CHAPTER XLVII
Which introduces us to the First Lady of France
A paddle-steamercleared the long wooden jetties, and made Boulogne Harbour, hooting the announcement of her coming to the echoing wharves that flung back the chuckling hoot in answering welcome rollickingly; and, churning with fussy thrashings of her paddle-wheels the waters of the narrow sea-way as she settled to her moorings, she lurched against the quay and was still.
To Betty and Noll, standing on deck with eyes bent on the swinging prospect before them, there came the fragrance of a new world. The tender greys, gentle blues, and silvery colours of France held out a welcome to their ready senses, and from the many-windowed houses with their hundred wooden shutters there drifted the pleasant odour of wood fires.
So Betty, her happy eyes glancing at the shifting scenes that passed by the wayside, and lolling in the grey carriage of her wedding journey, was whirled through the pleasant garden of France.
Noll came and sat beside her.
“You’re very happy, my Betty,” said he.
She nodded—and her eyes filled with tears.
She put out her hand shyly to him, and he held it in his. He sat and watched her. It was stupid to speak....
They swung past great sand-dunes by the sea—along the pleasant plains with poplars all of a row—thundered over bridges that spanned the shining river—clanked past villages—passing now and then a picturesque château on a hilltop that stood sentry over the plains—and always there was the sense of grey-green trees and white buildings and tender blue skies that are the colour of France. Delicacy and tenderness and graciousness and gentleness are written over the face of the land, the subtle land of Corot.
And all the world was a-singing....
In the twilight the train dashed past St. Denis and the foundries of Paris, swept under the lea of the hill where the scaffolding a-top showed the building of the great church of Montmartre, and thundered into the resounding grey gateway of the city that stands open to the north—the Gare du Nord.
At the barriers they were met by a French student in black slouch hat and great loose tie full flowing at the throat through the open collar of his short black coat—he wore baggy corduroy pantaloons. The golden-haired youth slapped Noll on the shoulder, pulled off his hat, and held out a hand to Betty—welcoming them to Paris. And Horace Malahide’s warm handshake brought a glow of happiness to them both. His laugh sent all the strangeness flying; they were no longer alone amid an alien people.
Horace, giving Noll a hand with the small baggage, called a porter and told him to hail a cab. The blue-bloused fellow soon had the scanty baggage stowed away on top. Horace smiled a little sadly at the girl’s trunk and the narrow extent of Noll’s belongings.
As they drove off together, Horace explained:
“Now, I’ve got you a room, right at the top, in one of the most delightful houses of the old student quarter. I have sent some of my surplus furniture; but I had to get the concierge to buy you a stove and one or two things.”
He laughed aside all thanks; then he coughed—a little embarrassedly:
“Of course—I told all the boys that you were coming—with a wife, Noll. But the Frenchmen all winked at the word wife; so they’ll be quite friendly and free.”
Horace was to show them everything and put them in the way of pleasant economies.
In the morning he was to move down from his old studio on Montmartre to be near them. Noll was to share his studio, when he was in the mood to paint—Horace was at Gérôme’s atelier at the Beaux Arts.
The cab was rattling along the riverside—lurched aside and rattled over a bridge—turned along the quays—up a narrow thoroughfare—took a jolting turn or two—and came to a noisy standstill.
They got out, and walked through a high entrance into a cobbled courtyard. And as they passed, to give them rude welcome, out of a doorway that was a hole in the wall of the passage-way popped the stout little woman who is the symbol and the tyrant and ultimate design created by the machinery of the French constitution—the concierge.
Horace introduced them.
As they mounted the stairs to their first home, Horace discoursed on the panting woman who led the way—in English.
The concierge, said he, is the government. The President of the Republic is but her servant. Her newspaper has the greatest circulation in the world—is the furthest reaching—Le Petit Journal. She stands between the landlord and the tenant—that is her sole duty—and she stands on her duty. She has usurped power as the Carlovingian mayors of the palace pluckedthe sceptre from their Merovingian kings, the Rois Fainéants of France. She is dragon over all the moralities—you may commit any sin in France, if you do it gracefully, except shocking the concierge. At eleven o’ the night she shuts the gates, and gets to bed—and when you ring the bell for admittance, she pulls the bolts by magic from that bed, scarce turning to break her snore, and you as you pass must call your name—or you are lost. In her smile or in her frown lies your honour, your repute, your good name.... France one fine morning awoke, and her sunny smile died out, scared by the threat of Revolution. Paris talked in anxious whispers. Paris frowned. For on the walls of the Rue de Rivoli was writLong Live the King!At mid-day Paris was laughing—the concealed troops marched out of the courtyards and went home; the revolution was over: beneathLong Live the King, a workman, mounting the shoulders of another, had writ: “Which?” killing the danger with a jest.... At midnight Paris was a riot of dancing—a third wag had written full answer to the sphinx:Le concierge.
Arrived at the heights, Horace bade the lights to be lit, and when their home was all ablaze with welcome, he handed Betty the key, wished them happiness, and took his leave until the morning.