"I suppose we'll meet by-and-by at dinner?" I said (I'm afraid rather
wistfully) to the chauffeur as he drove the car up a steep hill to the
door of La Reserve, on The Corniche.
"Well, no," he answered, "because you needn't fear anything disagreeable
here, and I'm going to stop at a less expensive place. You see, I pay my
own way, and as I really have to live on my screw, it doesn't run to
grand hotels. This one _is_ rather grand; but you will be all right,
because, although it's a famous place for food, at this season few
people stop overnight, and I've found out through the telephone that the
Turnours are the only ones who have taken bedrooms. That means you'll
have your dinner and breakfast by yourself."
"Oh, that will be nice!" I said, trying to speak as if I delighted in
the thought of solitude and reflection. "I wish I were paying my own
way, too; but I couldn't do it on fifty francs a month, could I?"
"Fifty francs a month!" he echoed, astonished. "Is that your
compensation for being a slave to such a woman? By Jove, it makes me hot
all over, to think that a girl like you should--"
"Well, this trip is thrown in as additional compensation," I reminded
him. "And thanks to you and your kindness, I believe I'm going to find
my place more than tolerable."
The car stopped, and duty began. I couldn't even turn and say good night
to the chauffeur, as I walked primly into the hotel, laden with my
mistress's things.
She and Sir Samuel had the best rooms in the house, a suite big enough
and grand enough for a king and queen, with a delightful _loggia_
overlooking the high garden and the sea. But of course Lady Turnour
would die rather than seem impressed by anything, and would probably
pick faults if she were invited to sleep at Buckingham Palace or Windsor
Castle--a contingency which I think unlikely. She was snappish with
hunger, and did not trouble to restrain her temper before me. Poor Sir
Samuel! It is he who has snatched her from her lodging-house, to lead
her into luxury, because of his faithful love of many years; and this is
the way she rewards him! If I'd been in his place, and had a javelin
handy, I think I might suddenly have become a widower.
She was better after dinner, however, so I knew she must have been well
fed: and in the morning, after a gorgeous _déjeuner_ on the loggia, she
was in an amiable mood to plan for the day's journey.
At ten o'clock the chauffeur arrived, and was shown up to the Turnours'
vast Louis XVI. salon. He looked as much like an icily regular,
splendidly null, bronze statue as a flesh-and-blood young man could
possibly look, for that, no doubt, is his conception of the part of a
well-trained "shuvver"; and he did not seem aware of my existence as he
stood, cap in hand, ready for orders.
As for me, I flatter myself that I was equally admirable in my own
_métier_. I was assorting a motley collection of guide-books, novels,
maps, smelling-salts, and kodaks when he came in, and was dying to look
up, but I remained as sweetly expressionless as a doll.
The bronze statue respectfully inquired how its master would like to
make a little _détour_, instead of going by way of Aix-en-Provence to
Avignon, as arranged. Within an easy run was a spot loved by artists,
and beginning to be talked about--Martigues on the Etang de Berre, a
salt lake not far from Marseilles--said to be picturesque. The Prince of
Monaco was fond of motoring down that way.
At the sound of a princely name her ladyship's mind made itself up with
a snap. So the change of programme was decided upon, and curious as to
the chauffeur's motive, I questioned him when again we sat shoulder to
shoulder, the salt wind flying past our faces.
"Why the Etang de Berre?" I asked.
"Oh, I rather thought it would interest you. It's a queer spot."
"Thank you. You think I like queer spots--and things?"
"Yes, and people. I'm sure you do. You'll like the Etang and the country
round, but _they_ won't."
"That's a detail," said I, "since this tour runs itself in the interests
of the _femme de chambre_ and the chauffeur."
"We're the only ones who have any interests that matter. It's all the
same to them, really, where they go, if I take the car over good roads
and land them at expensive hotels at night. But I'm not going to do that
always. They've got to see the Gorge of the Tarn. They don't know that
yet, but they have."
"And won't they like seeing it?"
"Lady Turnour will hate it."
"Then we may as well give it up. Her will is mightier than the sword."
"Once she's in, there'll be no turning back. She'll have to push on to
the end."
"She mayn't consent to go in."
"Queen Margherita of Italy is said to have the idea of visiting the Tarn
next summer. Think what it would mean to Lady Turnour to get the start
of a queen!"
