The Project Gutenberg eBook ofBarbara in BrittanyThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Barbara in BrittanyAuthor: E. A. GillieIllustrator: Frank AdamsRelease date: September 26, 2007 [eBook #22774]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARBARA IN BRITTANY ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Barbara in BrittanyAuthor: E. A. GillieIllustrator: Frank AdamsRelease date: September 26, 2007 [eBook #22774]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Barbara in Brittany
Author: E. A. GillieIllustrator: Frank Adams
Author: E. A. Gillie
Illustrator: Frank Adams
Release date: September 26, 2007 [eBook #22774]Most recently updated: January 3, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARBARA IN BRITTANY ***
Cover artwork
Cover artwork
"'The farmer would spare you those, madam.'""'The farmer would spare you those, madam.'"
"'The farmer would spare you those, madam.'""'The farmer would spare you those, madam.'"
Title page artworkTitle page artwork
Title page artworkTitle page artwork
Barbara entered the nursery with rather a worried look on her face. "Aunt Anne is coming to-morrow, children," she announced.
"To-morrow!" exclaimed a fair-haired boy, rising from the window-seat. "Oh, I say, Barbe, that's really rather hard lines—in the holidays, too."
"Just as we were preparing to have a really exciting time," sighed Frances, who was her brother's close companion and ally.
"I know it's a little hard," Barbara said consolingly, sitting down beside them and taking one of the twins on her lap, while the other leaned up against her. "But you will all try to be good and nice to her, won't you? She went away with a bad opinion of us last time, and it worries mother. Besides, we mustn't forget that she was father's sister."
"I can't think how she ever came to be," sighed Frances. "She's so dreadfully particular, and we always seem naughtier when she's here. But we'll make an effort, Barbara."
"And you won't run away as soon as she speaks to you, Lucy?" Barbara went on, looking at the little girl in her lap. "It's rude, you know. You must try to talk nicely when she wants you to."
"Yes;" and the child nodded. "Only she does seem to make a lot of concussions when she comes."
"You mean discussions," Donald corrected. "You shouldn't use words you don't understand, Lucy. But I must say I agree with you; I know she always raises my corruption."
"What!" gasped Barbara.
"Raises my corruption," repeated her brother; "that's a good old Scottish expression that I've just found in a book, and it means—'makes you angry.'"
"Well, don't use it before Aunt Anne, there's a dear," Barbara urged, getting up. "She thinks we use quite enough queer expressions as it is."
"I'll speak like a regular infant prodigy. But surely you're not going yet? You've just come!"
"I must help to get things ready for Aunt Anne," Barbara said gaily, for she had recovered her spirits since procuring the children's promise of good behaviour. "I'll come to you later."
"Barbara is really rather an angel," remarked Donald after she had gone. "It's not many sisters would slave in the house, instead of having another maid, to let a fellow go to a decent school."
"You're quoting mother," Frances replied, hanging out of the window in a dangerous position; "but, of course, it's true. If I only had time I'd write a fascinating romance about her."
"I'll read every page of it and buy a hundred copies," her brother promised gallantly; but, as he knew that there was nothing Frances hated more than writing, he felt pretty safe. "Of course," he pursued, "Aunt Anne thinks mother spoils us. I don't quite think that—it's just that she's so nice and sympathetic with us when we're naughty, and Aunt Anne doesn't understand that. But still, to please Barbe, and as we've promised, we must try to be respectable and good this time. Remember, twins!"
The twins were not noted for long memories, but their intentions were good, and the first day of Aunt Anne's visit passed very well, the children remembering to rub their feet on the mat, shut the door softly, and not fidget at meals. But the exertion seemed too much for them, and the second day began rather boisterously, and did not improve as it went on. After lunch, when the twins came into the drawing-room, Lucy drew a footstool near her aunt, and sat down meekly upon it, thinking that the sooner Aunt Anne began to talk the sooner it would be over.
Aunt Anne was feeling almost as much embarrassed by the presence of so many children as they were by that of their aunt, but her sense of duty was strong, and she began to make conversation with the one nearest her—who happened to be Lucy.
"What are you doing in lessons now, Lucy?"
Lucy looked solemn.
"Chiefly history," she said.
Frances laughed.
"It's only stories," she exclaimed, "that Barbara tells her and Dick."
"It's history," repeated Lucy indignantly; "isn't it, Dick? It's all about England."
"I should have thought writing was more suitable for a little girl like you."
