OGAMS
[Illustration: Perpetual Motion]
Our hotel was distinctively French, and immensely comfortable, in that
it had gleaned, and still retained, the creature comforts of a century
or two. Thus it combined the luxuries of hot-air radiators and electric
light with the enchantment of open wood fires. Viewed externally, the
building presented that airy aspect almost universal in Versailles
architecture. It was white-tinted, with many windows shuttered without
and heavily lace-draped within.
A wide entrance led to the inner courtyard, where orange trees in green
tubs, and trelliswork with shrivelled stems and leaves still adhering,
suggested that it would be a pleasant summer lounge. Our hotel boasted a
_grand salon_, which opened from the courtyard. It was an elaborately
ornate room; but on a chilly December day even a plethora of
embellishment cannot be trusted to raise by a single degree the
temperature of the apartment it adorns, and the soul turns from a cold
hearth, however radiant its garnish of artificial blossoms. A private
parlour was scarcely necessary, for, with most French bedrooms, ours
shared the composite nature of the accommodation known in a certain
class of advertisement as "bed-sitting-room." So it was that during
these winter days we made ourselves at home in our chamber.
The shape of the room was a geometrical problem. The three windows each
revealed different views, and the remainder of the walls curved
amazingly. At first sight the furniture consisted mainly of draperies
and looking-glass; for the room, though of ordinary dimensions, owned
three large mirrors and nine pairs of curtains. A stately bed, endowed
with a huge square down pillow, which served as quilt, stood in a
corner. Two armchairs in brocaded velvet and a centre table were
additions to the customary articles. A handsome timepiece and a
quartette of begilt candelabra decked the white marble mantelpiece, and
were duplicated in the large pier glass. The floor was of well-polished
wood, a strip of bright-hued carpet before the bed, a second before the
washstand, its only coverings. Need I say that the provision for
ablutions was one basin and a liliputian ewer, and that there was not a
fixed bath in the establishment?
It was a resting-place full of incongruities; but apart from, or perhaps
because of, its oddities it had a cosy attractiveness. From the moment
of our entrance we felt at home. I think the logs that purred and
crackled on the hearth had much to do with its air of welcome. There is
a sense of companionship about a wood fire that more enduring coal
lacks. Like a delicate child, the very care it demands nurtures your
affection. There was something delightfully foreign and picturesque to
our town ideas in the heap of logs that Karl carried up in a great
_panier_ and piled at the side of the hearth. Even the little faggots of
kindling wood, willow-knotted and with the dry copper-tinted leaves
still clinging to the twigs, had a rustic charm.
These were pleasant moments when, ascending from the chill outer air, we
found our chamber aglow with ruddy firelight that glinted in the mirrors
and sparkled on the shining surface of the polished floor; when we drew
our chairs up to the hearth, and, scorning the electric light, revelled
in the beauty of the leaping and darting flames.
It was only in the _salle-à-manger_ that we saw the other occupants of
the hotel; and when we learned that several of them had lived _en
pension_ under the roof of the assiduous proprietor for periods varying
from five to seven years, we felt ephemeral, mere creatures of a moment,
and wholly unworthy of regard.
[Illustration: Ursa Major]
At eight o'clock Karl brought the _petit déjeûner_ of coffee and rolls
to our room. At eleven, our morning visit to the school hospital over,
we breakfasted in the _salle-à-manger_, a large bright room, one or
other of whose many south windows had almost daily, even in the depth of
winter, to be shaded against the rays of the sun. Three chandeliers of
glittering crystal starred with electric lights depended from the
ceiling. Half a dozen small tables stood down each side; four larger
ones occupied the centre of the floor, and were reserved for transient
custom.
The first thing that struck us as peculiar was that every table save
ours was laid for a single person, with a half bottle of wine, red or
white, placed ready, in accordance with the known preference of the
expected guest. We soon gathered that several of the regular customers
lodged outside and, according to the French fashion, visited the hotel
for meals only. After the early days of keen anxiety regarding our
invalid had passed, we began to study our fellow guests individually and
to note their idiosyncrasies. Sitting at our allotted table during the
progress of the leisurely meals, we used to watch as one _habitué_ after
another entered, and, hanging coat and hat upon certain pegs, sat
silently down in his accustomed place, with an unvarying air of calm
deliberation.
