WHAT STRANGE COUNTRIES!
“Oh, isn’t it nice, Molly, that we’re all going to _Ruin_?” exclaimed
Weezy, giving her sister’s hand an ecstatic squeeze under the table.
They were breakfasting again at Hotel Frascati, their party having
returned the night before to Havre.
“Don’t say _Ruin_, Weezybus! You mix it up with the other ruins; but
it’s a city, and it’s called Rouen,” corrected laughing Molly, ending
the name with a nasal flourish.
“How silly! I should think they’d know better!” retorted the young
American critic. But at the approach of a waiter she immediately became
mute. She had a private conviction that these black-coated individuals
must comprehend English, they looked so wise.
On leaving the dining-room, Weezy and her friends passed out into the
spacious vestibule, and there waited for the carriage which was to
convey them to the station. Jane Leonard was with the others, free from
headache and keeping a strict watch over frisky little Donald.
As they stood at the foot of the long staircase, the hotel
servants--_concierge_, _garçons_, maids in white caps and all--crowded
around them.
“They’re sorry we’re going away, aren’t they, Molly? Just as sorry as
they can be,” whispered gratified Weezy.
“There, you’re mistaken, little miss,” said Paul, who had overheard the
remark. “They’re only hanging around for a fee.”
“What is a fee, Molly?” questioned Weezy aside.
“Money paid for work, dear. See, papa is taking out his purse, so is
Captain Bradstreet; they’re going to give some French coins to the
servants.”
“To get the servants to move out of the way,” interposed Paul archly.
“They’ll hand each of them a small sum to make them ‘move on,’ as you
do to organ-grinders.”
Here the carriage drove up, and the party hastened to catch the train
for Rouen. The train was composed of several small black cars or
coaches, which Kirke declared looked like a row of Saratoga trunks in
mourning. Each coach was divided widthwise into compartments, having on
either side a door with a sliding glass panel at the top.
Captain Bradstreet was fortunate enough to secure a vacant compartment
which would just accommodate the party, and The Happy Six were soon
quietly ensconced in the front seat with their backs toward the engine.
Miss Evans sat opposite Paul and gazed abstractedly out of the window,
hardly lifting her eyes from the trim green hedge that bordered the
railway track. Once--they were then near Rouen--he saw her start
nervously and press her hand to her left side, as if to assure herself
that the reticule was in its place.
“How she does clutch that old bag,” he whispered in Kirke’s ear, as
they stopped at the station. “Probably the conductor takes her for a
mail-carrier.”
“Rouen is a famous old city, Molly; I hope you’ll learn all you can
about it,” said Mr. Rowe wearily, as they alighted at the hotel.
He had not recovered yet from the fatiguing sea voyage, and as soon as
they had engaged their rooms at Hotel d’Angleterre, he went to lie down.
When shown to their own apartment, Molly and Pauline exclaimed at the
number of looking-glasses it contained. Even the upper halves of the
windows were mirrors; and in trying to gaze out upon the river Seine,
Pauline was surprised to see only her own face.
“They want to make the most of their guests, I should say,” she
remarked dryly, after viewing herself in seven different glasses.
“This might be called ‘the chamber of reflection,’” she continued,
arranging her crimps.
“You’re too bright to live,” cried Molly. “But put on your hat again,
Miss Vanity. Don’t you know we’re going to drive around the city?”
“Who are going?”
“Only The Happy Six; that’s all.”
Their driver was an old man, intelligent and fond of scenery. He took
them first through some of the oldest streets of Rouen, hardly six
feet wide, where two teams could not possibly pass each other. Perhaps
it may have been to warn away other drivers that he cracked his whip so
sharply,--“as if he were killing an elephant,” Kirke whispered to Paul.
Then they went to see the round tower in which Joan of Arc spent so
many tedious months, in a cell only large enough to admit a narrow
window, yet with walls twelve feet thick.
Thence they drove to the spot where she was burned as a witch; and
Molly stepped from the carriage to read the inscription carved upon the
stone in the pavement.
“Oh, how wickedly they did treat that innocent creature!” said she,
with flashing eyes. “You know she didn’t want to go into battle; but
she ‘went forth to save France.’”
“And to crown Charles Seventh,” added Pauline. “I detest him--the
ungrateful thing!”
It was some comfort to the indignant girls to find towers and fountains
and streets named for Jeanne D’Arc, and one church sacred to the
wonderful maid, where mass is said for soldiers. They came to that in
returning from St. Catharine’s Hill, from which they had gazed down
upon the Seine.
“What a tiny river,” said Kirke; “no wider than a New England brook!”
It mattered little to them that Corneille was born at Rouen, and that
William the Conqueror died there. Their interest in the history of the
city was centred in the trial and martyrdom of Joan the Maid.
Their next resting-place was Mantes, at an old hotel built around an
open court--the very court, so Pauline was told, where William the
Conqueror received his deathblow, falling from his horse.
“But I’m thankful to say William didn’t die here,” said the lively
girl, tilting her nose. “They carried him to an abbey at Rouen, where I
_hope_ ’twas cleaner!”
“But Mantes is an interesting city, anyway,” returned Molly dreamily.
“Just think, Polly, it’s eight hundred years old!”
“Humph! not very forward for its age,” sniffed Pauline. “Can’t even
keep out of the dirt! Mould and antiquity are all very well for those
that can afford ’em; as for me, I’m satisfied with simple magnificence.”