Frances opened her mouth to retort, but caught a warning glance from Barbara and subsided. Then conversation languished and Lucy looked across longingly at her sister, to see if she had done her duty. But not being able to catch her eye, she sighed, and supposing she had not yet fulfilled her part, cast about in her mind for something else to say.
"Do you live far from here?" she began suddenly, staring at her aunt.
"Quite a long way," Miss Britton replied. "In Wales—perhaps you know where that is?"
"Oh, yes," exclaimed Lucy, rising in her excitement. "It's where the ancient Britons were sent. Barbara told us about them. Oh, please Aunt Anne, aren't you an ancient Briton?"
Aunt Anne smiled grimly.
"No, I am not. They lived in quite the olden times, and were clothed in skins."
"But are you sure?" pressed the child. "It's just the skins seem wanting. They were driven into Wales, and surely you're a Briton and come from the olden times. You're really quite ancient aren't you, Aunt Anne?"
Barbara was thankful her aunt laughed, but she was not so glad that Donald and Frances found their laughter so irrepressible that they had to resort to the sofa-cushions; and when the twins were dismissed a little later by Mrs. Britton, she was rather relieved to see them follow. But from that moment the spirit of hilarity seemed to have fallen upon all the children, and Barbara looked regretfully at the falling rain and wondered how she should keep them occupied for the rest of the day—for it was just the beginning of the holidays, when they were usually allowed a good deal of liberty.
She knew by the noise that presently sounded from upstairs that they had begun "hide-and-seek," and she read disapproval of the uproar in her aunt's face, and went upstairs to suggest something else. The children good-temperedly betook themselves to "soap bubbles," Frances consenting to fetch the tray "to keep things tidy" if Donald would take it back; and Barbara left them, congratulating herself that they were safely settled over something quiet.
It was, therefore, surely an evil fate that made Aunt Anne begin to go upstairs later in the afternoon, just as Donald was descending rapidly with the tray—not in his hand.
"Iamso sorry," he said, getting up in dismay after his rapid slide. "What a comfort I didn't knock you over; but it's so much the quickest way of bringing a tray down. I—— Have you ever tried it?"
If he had not been considerably agitated he would not have asked such a foolish question, and perhaps if Aunt Anne had really not got a severe fright she would not have been so much annoyed. But as it was, she stalked past him without saying a word and went up to her room.
"There!" he said ruefully, "I've done it, and I really did mean to be good."
The incident subdued them all considerably, and Barbara hoped that now they might get to the end of the visit without any further mishaps. But next morning at breakfast that hope was banished, for her aunt came downstairs with such an expression of annoyance upon her face, that every one knew something really unpleasant was coming.
"Is anything wrong?" Mrs. Britton asked anxiously. "Did you not sleep well—or—surely the children did not—annoy you in any way?" Visions of apple-pie beds were floating before her mind, although the children's looks of innocence somewhat reassured her on that point.
"Some one has annoyed me considerably," Aunt Anne said coldly, "by interfering with my clothes. When I came to put on my blue blouse this morning, I found that every other one of the silver buttons had been cut off."
There was a gasp of astonishment, and Barbara was just about to scorn the notion that any of the children could have been concerned in the matter, when her eyes fell on Dick's face. Miss Britton was looking in the same direction.
"I should think that little boy knows something about it," she said.
"Dick!" Mrs. Britton exclaimed, for he was usually the least apt of the three to get into mischief.
"Dick, what did you do it for? Tell us why you did it?" Barbara questioned eagerly, and the little boy was just about to reply when Miss Britton spoke again.
"I should think he had no reason at all except wanton mischief. Perhaps he used the buttons for marbles; there cannot be any real reason for such a silly deed, though he may make one up. Well, why did you do it?"
Barbara saw the obstinate expression that they dreaded creeping over the little boy's face at her aunt's words, and knew that now they would probably get nothing satisfactory from him; but she was not quite prepared for the answer that came so defiantly.
"I did it for ornament, of course."
There was silence for a moment; then Mrs. Britton sent the little boy to the nursery to stay there till he was sent for.
"Iamso sorry, Anne," she said in distress. "I cannot think what has made him do it."
"It is just the result of your upbringing. I always said you were absurdly indulgent to the children."
Then, because Barbara was sure that Dick had had some other reason that would perhaps have explained his action, and because she saw tears in her mother's eyes, and knew how lonely and tired she often felt, and how anxious about the welfare of the children and the care of the house, she turned wrathfully upon her aunt.
