The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 6

to the words "hot water"--yes, she thought it would. "Eau chaude"--that was hot water.
But there came no answering cry, and again, this time rather impatiently, she called out, "Madame Poulain?"
And then the shuffling sounds of heavy footsteps made Nancy shoot back from the open door.
"Yuss?" muttered a hoarse voice.
This surely must be the loutish-looking youth who, so Nancy suddenly remembered, knew a little English.
"I want some hot water," she called out through the door. "And will you please ask your aunt to come here for a moment?"
"Yuss," he said, in that queer hoarse voice, and shuffled downstairs again. And there followed, floating up from below, one of those quick, gabbling interchanges of French words which Nancy, try as she might, could not understand.
She got into bed again. Perhaps after all it would be better to allow them to bring up her "little breakfast" in the foreign fashion. She would still be in plenty of time for Jack. Once in the studio he would be in no hurry, or so she feared, to come back--especially if on his way out he had opened her door and seen how soundly she was sleeping.
She waited some time, and then, as no one came, grew what she so seldom was, impatient and annoyed. What an odd hotel, and what dilatory, disagreeable ways! But just as she was thinking of getting up again she heard a hesitating knock.
It was Madame Poulain, and suddenly Nancy--though unobservant as is youth, and especially happy youth--noticed that mine hostess looked far less well in the daytime than by candle-light.
Madame Poulain's stout, sallow face was pale, her cheeks puffy; there were rings round the black eyes which had sparkled so brightly the night before. But then she too must have had a disturbed night.
In her halting French Mrs. Dampier explained that she would like coffee and rolls, and then some hot water.
"C'est bien, mademoiselle!"
And Nancy blushed rosy-red. "Mademoiselle?" How odd to hear herself so addressed! But Madame Poulain did not give her time to say anything, even if she had wished to do so, for, before Mrs. Dampier could speak again, the hotel-keeper had shut the door and gone downstairs.
And then, after a long, long wait, far longer than Nancy had ever been made to wait in any of the foreign hotels in which she and her husband had stayed during the last three weeks, Madame Poulain reappeared, bearing a tray in her large, powerful hands.
She put the tray down on the bed, and she was already making her way quickly, silently to the door, when Nancy called out urgently, "Madame? Madame Poulain! Has my husband gone out!"
And then she checked herself, and tried to convey the same question in her difficult French--"Mon mari?" she said haltingly. "Mon mari?"
But Madame Poulain only shook her head, and hurried out of the room, leaving the young Englishwoman oddly discomfited and surprised.
It was evidently true what Jack had said--that tiresome Exhibition had turned everything in Paris, especially the hotels, topsy-turvy. Madame Poulain was cross and tired, run off her feet, maybe; her manner, too, quite different now from what it had been the night before.
Nancy Dampier got up and dressed. She put on a pale blue linen gown which Jack admired, and a blue straw hat trimmed with grey wings which Jack said made her look like Mercury.
She told herself that there could be no reason why she shouldn't venture out of her room and go downstairs, where there must surely be some kind of public sitting-room.
Suddenly remembering the young American's interchange of words with his sister, she wondered, smiling to herself, if she would ever see them again. How cross the young man's idle words had made Jack! Dear, jealous Jack, who hated it so when people stared at her as foreigners have a trick of staring. It made Nancy happy to know that people thought her pretty, nay beautiful, for it would have been dreadful for Jack, an artist, to marry an ugly woman....
Locking her box she went out onto the shallow staircase, down the few steps which led straight under the big arch of the porte coch��re. It was thrown hospitably open on to the narrow street now full of movement, colour, and sound. But in vivid contrast to the moving panorama presented by the busy, lane-like thoroughfare outside, was the spacious, stone-paved courtyard of the hotel, made gay with orange trees in huge green tubs. Almost opposite the porte coch��re was another arch through which she could see a glimpse of the cool, shady garden Jack remembered.
Yes, it was a strangely picturesque and charming old house, this H?tel Saint Ange; but even so Nancy felt a little lost, a little strange, standing there under the porte coch��re. Then she saw that painted up on a glass door just opposite