She found “simple magnificence” a day or two after at the Palace of
Versailles, in the Glass Saloon, a ball-room lined with mirrors.
“Yankee Molly, can you believe your ears? The guide-book says this is
where Queen Victoria once opened the ball with Napoleon Third!”
And Pauline danced airily across the floor, by way of illustration.
“I hope the queen did it as gracefully as that,” replied Molly
admiringly. “But oh, Pauline, you haven’t seen the splendid ‘Court of
Marble!’ I can show you the balcony above it that poor Marie Antoinette
stepped out upon when she tried so hard to pacify that howling mob.”
“More than a hundred years ago that was, wasn’t it, Molly?” said
Pauline, following her. “It makes me feel dreadfully modern, like an
hour-old mosquito.”
After looking through the famous picture gallery, which so fully
illustrates the history of France, the tourists proceeded to Grand
Trianon, the palace built by Louis XIV. for Madame de Maintenon. The
apartments are all on one floor.
“Perhaps the madame was clumsy and didn’t like to climb stairs,”
suggested Pauline.
Paul and Kirke were delighted with the private rooms of Napoleon First,
and with his gorgeous nuptial carriage seen afterwards at the Royal
Stables.
But Grand Trianon did not interest any of them as much as did Little
Trianon, quarter of a mile away. This is a bewitching toy hamlet in
excellent preservation. Here stands the quaint old mill where Louis
XVI. played at being miller, and the rustic dairy where his queen,
the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, made butter with her own royal hands;
and there are modest little houses grouped around the water, like our
summer cottages in America.
“Aren’t you glad that poor old king and queen had a little fun before
they lost their heads?” said Paul.
“If they hadn’t lost their heads first, though, they never would have
dared risk so much fun,” flashed back his sister.
“There seems to have been no end to the extravagance of the French
court in those days. No wonder the people were incensed,” remarked Mr.
Rowe, as they entered the carriage which was to take them to Paris.
Halfway to the city they paused at the beautiful village of St. Cloud
to visit the celebrated park that had once contained a palace,--the
favorite resort of royalty.
“Think of the Germans burning it in the late war. What good did that do
them?” cried the boys indignantly.
“They’re dangerous people, those Germans, always making a smoke,” said
Pauline, dismissing the topic at the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne.
For miles the road lay through this beautiful forest, no longer as of
old haunted by robbers, but now a fashionable park. It was a lovely
drive, one never to be forgotten. Even Weezy and Donald were quiet, too
fascinated to speak.
It was late in the afternoon when the Silver Gate tourists arrived
in “the most beautiful city in the world.” On all sides were life
and gayety. Everywhere as they passed were little tables along the
pavement, and people seated around them eating their suppers and
chatting in high, good humor. Weezy wondered aloud if they “ever drank
tea in their houses?” Captain Bradstreet said, “Yes, when it rained.”
The carriage left our party at an immense hotel, The Continental, which
with its six or seven hundred rooms was quite a city in itself.
Here Miss Evans was met by her uncle, and she regretfully took leave of
her kind friends. Mrs. Rowe’s last words to her were:--
“If you don’t succeed with your errand in Paris as you wish, I hope
you’ll try London. You remember we are to leave here in a fortnight.
When our route is decided upon, I’ll write you. We should be delighted
to have you for a travelling companion again.”
As The Happy Six met next morning in the court, Paul announced,--
“The picture galleries and shops and everything will be closed to-day.”
“What for, Twinny dear?” asked his sister in an aggrieved tone.
“It’s the Fourteenth of July, Better-half, the anniversary of the
taking of the Bastille. The French call this their Independence Day, so
our _garçon_ says. Something like our Fourth of July, I suppose.”
“Don’t _they_ have Fourths of Julys?” put in Weezy. “What funny, funny
folks!”
“Their Fourteenth seems to be Memorial Day and Fourth of July in one,”
replied Paul. “Kirke and I are going to _Père la Chaise_ this forenoon
to see them decorate their soldiers’ graves.”
As the boys approached this cemetery, the finest in the city, they
found the streets on every side filled with dealers in crosses and
relics and immortelles; and these sombre tokens which were afterwards
placed so tenderly above the sleeping dead were really hideous things.
“Not a single flower or green leaf in them, Molly,” said Kirke, on
their return, “nothing but wire and tinsel and glass.”
But after their mourning duty was performed, the Parisians had a
festive time for the rest of the day, dancing on the streets in the
evening,--old men and old women, young men and young women, and babies
and all.
The whole fortnight in Paris was a giddy whirl of delight to The Happy
Six. They drove along the boulevards in _fiacres_, or on the tops of
omnibuses. They sailed in pleasure boats on the Seine. They visited
churches, palaces, and the tomb of Napoleon. They even ascended to the
dizzy summit of the Eiffel Tower which Weezy said “reached ’most to
heaven.”
Of all the days Donald preferred the last, at the Gardens of
Acclimatization. Here he saw animals from every zone, and actually was
carried on an ostrich’s back.
The children would all have liked a longer time in the beautiful white
city, but Mr. Rowe was in haste to reach the baths of Baden Baden.
On the morning of their departure the Silver Gate people were joined at
the railroad station by Miss Evans, who shook hands with them all very
cordially.
“You perceive I’ve accepted your kind invitation and am going on to
London with you,” she said to Mrs. Rowe.
And, tapping her reticule with her gloved finger, she added a few
words, inaudible to the rest.