"You are Machiavelian! When did you have this inspiration?"
"Well, I got thinking last night that, as they have plenty of
time--almost as much time as money--it seemed a pity that I should whirl
them along the road to Paris at the rate planned originally. You see,
though there are plenty of interesting places on the way mapped
out--you've been to Tours, you say--"
"What of that?"
"Oh, the trip might as well be new for everybody except myself; and as
you like adventures--"
"You think it's the Turnours' duty to have them."
"Just so. If only to punish her ladyship for grinding you down to fifty
francs a month. What a reptile!"
"If she's a reptile, I'm a cat to plot against her."
"Do cats plot? Only against mice, I think. And anyhow, _I'm_ doing all
the plotting. I've felt a different man since yesterday. I've got
something to live for."
"Oh, _what?_" The question asked itself.
"For a comrade in misfortune. And to see her to her journey's end. I
suppose that end will be in Paris?"
"No-o," I said. "I rather think I shall go on all the way to England
with Lady Turnour--if I can stand it. There's a person in England who
will be kind to me."
"Oh!" remarked Mr. Dane, suddenly dry and taciturn again. I didn't know
what had displeased him--unless he was sorry to have my company as far
as England; yet somehow I couldn't quite believe it was that.
All this talk we had while dodging furious trams and enormous waggons
piled with merchandise, in that maelstrom of traffic near the Marseilles
docks, which must be passed before we could escape into the country. At
last, coasting down a dangerously winding hill with a too suggestively
named village at the bottom--L'Assassin--the Aigle turned westward. The
chauffeur let her spread her wings at last, and we raced along a clear
road, the Etang already shimmering blue before us, like an eye that
watched and laughed.
Then we had to swing smoothly round a great circle, to see in all its
length and breadth that strange, hidden, and fishy fairy-land of which
Martigues is the door. Once the Phoenicians found their way here,
looking for salt, which is exploited to this day; Marius camped near
enough to take his morning dip in the Etang, perhaps; and Jeanne, queen
of Naples, held Martigues for herself. But now only fish, and fishermen,
and a few artists occupy themselves in that quaint little world which
one passes all regardlessly in the flying "_Côte d'Azur_."
As we sailed round the road which rings the sleepy-looking salt lake,
Lady Turnour had a window opened on purpose to ask what on earth the
Prince of Monaco found to admire in this flat country, where there were
no fine buildings? And her rebellion made me take alarm for the success
of our future plots. But the chauffeur (anxious for the same reason,
maybe, that she should be content) explained things nicely.
Why, said he, for one thing the best fish eaten at the best restaurants
of Monte Carlo came out of the Etang de Berre. The _bouillabaise_ which
her ladyship had doubtless tasted at La Reserve last night, originally
owed much to the same source; and talking of _bouillabaise_, Martigues
was almost as famous for it as La Reserve itself. One had but to lunch
at the little hotel Paul Chabas to prove that. And then, for less
material reasons, His Serene Highness might be influenced by the fact
that Corot had loved this ring of land which clasped the Etang de
Berre--Ziem, too, and other artists whose opinion could not be despised.
These arguments silenced if they didn't convince Lady Turnour, though
she had probably never heard of Ziem, or even Corot, and we two in front
were able to admire the charming scene in peace. Crossing bridges here
and there we saw, rising above sapphire lake and silver belt of olives
jewelled with rosy almond blossom, more than one miniature Carcassonne,
or ruined castle small as if peeped at through a diminishing glass.
There was Port le Bouc, the Mediterranean harbour of the Etang, or
watergate to fairyland, as Martigues was the door; Istre on its proud
little height; Miramas and Berre, important in their own eyes, and
pretty in all others when reflected in the glassy surface of blue water.
There were dark groups of cypresses, like mourning figures talking
together after a funeral--ancient trees who could almost remember the
Romans; and better than all else, there was Pont Flavian, which these
Romans had built.
Even Lady Turnour condescended to get out of the car to do honour to the
bridge with its two Corinthian arches of perfect grace and beauty; but
she had nothing to say to the poor little, tired-looking lions sitting
on top, which I longed to climb up and pat.
She wanted to push on, and her one thought of Aix-en-Provence was for
lunch. Was Dane sure we should find anything decent to eat there? Very
well, then the sooner we got it the better.