"You have no right to criticise mother like that, Aunt Anne, and, of course, she knows a great deal more about bringing up children than you do. If you had not interfered, Dick would have given the proper reason, and, certainly, if we do what we shouldn't it'sourfault, not mother's."
At this there were confirmatory nods from the children, who continued to gaze in startled, but admiring, astonishment at Barbara, whose politeness was usually their example, and whom they hardly recognised in this new role. They awaited—they knew not what—from their aunt, but except for a horrified cry of "Barbara!" from Mrs. Britton, the girl's outburst was received in silence, her aunt merely shrugging her shoulders and continuing her breakfast. The children finished theirs in uncomfortable silence, then slipped quietly away.
"Well!" Donald said ruefully, when Frances and he had climbed into the apple-tree where they usually discussed matters of importance. "She did look fine, didn't she? But I'm afraid she's done it now. Aunt will clear out soon enough, I should think, and Barbe will just be as sorry as can be to have flared out like that at a guest, and father's sister too."
In that last supposition Donald was quite right, for Mrs. Britton needed to say nothing to make Barbara feel very much ashamed of herself. But in his conclusion about his aunt he was quite wrong, for, to the children's astonishment, Miss Britton showed no signs of speedy departure. Indeed, later in the day, the children felt honesty demanded they must own her to be "rather a brick," for she accepted Barbara's apology with good grace, and said that though, of course, she had been rude, she would not deny that there had been some provocation, and that if Barbara could find out anything more from Dick, she would be glad to hear of it.
It was then, after much manoeuvring, that the girl got to the truth of the matter, which Dick related with tears. He had taken the buttons for mother, he said. When he was out with her the other day they had looked for quite a long time at some beautiful silver ones, and when he asked his mother why she did not buy them, she had said she had not enough money just then. They were very like the kind on Aunt Anne's blouse, and having noticed that she did not use half of them to button it up, Dick had not seen any reason why they should be left on—although he had meant to tell her what he had done immediately after breakfast.
Miss Britton accepted the explanation, and said she thought there was no need for the culprit to be punished this time, and she hoped he would have more sense soon. But about Barbara she had something of more importance to communicate.
"In my opinion," she said, in a manner that inferred she expected her advice to be taken, "the girl is much too young to have finished her education—boys or no boys—and I am thinking of sending her to France for a time, to learn more of the language and see something of the world. It is not good for a girl of her age to have so much responsibility."
Now, it had been Barbara's dream to go abroad, but after the first gasp of delight and astonishment she grew grave, and said she was afraid she could not leave her mother and the children.
"Fiddlesticks!" Aunt Anne replied, without allowing Mrs. Britton time to speak. "You are far too young, my dear, to imagine yourself of such importance in the world. I will send a good old-fashioned nurse that I know of to take your place, and it will be good for the children to have a stricter regime than yours has been for a while."
Even if Aunt Anne had been accustomed to have her words disregarded—which she was not—Mrs. Britton would not have needed much persuasion to make her fall in with the proposal, for she had often grieved in private over the fact that, since her husband's death, Barbara's education had had to suffer that Donald's might advance. And now, though she wondered how she would get on without her eldest daughter, she was only too thankful to have such an opportunity thrown in her way.
"I cannot think why I never interfered before," Miss Britton said, "but it is better late than never, and we will have as little delay now as possible."
In a few days the children were all as busy as bees helping to get Barbara ready. They assisted in choosing her new frocks and hats, and the style of making; and poor Miss Smith, who came to sew for her, was nearly distracted by their popping in every now and then to see how she was getting on. Even Donald, who hated talking about "girls' fashions," bought a paper, because he saw it had a pattern of a blouse advertised, and he thought it might be useful.
The family were very curious to hear with whom she was going to France and where she was going to be, for Aunt Anne had undertaken to make all the arrangements, and it certainly was a slight shock to the children when she wrote to say she had made up her mind to go herself for a fortnight to Paris before sending Barbara off to Brittany, where she had found a "most suitable place" for her in the house of two maiden ladies who took in people wanting to learn French.
Donald whistled when Mrs. Britton read that out.
"Fancy a fortnight with Aunt Anne, and then the two maiden ladies. Jiggers!" (that was a favourite expression of his)—"you'll be worried out of your life, Barbe."
