Ralph with unusual meekness; "I
didn't mean really to vex Molly."
So peace was restored.
To-morrow turned out fine, deliriously fine.
"Not like England," said Molly superciliously, "where it _always_ rains
when you want it to be fine."
They made the most of the beautiful weather, though by no means agreeing
with aunty's reminder that even in Paris it did sometimes rain, and the
three pairs of eager feet were pretty tired by the time bed-time came.
And oh, what a disappointment the next morning brought!
The children woke to a regular, pouring wet day, no chance of fulfilling
the programme laid out, for Sylvia was subject to sore throats, and
grandmother would not let her go out in the damp, and there would be no
fun in going to the Louvre without her. So, as what can't be cured _must_
be endured, the children had just to make the best of it and amuse
themselves in the house in the hopes of sunshine again for to-morrow.
These hopes were happily fulfilled.
"A lovely day," said aunty, "all the brighter for yesterday's rain."
"And we may go to the Louvre," exclaimed Sylvia eagerly.
Aunty hesitated and turned, as everybody did when they were at a loss, to
grandmother.
"What do you think?" she said. She was reluctant to disappoint the
children--Sylvia especially--as they had all been very good the day
before, but yet----"It is Saturday, and the Louvre will be so crowded you
know, mother."
"But _I_ shall be with you," said Ralph.
"And _I_!" said grandmother. "Is not a little old lady like me equal to
taking care of you all?"
"Will you really come too, dear grandmother?" exclaimed Sylvia and Molly
in a breath. "_Oh_, how nice!"
"I should like to go," said grandmother. "It is ever so many years since
I was at the Louvre."
"Do let us go then. Oh, do let us all go," said the little girls. "You
know we are leaving on Tuesday, and something might come in the way again
on Monday."
So it was settled.
"Remember, children," said grandmother as they were all getting out of
the carriage, "remember to keep close together. You have no idea how
easily some of you might get lost in the crowd."
"_Lost!_" repeated Sylvia incredulously.
"LOST!" echoed Molly.
"LOST!" shouted Ralph so loudly that some of their fellow-sight-seers,
passing beside them into the palace, turned round to see what was the
matter. "How could we _possibly_ get lost here?"
"Very easily," replied aunty calmly. "There is nothing, to people
unaccustomed to it, so utterly bewildering as a crowd."
"Not to me," persisted Ralph. "I could thread my way in and out of the
people till I found you. The _girls_ might get lost, perhaps."
"Thank you," said Molly; "as it happens, Master Ralph, I think it would
be much harder to lose us than you. For one thing we can speak French
ever such a great deal better than you."
"And then there are two of us. If one of us was lost, grandmother and
aunty could hold out the other one as a pattern, and say, 'I want a match
for this,'" said Sylvia laughing, and a little eager to prevent the
impending skirmish between Ralph and Molly.
"Hush, children, you really mustn't chatter so," said aunty. "Use your
eyes, and let your tongues, poor things, rest for a little."
They got on very happily. Aunty managed to show the children the special
picture or pictures each had most wanted to see--including the "beautiful
blue and orange" one of Molly's recollection. She nearly screamed with
delight when she saw "how like it was to the one in papa's study," but
took in good part Ralph's cynical observation that a thing that was
copied from another was generally supposed to be "like" the original.
Only Sylvia was a little disappointed when, after looking at the pictures
in one of the smaller rooms--a room in no way peculiar or remarkable as
differing from the others--they suddenly discovered that they were in the
famous "Salle Henri II.," where Henry the Fourth was killed!
"I didn't think it would be like this," said Sylvia lugubriously. "Why do
they call it 'Salle Henri II.?' It should be called after Henry the
Fourth; and I don't think it should have pictures in, and be just like a
common room."
"What would you have it? Hung round with black and tapers burning?" said
her aunt.
"I don't know--any way I thought it would have had old tapestry," said
Sylvia. "I should like it to have been kept just the way it was then."
"Poor Sylvia!" said grandmother. "But we must hurry on, children. We have
not seen the 'Petite Galérie' yet--dear me, how many years it is since I
was in it!--and some of the most beautiful pictures are there."
They passed on--grandmother leaning on aunty's arm--the three children
close behind, through a room called the "Salle des Sept Cheminées," along
a vestibule filled with cases of jewellery, leading again to one of the
great staircases. Something in the vestibule attracted grandmother's
attention, and she stopped for a moment. Sylvia, not interested in what
the others were looking at, turned round and retraced her steps a few
paces by the way they had entered the hall. A thought had struck her.
"I'd like just to run back for a moment to Henry the Fourth's Room," she
said to herself. "I want to notice the shape of it exactly, and how many
windows there are, and then I think I can fancy to myself how it looked
_then_, with the tapestry and all the old-fashioned furniture."
No sooner thought than done. In a moment she was back in the room which
had so curiously fascinated her, taking accurate note of its features.
"I shall remember it now," she said to herself, after gazing round her
for a minute or two. "Now I must run after grandmother and the others, or
they'll be thinking I am lost."
She turned with a little laugh at the idea, and hastened out of the room,
through the few groups of people standing or moving about, looking at the
pictures--hastened out, expecting in another moment to see the familiar
figures. The room into which she made her way was also filled with
pictures, as had been the one through which she had entered the "Salle
Henri II." She crossed it without misgiving: she had no idea that she had
left the Salle Henri II. by the opposite door from that by which she had
entered it!
Poor little Sylvia, she did not know that grandmother's warning was
actually to be fulfilled. She was "lost in the Louvre!"