Then Iorson, the swift-footed _garçon_, would skim over the polished
boards to the newcomer, and, tendering the menu, would wait, pencil in
hand, until the guest, after careful contemplation, selected his five
_plats_ from its comprehensive list.
[Illustration: Meal Considerations]
The most picturesque man of the company had white moustaches of
surprising length. On cold days he appeared enveloped in a fur coat, a
garment of shaggy brown which, in conjunction with his hirsute
countenance, made his aspect suggest the hero in pantomime renderings of
"Beauty and the Beast." But in our hotel there was no Beauty, unless
indeed it were Yvette, and Yvette could hardly be termed beautiful.
Yvette also lived outside. She did not come to _déjeûner_, but every
night precisely at a quarter-past seven the farther door would open, and
Yvette, her face expressing disgust with the world and all the things
thereof, would enter.
Yvette was blonde, with neat little features, a pale complexion, and
tiny hands that were always ringless. She rang the changes on half a
dozen handsome cloaks of different degrees of warmth. To an intelligent
observer their wear might have served as a thermometer. Yvette was
_blasée_, and her millinery was in sympathy with her feelings. Her hats
had all a fringe of disconsolate feathers, whose melancholy plumage
emphasised the downward curve of her mouth. To see Yvette enter from the
darkness and, seating herself at her solitary table, droop over her
plate as though there were nothing in Versailles worth sitting upright
for, was to view _ennui_ personified.
Yvette invariably drank white wine, and the food rarely pleased her. She
would cast a contemptuous look over the menu offered by the deferential
Henri, then turn wearily away, esteeming that no item on its length
merited even her most perfunctory consideration. But after one or two
despondent glances, Yvette ever made the best of a bad bargain, and
ordered quite a comprehensive little dinner, which she ate with the same
air of utter disdain. She always concluded by eating an orange dipped in
sugar. Even had a special table not been reserved for her, one could
have told where Yvette had dined by the bowl of powdered sugar, just as
one could have located the man with the fierce moustaches and the fur
coat by the presence of his pepper-mill, or the place of "Madame" from
her prodigal habit of rending a quarter-yard of the crusty French bread
in twain and consuming only the soft inside.
From the ignorance of our cursory acquaintance we had judged the French
a sociable nation. Our stay at Versailles speedily convinced us of the
fallacy of that belief. Nothing could have impressed us so forcibly as
did the frigid silence that characterised the company. Many of them had
fed there daily for years, yet within the walls of the sunny dining-room
none exchanged even a salutation. This unexpected taciturnity in a
people whom we had been taught to regard as lively and voluble made us
almost ashamed of our own garrulity, and when, in the presence of the
silent company, we were tempted to exchange remarks, we found ourselves
doing it in hushed voices as though we were in church.
A clearer knowledge, however, showed us that though some unspoken
convention rendered the hotel guests oblivious of each other's presence
while indoors, beyond the hotel walls they might hold communion. Two
retired military men, both wearing the red ribbon of the Legion of
Honour, as indeed did most of our _habitués_, sat at adjacent tables.
One, tall and thin, was a Colonel; the other, little and neat, a Colonel
also. To the casual gaze they appeared complete strangers, and we had
consumed many meals in their society before observing that whenever the
tall Colonel had sucked the last cerise from his glass of _eau-de-vie_,
and begun to fold his napkin--a formidable task, for the serviettes
fully deserved the designation later bestowed on them by the Boy, of
"young table-cloths"--the little Colonel made haste to fold his also.
Both rose from their chairs at the same instant, and the twain, having
received their hats from the attentive Iorson, vanished, still mute,
into the darkness together.