The worst of it was, that Aunt Anne, who had not been abroad for many years, said she was going to let Barbara manage the journey and the sight-seeing in Paris, and sent her a guide-book to read up everything of interest. She said she was doing this to give her niece experience and prepare her for being by herself later on; but Donald declared she wanted to see "what kind of stuff" she was made of, and that if Barbara did not do things well, she would scoff at her greatly for thinking she could manage a house and children while she could not succeed in finding her way about France.
"But I know the old lady, and we'll just show her you'reoursister, and before we've done you'll know that guide-book from cover to cover," he assured her.
They had only a week left, for Aunt Anne was very rapid in her decisions and plans; but they studied the guide-book morning, noon, and night. It was most instructive holiday work, Donald said, and when Barbara had not time to read it, Frances and he read for her and poured their knowledge into her ears at meal-times.
They learned what coloured omnibus went to the different parts of Paris, and on what days different buildings were open, and by the end of the week they all felt they could "personally conduct" tours all over Paris.
It was rather hard when the last day came, because they knew that the house would seem horribly empty without Barbara. The two little ones were on the verge of crying all the afternoon, and Frances had to be very stern, while Donald rose to flights of wit hitherto undreamed of, to keep up every one's spirits.
Of course the two elder ones knew it would be hardest on them after Barbara left, because some of her responsibility would fall on their shoulders. But they were quite determined she should have a cheerful "send-off" next morning, so they bribed the children with promises of sweets if they did not cry, and they succeeded in giving her quite a hilarious good-bye at the station.
After the train had gone, however, and they turned homewards, Frances felt that if she had not promised Barbara to help her mother she would have hidden herself in the attic and cried, although that would have been so "horribly babyish" for a girl of twelve that she knew she would have felt ashamed of herself afterwards; though perhaps, her pillow could have told tales of a grief confided to it that the gay-hearted Frances did not usually indulge in.
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 motionwasmore 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 lookEnglish," 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 thedouane, 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 theGare de Lazareshowed 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 afiacre, 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 thefiacre.
"This is not the right place," she pouted, "and I'm thankful it isn't—there'ssucha horrid man."
"A man! But she was a widow," Aunt Anne said vaguely; and her niece could not help laughing, for if thatwerethe 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 ismostabsurd for the man to thinkweshould 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 awhitenightcap, 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 theportière(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.
It was very nice to waken the next morning and find the sunshine streaming in at the windows.
Barbara was ready to be charmed with everything, from the pretty little maid in the mob cap, who carried in the breakfast, to the crisp rolls and coffee. Both of the travellers were quite rested, and eager to begin sight-seeing, and Miss Britton left the choice of place to her niece. The latter diligently scanned the guide-book as she took her breakfast, and kept calling out fresh suggestions every few moments; but, finally, they determined on the Louvre as most worthy of their first visit.
I do not know whether it was the experience of the night before, but Aunt Anne seemed to have a fixed idea that Paris was full of thieves, and before starting out she made the most careful preparations for encountering pickpockets. She sewed some of her money into a little bag inside her dress, put some more into a pocket in her underskirt, and said that Barbara might pay for things in general, as it would teach her the use of French money. She herself kept only a few centimes in a shabby purse in her dress pocket, "to disappoint any thief who took it."
As soon as thefiacrestopped in the court of the Louvre, they were besieged by several disreputable and seedy-looking men wanting to act as guides through the galleries. Partly to get rid of the rest, partly because they thought it might be easier, they engaged the tidiest-looking one who seemed to know most English, and, feeling rather pleased with themselves, entered the first gallery. Of course, Barbara wished to begin by seeing those pictures which she had heard most about; but the guide had a particular way of his own of taking people round, and did not like any interference.
Indeed, he did not even like to let them stay longer than a few seconds at each picture, and kept chattering the whole time, till at last they grew annoyed, and Aunt Anne told him they would do the rest by themselves. But it took some time to get rid of him, and then he went sulkily, complaining that they had not given him enough, though Barbara felt sure he had really got twice as much as was his due.
They enjoyed themselves very much without him, and saw a great deal before lunch-time.
At the end of the meal, when Aunt Anne was going to take out her purse to use the centimes in it for a tip for the waiter, she discovered her preparations had not been in vain, and that the purse really had been stolen. Perhaps, on the whole, she was rather glad, for she turned to Barbara in triumph.
"There now, Barbara," she said, "if I had had my other purse in my pocket, it would have been just the same, and now whoever has it will be properly disappointed!"
