IN THE RUE VERTE.
"The city looked sad. The heaven was gray."
SONGS IN MINOR KEYS.
"Gladdie, are you awake?"
These were the first words that fell on Gladys's ears the next morning.
I cannot say the first _sounds_, for all sorts of strange and puzzling
noises had been going on above and below and on all sides since _ever_
so early, as it seemed to her--in reality it had been half-past six--she
had opened her eyes in the dark, and wondered and wondered where she
was! Still in the railway carriage was her first idea, or on the
steamer--once she had awakened enough to remember that she was _not_ in
her own little bed at Mrs. Lacy's. But no--people weren't undressed in
the railway, even though they did sometimes lie down, and then--though
the sounds she heard were very queer--she soon felt she was not moving.
And bit by bit it all came back to her--about the long tiring journey,
and no Papa at the station, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton and Léonie all
talking together, and the drive in the cab to the crowded narrow street,
and the funny old woman with the frilled cap, and the shop full of
chairs and sofas, and the queer unnatural long afternoon after their
friends went away, and how glad at last she and Roger were to go to bed
even in the little stuffy dark room. _How_ dark it was! It must still be
the middle of the night, Gladys thought for some time, only that
everybody except herself and Roger seemed to be awake and bustling
about. For the workroom, as Gladys found out afterwards, was overhead,
and the workpeople came early and were not particular about making a
noise. It was very dull, and in spite of all the little girl's courage,
a few tears _would_ make their way up to her eyes, though she tried her
best to force them back, and she lay there perfectly quiet, afraid of
waking Roger, for she was glad to hear by his soft breathing that he was
still fast asleep. But she could not help being glad when through the
darkness came the sound of his voice.
"Gladdie, are you awake?"
"Yes, dear," she replied, "I've been awake a long time."
"So have I," said Roger in all sincerity--he had been awake about three
minutes. "It's very dark; is it the middle of the night?"
"No, I don't think so," Gladys replied. "I hear people making a lot of
noise."
"Gladdie," resumed Roger half timidly--Gladys knew what was coming--"may
I get into your bed?"
"It's _very_ small," said Gladys, which was true, though even if it had
not been so, she would probably have tried to get out of Roger's
proposal, for she was not half so fond of his early morning visits as he
was. In the days of old "nurse" such doings were not allowed, but after
she left, Gladys had not the heart to be very strict with Roger, and now
in spite of her faint objection, she knew quite well she would have to
give in, in the end.
"So's mine," observed Roger, though Gladys could not see what that had
to do with it. But she said nothing, and for about half a minute there
was silence in the dark little room. Then again.
"Gladdie," came from the corner, "mayn't I come? If we squeezed
ourselves?"
"Very well," said Gladys, with a little sigh made up of many different
feelings. "You can come and try."
But a new difficulty arose.
"I can't find my way in the dark. I don't 'amember how the room is in
the light," said Roger dolefully. "When I first waked I _couldn't_ think
where we were. Can't you come for me, Gladdie?"
"How can I find my way if you can't," Gladys was on the point of
replying, but she checked herself! She felt as if she could not speak
the least sharply to her little brother, for he had nobody but her to
take care of him, and try to make him happy. So she clambered out of her
bed, starting with the surprise of the cold floor, which had no carpet,
and trying to remember the chairs and things that stood in the way,
managed to get across the room to the opposite corner where stood
Roger's bed, without any very bad knocks or bumps.
"I'm here," cried Roger, as if that was a piece of news, "I'm standing
up in my bed jigging up and down. Can you find me, Gladdie?"
"I'm feeling for you," Gladys replied. "Yes, here's the edge of your
cot. I would have found you quicker if you had kept lying down."
"Oh, then, I'll lie down again," said Roger, but a cry from Gladys
stopped him.
"No, no, don't," she said. "I've found you now. Yes, here's your hand.
Now hold mine tight, and see if you can get over the edge. That's right.
Now come very slowly, round by the wall is best. Here's my bed. Climb
in and make yourself as little as ever you can. I'm coming. Oh, Roger,
what a squeeze it is!"
"I think it's littler than my bed," said Roger consolingly.
"It's not any bigger anyway," replied Gladys, "we might just as well
have stayed in yours."
"Is it because they're poor that the beds is so _very_ little?" asked
Roger in a low voice.
"Oh, no, I don't think so," said Gladys gravely. "They've very nice
beds; I think they're almost quite new."
"Mine was very comfitable," said Roger. "Do you think all poor childrens
have as nice beds?"
"I'm afraid not," said Gladys solemnly. "I'm _afraid_ that some haven't
any beds at all. But why do you keep talking about poor children,
Roger?"