What a good thing there was someone on board the car to appreciate
Provence, someone to keep saying--"We're in Provence--_Provence!_"
repeating the word just for the joy and music of it, and all it means of
romance and history!
If there had not been someone to say and feel that, every turn of the
tyres would have been an insult to Provence, who had put on her
loveliest dress to bid us welcome. Among the olives and almonds, young
trees of vivid yellow spouted pyramids of thin, gold flame against a sky
of violet, and the indefinable fragrance of spring was in the air. We
met handsome, up-standing peasants in red or blue _beréts_, singing
melodiously in _patois_--Provençal, perhaps--as they walked beside their
string of stout cart-horses. And the songs, and the dark eyes of the
singers, and the wonderful horned harness which the noble beasts wore
with dignity, all seemed to answer us: "Yes, you are in Provence."
We talked of old Provence, my Fellow Worm and I, while our master and
mistress wearied for their luncheon; of the men and women who had passed
along this road which we travelled. What would Madame de Sévigné, or
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, or George Sand have said if a blue car like
ours had suddenly flashed into their vision? We agreed that, in any
case, not one of them--or any other person of true imagination--would
call abominable a wonderful piece of mechanism with the power of
flattening mountains into plains, triumphing over space, annihilating
distance; a machine combining fiercest energy with the mildest docility.
No, only old fogies would close their hearts to a machine fit for the
gods, and pride themselves on being motophobes forever. We felt
ourselves, car and all, to be worthy of this magic way, lined with
blossoms that played like rosy children among the strange rocks
characteristic of Provence--rocks which seemed to have boiled up all hot
out of the earth, and then to have vied with each other in hardening
into most fantastic shapes. Even we felt ourselves worthy to meet a few
troubadours, as we drew near to Aix, where once they held their Courts
of Love; and we had talked ourselves into an almost dangerously romantic
mood by the time we arrived at the hotel in the Cours Mirabeau.
There, in the wide central _Place_, sprayed a delicious fountain
splashed with gold by the sunlight that filtered through an arbour of
great trees; and there, too, was a statue of good King René. Perhaps, if
I hadn't known that Aix-en-Provence was the home of the troubadours, and
that its springs had been loved by the Romans before the days of
Christianity, I might not have thought it more charming than many
another ancient sleepy town of France; but it is impossible to
disentangle one's imagination and sentiment from one's eyesight;
therefore, Aix seemed an exquisite place to me.
Now that I knew how knight-errantry in some of its branches was likely
to affect Mr. Dane's pocket, I resolved that nothing should tempt me to
encourage him in the pursuit. No matter how many flirtatious smiles were
shed upon me by enterprising waiters, no matter how many conversations
were begun by couriers who took me for rather a superior sample of
"young person," I would bear all, all, without a complaint which might
seem like a hint for protection.
When Lady Turnour had forgotten me, in the dazzling light that beat
about the thought of luncheon, I almost bustled into the hotel, and
asked for the servants' dining-room. I knew that there was little hope
of eating alone, for several important-looking motor-cars were drawn up
before the hotel; but I was hardly prepared for the gay company I found
assembled.
Three chauffeurs, a valet, and two maids were lunching, and judging from
appearances the meal was far enough advanced to have cemented lifelong
friendships. Wine being as free as the air you breathe, in this country
of the grape, naturally the big glass _caraffes_ behind the plates were
more than half empty, and the elder of the two elderly maids had a
shining pink knob on her nose.
I hadn't yet taken off my diving-bell (as I've named my head covering),
and every eye was upon me during the intricate process of removal.
Conversation, which was in French, slackened in the interests of
curiosity; and when the new face was exposed to public gaze the three
gallant chauffeurs jumped up, as one man, each with the kind intention
of placing me in a chair next himself. "_Voilà une petite tête trop
jolie pour être cachée comme ça!_" exclaimed the best looking and
boldest of the trio.
The ladies of the party sniffed audibly, and raised their somewhat
moth-eaten eyebrows at each other in virtuous disapproval of a young
female who provoked such remarks from strangers. The valet, who had the
air of being engaged to the maid with the nose, confined himself to a
non-committal grin, but the second and third chauffeurs loyally
supported their leader. "_Vous avez raison_," they responded, laughing
and showing quantities of white teeth. Then they followed up their
compliment by begging that mademoiselle would sit down, and allow her
health to be drunk--with that of the other ladies.