[Illustration: The Two Colonels]
Once, to our consternation, the little Colonel replaced his napkin in
its ring without waiting for the signal from the tall Colonel. But our
apprehension that they, in their dealings in that mysterious outer world
which twice daily they sought together, might have fallen into a
difference of opinion was dispelled by the little Colonel, who had
risen, stepping to his friend and holding out his hand. This the tall
Colonel without withdrawing his eyes from _Le Journal des Débats_ which
he was reading, silently pressed. Then, still without a word spoken or a
look exchanged, the little Colonel passed out alone.
[Illustration: The Young and Brave]
The average age of the Ogams was seventy. True, there was Dunois the
Young and Brave, who could not have been more than forty-five. What his
name really was we knew not, but something in his comparatively juvenile
appearance among the chevaliers suggested the appellation which for lack
of a better we retained. Dunois' youth might only be comparative, but
his bravery was indubitable; for who among the Ogams but he was daring
enough to tackle the _pâté-de-foie-gras_, or the _abattis_, a stew
composed of the gizzards and livers of fowls? And who but Dunois would
have been so reckless as to follow baked mussels and _crépinettes_ with
_rognons frits_?
Dunois, too, revealed intrepid leanings toward strange liquors.
Sometimes--it was usually at _déjeûner_ when he had dined out on the
previous evening--he would demand the wine-list of Iorson, and rejecting
the _vin blanc_ or _vin rouge_ which, being _compris_, contented the
others, would order himself something of a choice brand. One of his
favourite papers was _Le Rire_, and Henri, Iorson's youthful assistant,
regarded him with admiration.
[Illustration: Malcontent]
A less attractive presence in the dining-room was Madame. Madame, who
was an elderly dame of elephantine girth, had resided in the hotel for
half a dozen years, during which period her sole exercise had been taken
in slowly descending from her chamber in the upper regions for her
meals, and then, leisurely assimilation completed, in yet more slowly
ascending. Madame's allotted seat was placed in close proximity to the
hot-air register; and though Madame was usually one of the first to
enter the dining-room, she was generally the last to leave. Madame's
appetite was as animated as her body was lethargic. She always drank her
half-bottle of red wine to the dregs, and she invariably concluded with
a greengage in brandy. So it was small marvel that, when at last she
left her chair to "tortoise" upstairs, her complexion should be two
shades darker than when she descended.
Five dishes, irrespective of _hors d'oeuvres_ at luncheon, and _potage_
at dinner, were allowed each guest, and Madame's selection was an affair
of time. Our hotel was justly noted for its _cuisine_, yet on infrequent
occasions the food supplied to Madame was not to her mind. At these
times the whole establishment suffered until the irascible old lady's
taste was suited. One night at dinner Iorson had the misfortune to serve
Madame with some turkey that failed to meet with her approval. With the
air of an insulted empress, Madame ordered its removal. The conciliatory
Iorson obediently carried off the dish and speedily returned, bearing
what professed to be another portion. But from the glimpse we got as it
passed our table we had a shrewd suspicion that Iorson the wily had
merely turned over the piece of turkey and re-served it with a little
more gravy and an additional dressing of _cressons_. Madame, it
transpired, shared our suspicions, for this portion also she declined,
with renewed indignation. Then followed a long period of waiting,
wherein Madame, fidgeting restlessly on her seat, kept fierce eyes fixed
on the door through which the viands entered.
Just as her impatience threatened to vent itself in action, Iorson
appeared bearing a third helping of turkey. Placing it before the irate
lady, he fled as though determined to debar a third repudiation. For a
moment an air of triumph pervaded Madame's features. Then she began to
gesticulate violently, with the evident intention of again attracting
Iorson's notice. But the forbearance even of the diplomatic Iorson was
at an end. Re-doubling his attentions to the diners at the farther side
of the room, he remained resolutely unconscious of Madame's signals,
which were rapidly becoming frantic.
The less sophisticated Henri, however, feeling a boyish interest in the
little comedy, could not resist a curious glance in Madame's direction.
That was sufficient. Waving imperiously, Madame compelled his approach,
and, moving reluctantly, fearful of the issue, Henri advanced.
