NO. 14 RUE ST. SUPLICE.
Meanwhile, Barbara and her aunt pursued their journey, and in due time
arrived at Newhaven, where the first thing they were told was that the
tide was unusually low at Dieppe, which would prevent them entering
that harbour, and therefore they were not going to leave Newhaven for
another hour and a half. Aunt Anne gazed in indignation upon their
informant, and declared it was scandalous that a boat, timed to leave
at a certain hour, should be so irregular and unpunctual; whereupon the
captain, shrugging his shoulders, said that the lady should complain to
the moon about the tides rather than to him.
They managed to fill in the time very well with lunch, however, and
after a little grumbling, Aunt Anne resigned herself to Fate, though
she was glad enough when they finally steamed out of the harbour. Miss
Britton was not a very good sailor, and in preparation for "the
voyage," as she called the crossing, had accumulated great stores of
knowledge as to how to treat seasickness. She established herself on
the upper deck, let down a deck-chair as low as it would go, and
replacing her hat by a weird little Tam o' Shanter, covered her eyes
with a handkerchief.
"To avoid seasickness, Barbara," she said, "you must lie as flat as
possible, keep the eyes closed, and breathe in correspondence with the
ship's motion--though," she added, "I really cannot tell at present
which is its motion; perhaps there will be more when we get farther
out."
Barbara chuckled, but deferred making similar preparations until the
motion _was_ more defined, for she was much too interested in what was
going on around her to close her eyes to it all.
Aunt Anne asked her at intervals if it was getting rougher, but though
her niece assured her there were no signs of such a thing, she did not
venture to sit up until they were quite near Dieppe.
"Oh, aunt!" Barbara exclaimed joyfully, "just look at all the officials
in their high-peaked hats. Don't they look nice, so Frenchy and
foreign!"
"You would hardly expect them to look _English_," Aunt Anne returned
drily, and began to gather together her belongings preparatory to
leaving the boat.
"It is some time since I have been in France, Barbara," she exclaimed,
"having been quite contented with our own beautiful land; but I
remember it was best to be very quick in going to the train so as to
get good seats. Follow me closely, child."
Barbara obediently did as she was told, and having got safely through
the troubles of the _douane_, they chose their carriage and proceeded
to arrange their possessions.
"My umbrella!" Aunt Anne cried suddenly, looking anxiously on the racks
and under the seat. "Barbara, I must have left it on the boat; why did
you not remind me? You must just run back for it now--but don't let
the train go without you. Run, child, run!"
Barbara obediently hurried away, and after a halting and somewhat
lengthy explanation on the quay, was allowed to go on board again, and
spied the missing umbrella on the deck. When she returned, the train
had been moved higher up, and she could not distinguish the carriage
anywhere. The guard was already beginning to wave the signal, and
Barbara felt she was a lost passenger, when a dark, stout little man
dashed up to her and seized her by the arm.
"Par ici, par ici," he cried, "votre maman vous attend, mademoiselle,"
and they flew down the platform with the guard shouting warnings behind
them. They were barely in time, and Barbara sank panting into her seat.
"Fancy!" Aunt Anne cried indignantly--"fancy getting lost like that!
It just shows that you are not fit to look after children when you
cannot manage an umbrella!"
Barbara was too breathless to reply and too much amused, perhaps,
really to mind. The country was pretty enough, but it soon began to
grow dusk, and they wondered when they would arrive in Paris. The
train was due at 7.30, but there did not seem to be the least chance of
getting in at that hour, for, late as they already were, they continued
to lose time on the way. The little Frenchman was their only
companion, and he did not seem to know much English.
However, between his shreds of that language and Barbara's scanty
French she managed to find out that they would not arrive in Paris
until midnight. Aunt Anne expressed her annoyance in no measured
terms, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled, until she
collapsed into a corner speechless with disgust. He left them at
Rouen, and Barbara, watching her aunt sleeping in a corner, wondered
what they would do when they finally did arrive at the station. But,
as soon as the lights of the _Gare de Lazare_ showed through the
darkness, Miss Britton began to bestir herself, and, when the train
stopped, marched boldly out of the carriage as if she had been in Paris
dozens of times.
In a little while they were seated in a _fiacre_, going along through
brightly-lighted streets, feeling very satisfied that they were
actually nearing their destination. But their content did not last
long, for soon leaving the lighted thoroughfares, they turned into a
dark road with high walls on either side, and just a lamp now and then.
It really seemed rather lonely, and they both began to feel
uncomfortable and to wonder if they were being taken to the wrong
place. Stories of mysterious disappearances began to flit through
Barbara's brain, and she started when Aunt Anne said in a very emphatic
tone, "He looked a very nice cabman, quite respectable and honest."
"Yes," Barbara said meekly, though she had hardly noticed him.
"I knew it was some distance from the station, of course."