"I wanted to know about them 'cos, you see, Gladys, if Papa wasn't never
finded and we had to stay here, _we'd_ be poor."
"Nonsense," said Gladys rather sharply, in spite of her resolutions, "it
_couldn't_ be like that; of course Papa will come in a few days,
and--and, even if he didn't, though that's quite nonsense, you know,
I'm only saying it to make you see, _even_ if he didn't, we'd not stay
here."
"Where would we go?" said Roger practically.
"Oh, back to Mrs. Lacy perhaps. I wouldn't mind if Miss Susan was
married."
"_I_ would rather go to India with _them_," said Roger. Gladys knew whom
he meant.
"But we can't, they've gone," she replied.
"Are they _gone_, and Léonie, that nice nurse--are they _gone_?" said
Roger, appalled.
"Yes, of course. They'll be nearly at India by now, I daresay."
Roger began to cry.
"Why, you _knew_ they were gone. Why do you cry about it now--you didn't
cry yesterday?" said Gladys, a little sharply it must be confessed.
"I thought," sobbed Roger, "I thought they'd gone to look for Papa, and
that they'd come to take us a nice walk every day, and--and----" He did
not very well know _what_ he had thought, but he had certainly not taken
in that it was good-bye for good to the new friends he had already
become fond of. "I'm _sure_ you said they were gone to look for Papa,"
he repeated, rather crossly in his turn.
"Well, dear," Gladys explained, her heart smiting her, "they _have_
gone to look for Papa. They thought they'd find him at the big town at
the side of the sea where the ships go to India from, and then they'd
tell him where we were in Paris, and he'd come quick for us."
"Is this Paris?" asked Roger.
"Yes, of course," replied Gladys.
"I don't like it," continued the little boy. "Do you, Gladys?"
"It isn't like what I thought," said Gladys; "nothing's like what I
thought. I don't think when we go home again, Roger, that I'll ever play
at pretend games any more."
"How do you mean when we go home?" said Roger. "Where's home?"
"Oh, I don't know; I said it without thinking. Roger----"
"What?" said Roger.
"Are you hungry?" asked Gladys.
"A little; are you?"
"Yes, I think I am, a little," replied Gladys. "I couldn't eat all that
meat and stuff they gave us last night. I wanted our tea."
"And bread and butter," suggested Roger.
"Yes; at home I didn't like bread and butter much, but I think I would
now. I daresay they'd give it us if I knew what it was called in their
talking," said Gladys.
"It wouldn't be so bad if we knew their talking," sighed Roger.
"It wouldn't be so bad if it would get light," said his sister. "I don't
know what to do, Roger. It's _hours_ since they've all been up, and
nobody's come to us. I wonder if they've forgotten we're here."
"There's a little tiny, weeny _inch_ of light beginning to come over
there. Is that the window?" said Roger.
"I suppose so. As soon as it gets more light I'll get up and look if
there's a bell," decided Gladys.
"And if there is?"
"I'll ring it, of course."
"But what would Miss---- Oh, Gladys," he burst out with a merry laugh,
the first Gladys had heard from him since the journey. "Isn't I silly? I
was just going to say, 'What would Miss Susan say?' I quite forgot. I'm
not sorry _she's_ not here. Are you, Gladdie?"
"I don't know," the little girl answered. Truth to tell, there were
times when she would have been very thankful to see Miss Susan, even
though she was determined not to ask to go back to England till all
hope was gone. "I'm not----" but what she was going to say remained
unfinished. The door opened at last, and the frilled cap, looking so
exactly the same as yesterday that Gladys wondered if Madame Nestor
slept in it, only if so, how did she keep it from getting crushed,
appeared by the light of a candle surrounding the kindly face.
"_Bon jour_, my children," she said.
"_That_ means 'good-morning,'" whispered Gladys, "I know that. Say it,
Roger."
Why Roger was to "say it" and not herself I cannot tell. Some
unintelligible sound came from Roger's lips, for which Gladys hastened
to apologise.
"He's trying to say 'good-morning' in French," she explained, completely
forgetting that poor Madame Nestor could not understand her.
"Ah, my little dears," said the old woman--in her own language of
course--"I wish I could know what you say. Ah, how sweet they are! Both
together in one bed, like two little birds in a nest. And have you slept
well, my darlings? and are you hungry?"
The children stared at each other, and at their old hostess.
"Alas," she repeated, "they do not understand. But they will soon know
what I mean when they see the nice bowls of hot chocolate."
"Chocolate!" exclaimed both children. At last there was a word they
could understand. Madame Nestor was quite overcome with delight.
