Part 4 (2/2)
But to go on about the door. We sent the Baronne's maid and Agnes to try and find the landlord; but, after exploring untold depths below and above, they only succeeded in unearthing Hippolyte. He came up from his bed looking just like that very clever Missing Link that was at Barnum's, do you remember?--the one that sometimes was an Irishwoman, and could do housework in a cage by itself. I don't know exactly what Hippolyte had on, but it ended up with a petticoat of red and black plaid, and a pair of grey linen trousers over his shoulders; his whiskers and hair were standing straight on end, and his shaved bits were bluer than ever at night. He said a good deal of the French equivalent of, ”Here's a pretty kettle of fish,” and shrugged so that I was afraid the petticoat would slip off; and finally, when all the pus.h.i.+ng and pulling had no effect on the door, he said people must resign themselves to the accidents of travel, and as there were four beds, he did not see that they had too much to complain of.
[Sidenote: _”Not Much to Complain of”_]
At this moment Heloise came out of her room to see what the commotion was. She understood it was her husband locked in the room, and she laughed too very much, and said they must just stay there; but when she heard the voice of ”Antoine” she seemed to think the situation grave--I suppose because he is not married--and she also did everything she could to open the door. Of course if they had been Englishmen they would have simply kicked it down, and got out without more ado, but the French aren't strong enough for that.
Heloise became quite disagreeable about it, though as it wasn't Jean I can't think what business it was of hers. She said it was because ”Antoine” did not really try, and she was sure he had done it on purpose, upon which Madame de Vermandoise gurgled with mirth. I could hear both sides you see, because of the wooden part.i.tion. ”Antoine”
came into the inner room and said he was ”Doux comme un pet.i.t agneau,”
but the Marquise said that he was ”Un loup dans une peau de mouton,”
and must go away. Finally the whole of the rest of the party in different stages of _deshabille_ got collected outside the door. No landlord was to be found anywhere. Then the old Baron suggested quite a simple plan, which was for Madame de Tournelle to share Madame de Vermandoise's room, and to leave the Comte and ”Antoine” in her room.
No one seemed to have thought of this before; and that is what they finally did, and at last we got to sleep. In the morning no landlord could still be found, and we had no coffee, but presently he arrived accompanied by two _gendarmes_ and goodness knows what other rabble armed with sticks, and they wanted to proceed upstairs. We heard every sort of ”_Sacres!_” going on between them and Hippolyte, and eventually the landlord almost crawled up apologising, and opened the door with his key.
[Sidenote: _A Cautious Landlord_]
It appears that hearing the noise of the door being tried to be opened and Madame de Vermandoise's screams, he had thought it wiser to decamp for the night, as two years ago there had been a murder there, and he had had ”beaucoup d'embetement,” he said, on account of it, and was determined not to be mixed up in one again, ”En ces affaires la, il est bien a.s.sez tot d'arriver le lendemain,” he said.
Everybody was still laughing too much over the situation to be angry with him; and the coffee, which we got at last, was so good it made up for it; but you should have heard the _plaisanteries_ they made over the night's adventure!
Caudebec is an odd place; it used to be inhabited by hundreds of Protestant beaver hat-makers, who fled from there after the Edict of Nantes' affair, and so there are streets of deserted houses still, and so old, one has a stream down the middle. I would not go into the church: the usual smell met me at the door; so the Vicomte and Jean and I went for a walk, and now we are just going to start on the _Sauterelle_ again, and this must be posted. I have managed to write it on my knee, sitting on a stone bench outside the inn door.--Good-bye, dear Mamma, with love from your affectionate daughter, Elizabeth.
HOTEL FRASCATI, HAVRE
Hotel Frascati, Havre,
_Sunday, 21st August_.
[Sidenote: _Havre to Trouville_]
Dearest Mamma,--I am sorry our nice voyage is nearly finished, for we go over to Trouville this evening, and from there by train back to Vinant. The river is not nearly so pretty after you leave Caudebec, but Tancarville is fine, and looks very imposing sitting up so high. The Vicomte has been talking to me all the time, but Jean stays by. We were dusty and sun-burnt by the time we got to Havre, and Heloise and the Marquise and I started at once for the big baths. They do not quite join the hotel, so we covered a good deal of absence, in the way of dress, by our faithful mackintoshes and trotted across. On the steps we met de Tournelle just coming out from the baths; he laughed when he saw us, and said he had never before realised that garments of so much respectability could have such possibilities! Oh! how nice to have a real bath again!
[Sidenote: _A Gay Dinner_]
Agnes hasn't enjoyed this trip much, I can see. Heaven knows where she has slept! I thought it wiser not to ask. We had such a gay dinner. I am getting accustomed to shouting across the table at every one; it will feel quite queer just talking to one's neighbour when I get back to England. The restaurant at Frascati isn't at all bad, and it was agreeable to have proper food again.
Hippolyte thinks we are awfully greedy; he was heard yesterday grumbling to the Baronne's maid, ”Mais ou diable est-ce que ces dames mettent tout ce qu'elles mangent? Elles goblottent toute la journee!”
After dinner we drank our coffee on the terrace and listened to the band. Heloise would hardly speak to ”Antoine” all day, and he looked perfectly miserable, and Madame de Vermandoise every now and then laughed to herself--I don't know what at. However we took a walk on the pier presently, and as there was such a crowd we weren't able to walk all together as usual, but had to go two and two. ”Antoine” walked with Heloise, and I suppose they made it up. I just caught this: ”N'oubliez jamais, bien chere Madame, qu'une eglise a deux portes.” Heloise said she would not forget, and he thanked her rapturously; but what it meant I don't know. They have both smiled often since so I expect it is some French idiom for reconciliation.
The crowd on the pier was common, and we returned to Frascati's garden.
It was so fearfully hot, that beyond wondering if the dew was falling, no one suggested we should get cold, as they always do. It really has been a delightful trip, and I have enjoyed it so. They are all charming. They seem to have kinder hearts than some of the people at Nazeby, but what strikes one as quite different is that every one is witty; they are making epigrams or clever _tournures de phrases_ all the time, and don't seem to talk of the teeny weeny things we do in England. They have most exquisite manners, and extraordinarily unpleasant personal habits, like eating, and coughing, and picking their teeth, etc.; but they do have nice under-clothes, and lovely soaps and scents and things.
[Sidenote: _Views for Victorine_]
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