"Yes," Barbara replied once more, and added, "of course," as Miss
Britton began to look rather fierce.
"It was a little stupid of you not to think of proposing to stay in the
station hotel while I was collecting the wraps," she went on rather
sharply, and Barbara was trying to think of something soothing to say,
when the cab drew up suddenly and they were both precipitated on to the
hat-boxes on the other seat.
Barbara put her hat straight and looked out of the window. It
certainly seemed to be a funny place to which they had come. The
houses were high and narrow, and the one they had stopped at had a
dirty archway without a single light; but, as the driver showed no
intention of getting down and ringing, Barbara stepped out and groped
about for a bell or a knocker of some kind. Then the cabman, pointing
with his whip up the archway, said, "Numero quatorze, par là." The
girl did not much relish going into the darkness by herself, for she
was sure there must be some mistake. But she was afraid that, if Miss
Britton got out too, the man might drive away and leave them, so she
begged her aunt to remain in the cab while she went into the archway to
make inquiries. After some groping she found a bell-rope, and rang
three times without receiving any answer. She was just about to ring
again, when she heard stealthy steps approaching the door, and the next
moment it was opened, disclosing to her frightened gaze a dirty-looking
man, wearing a red nightcap, and carrying a candle in his hand.
Barbara recoiled a step, for though she had been sure there was some
mistake she had not expected anything as bad as this. However, she
managed to gasp out, "Madame Belvoir's?" and was intensely relieved to
see the fellow shake his head. But he leered at her so horribly that
she waited to make no more inquiries, but turned and fled back to the
_fiacre_.
"This is not the right place," she pouted, "and I'm thankful it
isn't--there's _such_ a horrid man."
"A man! But she was a widow," Aunt Anne said vaguely; and her niece
could not help laughing, for if that _were_ the case there might have
been brothers or sons.
But the cabman was getting very impatient, and it was not an easy
matter to argue with him, for when they insisted that this could not be
14 Rue St. Sulpice, he merely shook his head and persisted that it was.
Then suddenly a light seemed to break upon him, and he asked, "14 Rue
St. Sulpice, Courcelles?"
Barbara shook her head violently, and said, "Non, non, Neuilly."
Whereupon with much grumbling and torrents of words that, perhaps, it
was as well she did not understand, he whipped up his horse, and she
had hardly time to scramble into the cab before they swung off.
They were very glad to leave the neighbourhood, for they saw the red
nightcap peeping out at the end of the archway, and it seemed as if
there were more friends of the same kind in the rear.
"It is _most_ absurd for the man to think _we_ should have been staying
here. I think he must be mad."
"Yes," returned Barbara, not knowing what else to say, and they
continued to rumble over more cobble stones and down dark roads, till
they finally stopped in a dimly-lighted street, which, however, was
broad and clean, with fairly large houses on either side.
Barbara got out with some misgivings, wondering what their fate would
be this time. She had to ring several times as before; but as there
was no dark archway, and the cab was close by, she had not the same
fear. When the door opened, she could distinguish nothing at first,
but presently espied a little woman, in a _white_ nightcap, holding a
candle.
"Dear me!" she thought, "candles and nightcaps seem to be the fashion
here;" but aloud, merely asked politely for Madame Belvoir, hoping that
she was not speaking to the lady in question. Before the _portière_
(for it was she) could answer, a bright light shone out at the far end
of the passage, and a girl came hurrying down, saying, "Madame Belvoir?
Mais oui, entrez, entrez. C'est Mademoiselle Britton, n'est-ce pas?"
Mademoiselle Britton was not a little relieved, and so, I am sure, was
her poor aunt, who came hurrying out of the cab, and was so glad to get
rid of it that she paid the ten francs the man demanded without a
murmur.
The French girl explained in broken English that her mother greatly
regretted being absent, having been called away suddenly to an uncle
who was ill, but that she and her sister would do their utmost to make
Miss Britton comfortable.
By that time they had reached the end of the passage and were led into
a comfortable room, where another girl was waiting. Tea was ready for
them too, and Barbara thought she had never appreciated it more. She
tried to explain the reason of their late arrival, and told some of
their adventures; but, although both the French girls listened politely
and smiled and nodded, Barbara thought that neither of them understood
much of what she said. However, she did not mind that, and presently
they led the way upstairs to a room that was a haven of delight to the
wanderers. The windows opened on to a garden whence the scent of lilac
floated, and the whole room--down to the hearth-brush, which charmed
Barbara--was decorated in blue.
With the memory of that other Rue St. Sulpice still fresh in their
minds, their present quarters indeed seemed delightful; and Barbara
declared she could have fallen upon the necks of both girls and kissed
them.
"A quite unnecessary and most impertinent proceeding," Aunt Anne
replied curtly. "They will much prefer pounds, shillings, and pence to
embraces," and Barbara thought that after all she was probably right.