Part 7 (1/2)
I never had the heart to throw cold water on Euphemia's n.o.ble emotions, and so I did not tell her that the notice merely requested travellers to remove from their trunks the _anciennes etiquettes_, or old railway labels.
We were not rich tourists, and we all took lodgings in a small hotel to which we had been recommended. It was in the Latin Quarter, near the river, and opposite the vast palace of the Louvre, into whose labyrinth of picture-galleries Euphemia and I were eager to plunge.
But first we all went to the office of the American Consul, and consulted him in regard to the proper measures to be taken for searching for the little Corinne in Paris. After that, for some days, Jonas and Pomona spent all their time, and Euphemia and I part of ours, in looking for the child. Euphemia's Parisian exhilaration continued to increase, but there were some things that disappointed her.
”I thought,” said she, ”that people in France took their morning coffee in bed, but they do not bring it up to us.”
”But, my dear,” said I, ”I am sure you said before we came here that you considered taking coffee in bed as an abominable habit, and that nothing could ever make you like it.”
”I know,” said she, ”that I have always thought it a lazy custom, and not a bit nice, and I think so yet. But still, when we are in a strange country, I expect to live as other people do.”
It was quite evident that Euphemia had been looking forward for some time to the novel experience of taking her coffee in bed. But the gray-haired old gentleman who acted as our chambermaid never hinted that he supposed we wanted anything of the kind.
Nothing, however, excited Euphemia's indignation so much as the practice of giving a _pourboire_ to cabmen and others. ”It is simply feeding the flames of intemperance,” she said. When she had occasion to take a cab by herself, she never conformed to this reprehensible custom. When she paid the driver, she would add something to the regular fare, but as she gave it to him she would say in her most distinct French: ”_Pour manger. Comprenezvous_?” The _cocher_ would generally nod his head, and thank her very kindly, which he had good reason to do, for she never forgot that it took more money to buy food than drink.
In spite of the attractions of the city, our sojourn in Paris was not satisfactory. Apart from the family trouble which oppressed us, it rained nearly all the time. We were told that in order to see Paris at its best we should come in the spring. In the month of May it was charming. Then everybody would be out-of-doors, and we would see a whole city enjoying life. As we wished to enjoy life without waiting for the spring, we determined to move southward, and visit during the winter those parts of Europe which then lay under blue skies and a warm sun. It was impossible, at present, for Pomona and Jonas to enjoy life anywhere, and they would remain in Paris, and then, if they did not find their child in a reasonable time, they would join us. Neither of them understood French, but this did not trouble them in the slightest.
Early in their Paris wanderings they had met with a boy who had once lived in New York, and they had taken him into pay as an interpreter.
He charged them a franc and a half a day, and I am sure they got their money's worth.
Soon after we had made up our minds to move toward the south, I came home from a visit to the bankers, and joyfully told Euphemia that I had met Baxter.
”Baxter?” said she, inquiringly; ”who is he?”
”I used to go to school with him,” I said; ”and to think that I should meet him here!”
”I never heard you mention him before,” she remarked.
”No,” I answered; ”it must be fifteen or sixteen years since I have seen him, and really it is a great pleasure to meet him here. He is a capital fellow. He was very glad to see me.”
”I should think,” said Euphemia, ”if you like each other so much that you would have exchanged visits in America, or, at least, have corresponded.”
”Oh, it is a very different thing at home,” I said; ”but here it is delightful to meet an old school friend like Baxter. He is coming to see us this evening.”
That evening Baxter came. He was delighted to meet Euphemia, and inquired with much solicitude about our plans and movements. He had never heard of my marriage, and, for years, had not known whether I was dead or alive. Now he took the keenest interest in me and mine. We were a little sorry to find that this was not Baxter's first visit to Europe. He had been here several times; and, as he expressed it, ”had knocked about a good deal over the Continent.” He was dreadfully familiar with everything, and talked about some places we were longing to see in a way that considerably dampened our enthusiasm. In fact, there was about him an air of superiority which, though tempered by much kindliness, was not altogether agreeable. He highly approved our idea of leaving Paris. ”The city is nothing now,” he said. ”You ought to see it in May.” We said we had heard that, and then spoke of Italy.
”You mustn't go there in the winter,” he said. ”You don't see the country at its best. May is the time for Italy. Then it is neither too hot nor too cold, and you will find out what an Italian sky is.” We said that we hoped to be in England in the spring, and he agreed that we were right there. ”England is never so lovely as in May.”
”Well!” exclaimed Euphemia; ”it seems to me, from all I hear, that we ought to take about twelve years to see Europe. We should leave the United States every April, spend May in some one place, and go back in June. And this we ought to do each year until we have seen all the places in May. This might do very well for any one who had plenty of money, and who liked the ocean, but I don't think we could stand it. As for me,” she continued, ”I would like to spend these months, so cold and disagreeable here, in the sunny lands of Southern France. I want to see the vineyards and the olive groves, and the dark-eyed maidens singing in the fields. I long for the soft skies of Provence, and to hear the musical dialect in which Frederic Mistral wrote his 'Mireio.'”
”That sounds very well,” said Baxter, ”but in all those southern countries you must be prepared in winter for the rigors of the climate.
The sun is pretty warm sometimes at this season, but as soon as you get out of it you will freeze to death if you are not careful. The only way to keep warm is to be in the sun, out of the wind, and that won't work on rainy days, and winter is the rainy season, you know. In the houses it is as cold as ice, and the fires don't amount to anything. You might as well light a bundle of wooden tooth-picks and put it in the fire-place. If you could sleep all the time you might be comfortable, for they give you a feather-bed to cover yourself with. Outside you may do well enough if you keep up a steady walking, but indoors you will have hard work to keep warm. You must wear chest-protectors. They sell them down there--great big ones, made of rabbit-skins; and a nice thing for a man to have to wear in the house is a pair of cloth bags lined with fur. They would keep his feet and legs warm when he isn't walking. It is well, too, to have a pair of smaller fur bags for your hands when you are in the house. You can have a little hole in the end of one of them through which you can stick a pen-holder, and then you can write letters. An india-rubber bag, filled with hot water, to lower down your back, is a great comfort. You haven't any idea how cold your spine gets in those warm countries. And, if I were you, I'd avoid a place where you see them carting coal stoves around. Those are the worst spots. And you need not expect to get one of the stoves, not while they can sell you wood at two sticks for a franc. You had better go to some place where they are not accustomed to having tourists. In the regular resorts they are afraid to make any show of keeping warm, for fear people will think they are in the habit of having cold weather. And in Italy you've got to be precious careful, or you'll be taken sick. And another thing. I suppose you brought a great deal of baggage with you. You, for instance,” said our friend, turning to me, ”packed up, I suppose, a heavy overcoat for cold weather, and a lighter one, and a good winter suit, and a good summer one, besides another for spring and fall, and an old suit to lie about in in the orange groves, and a dress suit, besides such convenient articles as old boots for tramping in, pocket-lanterns, and so forth.”
Strange to say, I had all these, besides many other things of a similar kind, and I could not help admitting it.
”Well,” said Baxter, ”you'd better get rid of the most of that as soon as you can, for if you travel with that sort of heavy weight in the Mediterranean countries, you might as well write home and get your house mortgaged. All along the lines of travel, in the south of Europe, you find the hotels piled up with American baggage left there by travellers, who'll never send for it. It reminds one of the rows of ox skeletons that used to mark out the roads to California. But I guess you'll be able to stick it out. Good bye. Let me hear from you.”
When Baxter left us, we could not but feel a little down-hearted, and Euphemia turned to her guide-book to see if his remarks were corroborated there.