They did not return to Neuilly until the evening, where they met the rest of the pension at dinner. Besides two brothers of the Belvoir family, there were a number of French visitors and one English family, to whom Miss Britton and her niece took an immediate dislike. The father, who, they were told, was a solicitor whose health had broken down, was greedy and vulgar, and his son and daughter were pale, frightened-looking creatures, who took no part in the gay conversation which the French kept up.
After dinner, when every one else went into the salon for music, the solicitor and his children retired to their rooms, which Mademoiselle Belvoir and her brothers seemed to resent. The former confided to Barbara, in very quaint English, that they had never had such people in their house before, and Aunt Anne, who overheard the remark, shook her head sagely.
"I would not trust them, Mademoiselle" (Miss Britton was English from the sole of her foot to the tip of her tongue). "They seem unpleasant, and I have a great power for reading faces." At which Mademoiselle Belvoir murmured something about wishing her mother were back.
However, the evening was a pleasant one, though Barbara was so tired that she was hardly an intelligent listener to the music provided, and fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She was, therefore, a little surprised when she awoke suddenly two hours later for apparently no reason at all. She had been dreaming about something exciting, and lay trying to remember what it was, when an eerie feeling stole over her, and it seemed as if she heard breathing—which was not her aunt's—close beside her. She did not dare to move for a moment. Then she turned her head very gently, and between the two windows near the recess she was sure she saw a dark figure. The longer she watched the surer she became, and she knew it could not be her aunt, whom she heard breathing quietly in the other bed.
It was certainly a horrible sensation, and all the unpleasant stories she had ever read crowded into her mind. At first she could not think what to do, but at last made up her mind to go across the room to Miss Britton's bed and tell her.
Yawning, and pretending to wake up gradually, though all the time she felt as if she had been lying there for hours, she called out, "Aunt Anne, I can't sleep, so I'm coming into your bed."
Miss Britton awoke at once—she was a light sleeper—and at first I think she imagined her niece was mad.
"If you can't sleep in your own bed," she said, "I'm quite sure you won't sleep in mine, for it's not big enough for two."
But Barbara persisted, and at last her aunt gave way. "Well," she said at last, rather crossly, "be quick if you are coming. I don't want to be kept awake all night."
The truth was, it seemed so horrible to cross the room close to that black figure—as she would have to do—that Barbara lingered a moment, screwing up her courage. It was hard, certainly, to walk slowly across, for she thought she should not run, feeling all the time as if two hands would catch hold of her in the darkness. She was very glad to creep in beside her aunt, and at first could not do anything but lie and listen to that lady's grumblings. Then warning her not to scream, she whispered very softly that there was a man beside the window. Miss Britton took it wonderfully coolly, and after the first start said nothing for a few minutes. Then she remarked in loud, cheerful tones, "Well, child, as you are not sleepy, let us talk about our plans for to-morrow."
They talked a long time, hoping that the man would give it up and go; but still the black figure stood there motionless.
At last Barbara, who could bear it no longer, said "Oh, aunt, since we can't sleep let us put on the light and read up things in the guide-book."
At that moment she heard a rustle behind, and saw the man try to get into the recess; but the trunks were there, and meeting that obstruction, he turned and made a quick dash to the French window, and was out in a moment, whereupon Aunt Anne and Barbara sat up in bed and screamed. Then the girl leaped to the electric light, and her aunt to the bell, and in a few moments the maids and the Misses Belvoir came running in.
"He's gone!" cried Barbara, looking out of the window and feeling quite brave now that so many people had arrived. "He's gone, and it was too dark to see his face."
Aunt Anne, meanwhile, explained, as well as she could, what had happened, and the Misses Belvoir looked so frightened and worried that Barbara felt she must be a dreadful nuisance. But they were very nice and extremely apologetic, declaring that such a thing had never happened before, and that the police should be told in the morning, and their brothers would search the garden at once and sit outside their door all night if Miss Britton liked. But Aunt Anne, who had delightful common-sense, said briskly—
"Nonsense; whoever it was, he will be too frightened to think of coming back to-night, so just go to your beds, and let us get to ours." And she pushed them gently out. They continued to murmur apologies after the door was shut; but Aunt Anne paid not the least heed.
"Now, my dear," she said, turning to Barbara, "I am sure you know that what I said to them is quite true, and that our friend will not return to-night. So be sensible, and go back to bed, and we will talk about it all in the morning."
Of course, Barbara did as she was told, and, though she was sure she would never get to sleep, strange to say, in a very little while she was dreaming peacefully, and did not waken till late next morning.