"Yes, my angels, chocolate," she repeated, nodding her head. "The little
servant is bringing it. But it was not she that made it. Oh, no! It was
myself who took care it should be good. But you must have some light,"
and she went to the window, which had a curtain drawn before it, and
outside heavy old-fashioned wooden shutters. No wonder in November that
but little light came through. It was rather a marvel that at eight
o'clock in the morning even a "tiny weeny _inch_" had begun to make its
way.
With some difficulty the old woman removed all the obstructions, and
then such poor light as there was came creeping in. But first she
covered the two children up warmly, so that the cold air when the window
was opened should not get to them.
[Illustration: She placed the whole on a little table which she drew
close to the bed.]
"Would not do for them to catch cold, that would be a pretty story," she
muttered to herself, for she had a funny habit of talking away about
everything she did. Then, when all was air-tight again, there came a
knock at the door. Madame Nestor opened it, and took from the hands of
an invisible person a little tray with two steaming bowls of the famous
chocolate and two sturdy hunches of very "hole-y" looking bread. No
butter; that did not come within Madame Nestor's ideas. She placed the
whole on a little table which she drew close to the bed, and then
wrapping a shawl round the children, she told them to take their
breakfast. They did not, of course, understand her words, but when she
gave Roger his bowl and a preliminary hunch of bread into his hands,
they could not but see that they were expected to take their breakfast
in bed.
"But we're not ill," exclaimed Gladys; "we never stay in bed to
breakfast except when we're ill."
Madame Nestor smiled and nodded. She had not a notion what Gladys meant,
and on her side she quite forgot that the children could not understand
her any better than she understood them.
"We never stay in bed to breakfast unless we're _ill_," repeated Gladys
more loudly, as if that would help Madame Nestor to know what she meant.
"Never mind, Gladdie--the chocolate's very good," said Roger.
As before, "chocolate" was the only word Madame Nestor caught.
"Yes, take your chocolate," she repeated; "don't let it get cold," and
she lifted Gladys's bowl to give it to her.
"Stupid old thing," murmured Gladys, "why doesn't she understand? I
should like to throw the chocolate in her face."
"Oh, Gladdie," said Roger reproachfully, "_think_ what a mess it would
make on the clean sheets!"
"I was only in fun--you might know that," said Gladys, all the same a
little ashamed of herself.
Madame Nestor had by this time left the room with a great many
incomprehensible words, but very comprehensible smiles and nods.
"I think breakfast in bed's very good," said Roger. Then came a sadder
exclamation. "They've given me a pudding spoon 'stead of a teaspoon.
It's _so_ big--it won't hardly go into my mouth."
"And me too," said Gladys. "How stupid French people are! We'll have to
drink it out of the bowls, Roger. How funny it is not to have tea-cups!"
"_I_ think it's best to take it like soup," said Roger; "you don't need
to put the spoon so much in your mouth if you think it's soup."
"I don't see what difference that makes," returned Gladys. But anyhow
the chocolate and the bread disappeared, and then the children began to
wonder how soon they might get up. Breakfast in bed wasn't so bad as
long as there was the breakfast to eat, but when it was finished and
there was no other amusement at hand they began to find it very
tiresome. They had not so very long to wait, however, before Madame
Nestor again made her appearance.
"Mayn't we get up?" cried both children, springing up in bed and jumping
about, to show how ready they were. The old lady seemed to understand
this time, but first she stood still for a moment or two with her head
on one side admiring them.
"The little angels!" she said to herself. "How charming they are. Come
now, my darlings, and get quickly dressed. It is cold this morning," and
she took Roger in her arms to lift him down, while Gladys clambered out
by herself. Their clothes were neatly placed in two little heaps on the
top of the chest of drawers, which, besides the two beds and two or
three chairs, was the only furniture in the room. Madame Nestor sat down
on one of the chairs with Roger on her knee and began drawing on his
stockings.
"Well done," she said, when one was safely in its place; "who would have
thought I was still so clever a nurse!" and she surveyed the stockinged
leg with much satisfaction. Roger seemed quite of her opinion, and
stuck out the other set of pink toes with much amiability. He greatly
approved of this mode of being dressed. Miss Susan had told Ellen he was
big enough, at five years old, to put on his stockings himself, and she
had also been very strict about sundry other nursery regulations, to
which the young gentleman, in cold weather especially, was by no means
partial. But he was not to get off as easily as he hoped. His silence,
which with him always meant content, caught Gladys's attention, which
till now had been taken up with her own stockings, as she had a
particular way of her own of arranging them before putting them on.
"Roger," she exclaimed when she turned round and saw him established on
Madame Nestor's motherly lap; "what are you thinking of? You haven't had
your bath."