"Yes, sit down by me," said Number One, indicating a chair. "This is the
Queen's throne."
"By me," said Number Two. "I'll cut up your meat for you."
"By me," said Number Three. "I'll give you my share of pudding."
By this time I was red to the ears, not knowing whether it were wiser
for a lady's-maid to run away, or to take the rough chaff
good-humouredly, and make the best of it. I fluttered, undecided, never
thinking of the old adage concerning the woman who hesitates.
In an instant, it was forcibly recalled to my mind, for Number One
chauffeur, smelling strongly of the good red wine of Provence, came
forward and offered me his arm.
This was too much.
"Please don't!" I stammered, in my confusion speaking English.
"_Ah, Mademoiselle est Anglaise!_" the two others exclaimed, "_Vive
l'entente cordiale!_ We are Frenchmen. You are Italian. She belongs to
our side."
"Let her choose," said the handsome Italian, pointing his moustache and
doing such execution upon me with his splendid eyes, that if they'd been
Maxim guns I should have fallen riddled with bullets.
"I'll sit by nobody," I managed to answer, this time in French. "Please
take your seats. I will have a chair at the other end of the table."
"You see, mademoiselle is too polite to choose between us. She's afraid
of a duel," laughed good-looking Number One. "I tell you what we must
do. We'll draw lots for her. Three pellets of bread. The biggest wins."
"Beg your pardon, monsieur," remarked Mr. Dane, whom I hadn't seen as he
opened the door, "mademoiselle is of my party. She is waiting for me."
His voice was perfectly calm, even polite, but as I whirled round and
looked at him, fearing a scene, I saw that his eyes were rather
dangerous. He looked like a dog who says, as plainly as a dog can speak,
"I'm a good fellow, and I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. But put
that bone down, or I bite."
The Italian dropped the bone (I don't mind the simile) not because he
was afraid, I think, but because Mr. John Dane's chin was much squarer
and firmer than his; and because such sense of justice as he had told
him that the newcomer was within his rights.
"And I beg mademoiselle's pardon," he replied with a bow and a flourish.
"I'm so glad you've come--but I oughtn't to be, and I didn't expect
you," I said, when my chauffeur had pulled out a chair for me at the end
of the table farthest from the other maids and chauffeurs.
"Why not?" he wanted to know, sitting down by my side.
"Because I suppose it's the best hotel in town, and--"
"Oh, you're thinking of my pocket! I wish I hadn't said what I did last
night. Looking back, it sounds caddish. But I generally do blurt out
things stupidly. If I didn't, I shouldn't be 'shuvving' now--only that's
another story. To tell the whole truth, it wasn't the state of my
pocketbook alone that influenced me last night. I had two other reasons.
One was a selfish one, and the other, I hope, unselfish."
"I hope the selfish one wasn't fear of being bored?"
"If that's a question, it doesn't deserve an answer. But because you've
asked it, I'll tell you both reasons. I'd stopped at La Reserve before,
in--in rather different circumstances, and I thought--not only might it
make talk about me, but--"
"I understand," I said. "Of course, Lady Turnour isn't as careful a
chaperon as she ought to be."
Then we both laughed, and the danger-signals were turned off in his
eyes. When he isn't smiling, Mr. Dane sometimes looks almost sullen,
quite as if he could be disagreeable if he liked; but that makes the
change more striking when he does smile.
"You needn't worry about that pocket of mine," he went on, as we ate our
luncheon. "It's as cheap here as anywhere; and when I saw all those
motors before the door, I made up my mind that you'd probably need a
brother, so I came as soon as I could leave the car."
"So you are my brother, are you?" I echoed.
"Don't you think you might adopt me, once for all, in that relationship?
Then, you see, the chaperoning won't matter so much. Of course, it's
early days to take me on as a brother, but I think we'd better begin at
once."
"Before I know whether you have any faults?" I asked. And just for the
minute, the French half of me was a little piqued at his offer. That
part of me pouted, and said that it would be much more amusing to travel
in such odd circumstances beside a person one could flirt with, than to
make a pact of "brother and sister." He might have given me the chance
to say first that I'd be a sister to him! But the American half slapped
the French half, and said: "What silly nonsense! Don't be an idiot, if
you can help it. The man's behaving beautifully. And it will just do you
good to have your vanity stepped on, you conceited little minx!"