"Couteau!" hissed Madame. Henri flew to fetch the desired implement,
and, realising that Madame had at last been satisfied, we again breathed
freely.
A more attractive personage was a typical old aristocrat, officer of the
Legion of Honour, who used to enter, walk with great dignity to his
table, eat sparingly of one or two dishes, drink a glass of his _vin
ordinaire_ and retire. Sometimes he was accompanied by a tiny spaniel,
which occupied a chair beside him; and frequently a middle-aged son,
whose bourgeois appearance was in amazing contrast to that of his
refined old father, attended him.
[Illustration: The Aristocrat]
There were others, less interesting perhaps, but equally self-absorbed.
One afternoon, entering the cable car that runs--for fun, apparently, as
it rarely boasted a passenger--to and from the Trianon, we recognised in
its sole occupant an Ogam who during the weeks of our stay had eaten, in
evident oblivion of his human surroundings, at the table next to ours.
Forgetting that we were without the walls of silence, we expected no
greeting; but to our amazement he rose, and, placing himself opposite
us, conversed affably and in most excellent English for the rest of the
journey. To speak with him was to discover a courteous and travelled
gentleman. Yet during our stay in Versailles we never knew him exchange
even a bow with any of his fellow Ogams, who were men of like
qualifications, though, as he told us, he had taken his meals in the
hotel for over five years.
Early in the year our peace was rudely broken by the advent of a
commercial man--a short, grey-haired being of an activity so foreign to
our usage that a feeling of unrest was imparted to the _salle-à-manger_
throughout his stay. His movements were distractingly erratic. In his
opinion, meals were things to be treated casually, to be consumed
haphazard at any hour that chanced to suit. He did not enter the
dining-room at the exact moment each day as did the Ogams. He would rush
in, throw his hat on a peg, devour some food with unseemly haste, and
depart in less time than it took the others to reach the _légumes_.
[Illustration: Papa, Mama et Bébé]
He was hospitable too, and had a disconcerting way of inviting guests to
luncheon or dinner, and then forgetting that he had done so. One morning
a stranger entered, and after a brief conference with Iorson, was
conducted to the commercial man's table to await his arrival. The
regular customers took their wonted places, and began in their leisurely
fashion to breakfast, and still the visitor sat alone, starting up
expectantly every time a door opened, then despondently resuming his
seat.
At last Iorson, taking compassion, urged the neglected guest to while
away his period of waiting by trifling with the _hors-d'oeuvres_. He was
proceeding to allay the pangs of hunger with selections from the tray of
anchovies, sardines, pickled beet, and sliced sausage, when his host
entered, voluble and irrepressible as ever. The dignified Ogams
shuddered inwardly as his strident voice awoke the echoes of the room,
and their already stiff limbs became rigid with disapproval.
In winter, transient visitors but rarely occupied one or other of the
square centre tables, though not infrequently a proud father and mother
who had come to visit a soldier son at the barracks, brought him to the
hotel for a meal, and for a space the radiance of blue and scarlet and
the glint of steel cast a military glamour over the staid company.
An amusing little circumstance to us onlookers was that although the
supply of cooked food seemed equal to any demand, the arrival of even a
trio of unexpected guests to dinner invariably caused a dearth of bread.
For on their advent Iorson would dash out bareheaded into the night, to
reappear in an incredibly short time carrying a loaf nearly as tall as
himself.
One morning a stalwart young Briton brought to breakfast a pretty
English cousin, on leave of absence from her boarding-school. His
knowledge of French was limited. When anything was wanted he shouted
"Garçon!" in a lordly voice, but it was the pretty cousin who gave the
order. _Déjeûner_ over, they departed in the direction of the Château.
And at sunset as we chanced to stroll along the Boulevard de la Reine,
we saw the pretty cousin, all the gaiety fled from her face, bidding her
escort farewell at the gate of a Pension pour Demoiselles. The ball was
over. Poor little Cinderella was perforce returning to the dust and
ashes of learning.
[Illustration: Juvenile Progress]