Roger's face grew red, and the expression of satisfaction fled.
"Need I----?" he was beginning meekly, but Gladys interrupted him
indignantly:
"You dirty little boy," she said. "What would Miss Susan say?" at which
Roger began to cry, and poor Madame Nestor looked completely puzzled.
"We didn't have a bath last night, you know, because in winter Miss
Susan thinks once a day is enough. But I did think we should have had
one, after the journey too. And anyway this morning we _must_ have one."
But Madame Nestor only continued to stare.
"What shall I say? How _can_ I make her understand?" said Gladys in
despair. "Where's the little basin we washed our faces and hands in
yesterday, Roger?" she went on, looking round the room. "Oh, I
forgot--it was downstairs. There's _no_ basin in this room! What dirty
people!" then noticing the puzzled look on Madame Nestor's face, she
grew frightened that perhaps she was vexed. "Perhaps she knows what
'dirty' means," she half whispered to herself. "Oh dear, I don't mean to
be rude, ma'am," she went on, "but I suppose you don't know about
children. How _can_ I explain?"
A brilliant idea struck her. In a corner of the room lay the carpet-bag
in which Miss Susan had packed their nightgowns and slippers, and such
things as they would require at once. There were, too, their sponges;
and, as Miss Susan had been careful to point out, a piece of _soap_,
"which you never find in French hotels," she had explained to Gladys.
The little girl dived into the bag and drew out the sponges and soap in
triumph.
"See, see," she exclaimed, darting back again to the old lady, and
flourishing her treasure-trove, "that's what I mean! We must have a
_bath_," raising her voice as she went on; "we must be washed and
_sponged_;" and suiting the action to the word she proceeded to pat and
rub Roger with the dry sponge, glancing up at Madame Nestor to see if
the pantomime was understood.
"Ah, yes, to be sure," Madame Nestor exclaimed, her face lighting up, "I
understand now, my little lady. All in good time--you shall have water
to wash your face and hands as soon as you are dressed. But let me get
this poor little man's things on quickly. It is cold this morning."
She began to take off Roger's nightgown and to draw on his little
flannel vest, to which _he_ would have made no objection, but Gladys got
scarlet with vexation.
"No, no," she cried, "he must be washed _first_. If you haven't got a
bath, you might anyway let us have a basin and some water. Roger, you
_are_ a dirty boy. You might join me, and then perhaps she'd do it."
Thus adjured, Roger rose to the occasion. He slipped off Madame Nestor's
knee, and stepping out of his nightgown began an imaginary sponging of
his small person. But it was cold work, and Madame Nestor seeing him
begin to shiver grew really uneasy, and again tried to get him into his
flannels.
"No, no," said Roger, in his turn--he had left off crying now--even the
cold wasn't so bad as Gladdie calling him a dirty boy. Besides who could
tell whether, somehow or other, Miss Susan might not come to hear of it?
Gladys might write her a letter. "No, no," repeated Roger valorously,
"we must be washed _first_."
"You too," said Madame Nestor in despair; "ah, what children!" But her
good-humour did not desert her. Vaguely understanding what they
meant--for recollections began to come back to her mind of what Léonie's
mother used to tell her of the manners and customs of _her_
nurseries--she got up, and smiling still, though with some reproach, at
her queer little guests, she drew a blanket from the bed and wrapped it
round them, and then opening the door she called downstairs to the
little servant to bring a basin and towel and hot water. But the little
servant did not understand, so after all the poor old lady had to trot
downstairs again herself.
"My old legs will have exercise enough," she said to herself, "if the
Papa does not come soon. However!"
"I'm sure she's angry," whispered Roger to Gladys inside the blanket,
"we needn't have a bath _every_ day, Gladdie."
"Hush," said Gladys sternly. "I'm _not_ going to let you learn to be a
dirty boy. If we can't have a bath we may at least be _washed_."
"But if Papa's coming for us to-day or to-morrow," Roger said, "the new
nurse could wash us. I don't believe Papa's coming for us," he went on
as if he were going to cry again. "I believe we're going to stay here in
this nugly little house _always_--and it's all a trick. I don't believe
we've got any Papa."
Poor Gladys did not know what to say. Her own spirits were going down
again, for she too was afraid that perhaps Madame Nestor was vexed, and
she began to wonder if perhaps it would have been better to let things
alone for a day or two--"If I was sure that Papa would come in a day or
two," she thought! But she felt sure of nothing now--everything had
turned out so altogether differently from what she had expected that her
courage was flagging, and she too, for the first time since their
troubles had begun, followed Roger's example and burst into tears.