"Oh, I've plenty of faults, I'll tell you to start with--plenty you may
have noticed already, and plenty more you haven't had time to notice
yet," said my new relative. "I'm a sulky brute, for one thing, and I've
got to be a pessimist lately, for another--a horrid fault, that!--and I
have a vile temper--"
"All those faults might be serviceable in a _brother_," I said. "Though
in any one else--"
"In a friend or a lover, they'd be unbearable, of course; I know that,"
he broke in. "But who'd want me for a friend? And as for a lover, why,
I'm struck off the list of eligibles, forever--if I was ever on it."
After that, we ate our luncheon as fast as we could (a very bad habit,
which I don't mean to keep up for man or brother), and even though the
others had begun long before we did, we finished while they were still
cracking nuts and peeling apples, their spirits somewhat subdued by the
Englishman's presence.
"The great folk won't have got their money's worth for nearly an hour
yet," said Mr. Dane. "Don't you want to go and have a look at the
Cathedral? There are some grand things to see there--the triptych called
'Le Buisson Argent,' and some splendid old tapestry in the choir; a
whole wall and some marble columns from a Roman temple of Apollo--oh,
and you mustn't forget to look for the painting of St. Mitre the Martyr
trotting about with his head in his hands. On the way to the Cathedral
notice the doorways you'll pass. Aix is celebrated for its doorways."
(Evidently my brother passed through Aix, as well as along the Corniche,
under "different circumstances!")
"You mean--I'm to go alone?"
"Yes, I can't leave the car to take you. I'm sorry."
The French half of me was vexed again, but didn't dare let the sensible
American half, which knew he was right, see it, for fear of another
scolding.
I thanked him in a way as businesslike as his own, and said that I would
take his advice; which I did. Although I hate sightseeing by myself, I
wouldn't let him think I meant to be always trespassing on his good
nature; and afterward I was glad I hadn't yielded to my inclination to
be helpless, for the Cathedral and the doorways were all he had
promised, and more. It was a scramble to see anything in the few minutes
I had, though, and awful to feel that Lady Turnour was hanging over my
head like a sword. The thought of how she would look and what she would
say if I kept the car waiting was a string tied to my nerves, pulling
them all at once, like a jumping-jack's arms and legs, so that I
positively ran back to the hotel, more breathless than Cinderella when
the hour of midnight began to strike. But there was the magic glass
coach, not yet become a pumpkin; there was the chauffeur, not turned
into whatever animal a chauffeur does turn into in fairy stories; and
there were not Sir Samuel and her ladyship, nor any sign of them.
"Thank goodness, I'm not late!" I panted. "I was afraid I was. That dear
verger wouldn't realize that there could be anything of more importance
in the world than the statue of Ste. Martha and the Tarasque."
"Nothing is, really," said Mr. Dane, glancing up from some
dentist-looking work he was doing in the Aigle's mouth under her lifted
bonnet. "But you _are_ a little late--"
"Oh!" I gasped, pink with horror. "You don't mean to say the Turnours
have been out, and waiting?"
"I do, but don't be so despairing. I told them I thought I'd better
look the car over, and wasn't quite ready. That's always true, you know.
A motor's like a pretty woman; never objects to being looked at. So they
said 'damn,' and strolled off to buy chocolates."
"It's getting beyond count how many times you've saved me, and this is
only our second day out," I exclaimed. "Here they come now, as they
always do, when we exchange a word."
I trembled guiltily, but there was no more than a vague general
disapproval in Lady Turnour's eyes, the kind of expression which she
thinks useful for keeping servants in their place.
I got into mine, on the front seat; the car's bonnet got into its, the
chauffeur into his, and at just three o'clock we turned our backs upon
good King René.
The morning had drunk up all the sunshine of the day, leaving none for
afternoon, which was troubled with a hint of coming mistral. The
landscape began to look like a hastily sketched water-colour, with its
hills and terraces of vine; and above was a pale sky, blurred like
greasy silver. The wind roamed moaning among the tops of the tall
cypresses, set close together to protect the meadows from one of "the
three plagues of Provence." And even as the mistral tweaked our noses
with a chilly thumb and finger, our eyes caught sight of the second and
more dreaded plague: the deceitfully gentle-seeming Durance, which in
its rage can come tearing down from the Alps with the roar of a famished
lion.
