The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 3

been the
useful wedding present of the new friend and patron in whose house he
had first seen his wife.
Swiftly they shot through the triple arch which leads from the Rue de
Rivoli to the Carousel. How splendid and solitary was the vast dimly-lit
space. "I like this," whispered Nancy dreamily, gazing up at the dark,
star-powdered sky.
And then Dampier turned and caught her, this time unresisting, yielding
joyfully, to his breast. "Nancy?" he murmured thickly. "Nancy? I'm
afraid!"
"Afraid?" she repeated wonderingly.
"Yes, horribly afraid! Pray, my pure angel, pray that the gods may
indulge their cruel sport elsewhere. I haven't always been happy,
Nancy."
And she clung to him, full of vague, unsubstantial fears. "Don't talk like
that," she murmured. "It--it isn't right to make fun of such things."
"Make fun? Good God!" was all he said.
And then his mood changed. They were now being shaken across the
huge, uneven paving stones of the quays, and so on to a bridge. "I never
really feel at home in Paris till I've crossed the Seine," he cried
joyously. "Cheer up, darling, we shall soon be at the Hôtel Saint
Ange!"
"Have you ever stayed in the Hôtel Saint Ange?" she said, with a touch
of curiosity in her voice.

"I used to know a fellow who lived there," he said carelessly. "But what
made me pick it out was the fact that it's such a queer, beautiful old
house, and with a delightful garden. Also we shall meet no English
there."
"Don't you like English people?" she asked, a little protestingly.
And Dampier laughed. "I like them everywhere but in Paris," he said:
and then, "But you won't be quite lonely, little lady, for a good many
Americans go to the Hôtel Saint Ange. And for such a funny reason--"
"What reason?"
"It was there that Edgar Allan Poe stayed when he was in Paris."
Their carriage was now engaged in threading narrow, shadowed
thoroughfares which wound through what might have been a city of the
dead. From midnight till cock-crow old-world Paris sleeps, and the
windows of the high houses on either side of the deserted streets
through which they were now driving were all closely shuttered.
"Here we have the ceremonious, the well-bred, the tactful Paris of other
days," exclaimed Dampier whimsically. "This Paris understands
without any words that what we now want is to be quiet, and by
ourselves, little girl!"
A gas lamp, burning feebly in a corner wine shop, lit up his exultant
face for a flashing moment.
"You don't look well, Jack," Nancy said suddenly. "It was awfully hot
in Lyons this morning--"
"We stayed just a thought too long in that carpet warehouse," he said
gaily,--"And then--and then that prayer carpet, which might have
belonged to Ali Baba of Ispahan, has made me feel ill with envy ever
since! But joy! Here we are at last!"
After emerging into a square of which one side was formed by an old

Gothic church, they had engaged in a dark and narrow street the further
end of which was bastioned by one of the flying buttresses of the
church they had just passed.
The cab drew up with a jerk. "C'est ici, monsieur."
The man had drawn up before a broad oak porte cochère which, sunk
far back into a thick wall, was now inhospitably shut.
"They go to bed betimes this side of the river!" exclaimed Dampier
ruefully.
Nancy felt a little troubled. The hotel people knew they were coming,
for Jack had written from Marseilles: it was odd no one had sat up for
them.
But their driver gave the wrought-iron bell-handle a mighty pull, and
after what seemed to the two travellers a very long pause the great
doors swung slowly back on their hinges, while a hearty voice called
out, "C'est vous, Monsieur Gerald? C'est vous, mademoiselle?"
And Dampier shouted back in French, "It's Mr. and Mrs. Dampier.
Surely you expect us? I wrote from Marseilles three days ago!"
He helped his wife out of the cab, and they passed through into the
broad, vaulted passage which connected the street with the courtyard of
the hotel. By the dim light afforded by an old-fashioned hanging lamp
Nancy Dampier saw that three people had answered the bell; they were
a middle-aged man (evidently mine host), his stout better half, and a
youth who rubbed his eyes as if sleepy, and who stared at the
newcomers with a dull, ruminating stare.
As is generally the case in a French hotel, it was Madame who took
command. She poured forth a torrent of eager, excited words, and at
last Dampier turned to his wife:--"They got my letter, but of course had
no address to which they could answer, and--and it's rather a