Far above the wide river, the Aigle glided across a high-hung suspension
bridge, the song of the water floating up to our ears mingling with the
purr of the motor--two giant forces, one set loose by nature, the other
by man, duetting harmoniously together, while the wind wailed over our
heads. But for the third and last plague of Provence we would have had
to search in vain, for the land is no longer tormented by Parliament.
Always the road had stretched before us, up hill after hill, as straight
drawn between its scantily grass-covered banks as the parting in an old
man's hair; and always, far ahead, wave following wave of hill and
mountain had seemed to roll toward us like the sea as we advanced to
meet them. After the vineyards had come wild rocks, set with crumbling
forts, and towers, and châteaux; then the mild interest of fruit blossom
spraying pink and white among primly pollarded olives; then grape
country again, with squat, low-growing vines like gnomes kicking up
gnarled legs as they turned somersaults; then a break into wonderful
mountain country, with Orgon's ruins towering skyward, dark as despair,
a wild romance in stone. But before we reached the great suspension
bridge, the Pont de Bonpas, the landscape appeared exhausted after its
sublime efforts, and inclined to quiet down for a rest. It was only near
Avignon that it sprung up refreshed, ready for more strange surprises;
and the grim grandeur of the scenery as we approached the ancient town
seemed to prophesy the mediæval towers and ramparts of the historic
city.
Skirting the huge city wall, the blue car was the one note of modernity;
but hardly had we turned in at a great gate worthy to open in welcome
for Queen Jeanne of Naples, or Bertrand du Guesclin, than we were in the
hum of twentieth-century life. I resented the change, for one expects
nothing, wants nothing, modern in Avignon; but in a moment or two we had
left the bright cafés and shops behind, to plunge back into the middle
ages. Anything, it seemed, might happen in the queer, shadowed streets
of tall old houses with mysterious doorways, through which the Aigle
cautiously threaded, like a glittering crochet needle practicing a new
stitch. Then, in the quiet _place_, asleep and dreaming of stirring
deeds it once had seen, we stopped before a dignified building more like
some old ducal family mansion than a hotel.
But it was a hotel, and we were to stop the night in it, leaving all
sightseeing for the next morning. Lady Turnour was tired. She had done
too much already for one day--with a reproachful glance at the chauffeur
whom she thus made responsible for her prostration. Nothing would induce
her to go out again that evening, and she thought that she would dine in
her own sitting-room. She didn't like old places, or old hotels, but she
supposed she would have to make the best of this one. She was a woman
who _never_ complained, unless it really was her duty, and then she
didn't hesitate.
This was her mood when getting out of the car, but inside the quaint and
charming house a look at the visitors' register changed it in a flash.
There was one prince and one duke; there were several counts; and as to
barons, they were peppered about in rich profusion. Each noble being was
accompanied by his chauffeur, so evidently it was the "thing" to stop in
the Hotel de l'Europe, and the _haut monde_ considered Avignon worth
wasting time upon. Instantly her ladyship resolved to recover
gracefully from her fatigue, and descend to the public dining-room for
dinner.
So fascinated was she by the list of great names, that she lingered over
the reading of them, as one lingers over the last strawberries of the
season; and I had to stand at attention close behind her, with her rugs
over my arm, lest any one should miss seeing that she had a maid.
"Dane says the best thing is to make Avignon a centre, and stop here two
or three nights, 'doing' the country round, before going on to Nîmes or
Arles," she said to Sir Samuel, who was clamouring for the best rooms in
the house. "I didn't feel I should like that plan, but thinking it over,
I'm not sure he isn't right."
I knew very well what her "thinking it over" meant!
They stood discussing the pros and cons, and as I didn't yet know the
numbers of our rooms, I was obliged to wait till I was told. I was not
bored, however, but was looking about with interest, when I heard the
teuf-teuf of a motor-car outside. "There goes Mr. Jack Dane with the
Aigle," I thought; and yet there was a difference in the sound. I'm too
amateurish in such matters to understand the exact reason for such
differences, though chauffeurs say they could tell one make of motor
from another by ear if they were blindfolded. Perhaps it wasn't our car
leaving, but another one coming to the hotel!
I had nothing better to do than to watch for new arrivals. My eyes were
lazily fixed on the door, and presently it opened. A figure, all fur and
a yard wide, came in.
It was the figure of Monsieur Charretier.