CHAPTER X.
"AVENUE GERARD, No. 9."
"One foot up and the other foot down, For that is the way to London town. And just the same, over dale and hill, 'Tis also the way to wherever you will."
OLD RHYME.
It was a very cold day, colder than is usual in Paris in November, wherethe winter, though intense while it lasts, seldom sets in before the NewYear. But though cold, there had been sufficient brightness andsunshine, though of a pale and feeble kind, to encourage the Mammas ofParis either to take out their darlings themselves or to entrust them tothe nurses and maids, and nursery governesses of all nations who, onevery fairly fine day, may be seen with their little charges walking upand down what Roger called "the pretty wide street," which had so takenhis fancy the day of the expedition with Monsieur Adolphe.
Among all the little groups walking up and down pretty steadily, for itwas too cold for loitering, or whipping tops, or skipping-ropes, as infiner weather, two small figures hurrying along hand-in-hand, caught theattention of several people. Had they been distinctly of the humblerclasses nobody would have noticed them much, for even in thisaristocratic part of the town one sometimes sees quite poor childrenthreading their way among or standing to admire the littlerichly-dressed pets who, after all, are but children like themselves.And sometimes a burst of innocent laughter, or bright smiles ofpleasure, will spread from the rich to the poor, at the sight of Henri'stop having triumphed over Xavier's, or at the solemn dignity of thewalking doll of five-year-old Yvonne.
But these two little people were evidently not of the lower classes. Notonly were they warmly and neatly dressed--though that, indeed, wouldhardly have settled the question, as it is but very seldom in Paris thatone sees the children of even quite humble parents ill or insufficientlyclad--but even though their coats and hats were plain andunfashionable, there was about them a decided look of refinement andgood-breeding. And yet they were alone!
"Who can they be?" said one lady to another. "Just see howhalf-frightened and yet determined the little girl looks."
"And how the boy clings to her. They are English, I suppose--Englishpeople are so eccentric, and let their children do all sorts of things_we_ would never dream of."
"Not the English of the upper classes," replied the first lady, with aslight shade of annoyance. "You forget I am half English myself by mymother's side, so I should know. You take your ideas of the English fromanything but the upper classes. I am always impressing that on myfriends. How would you like if the English judged _us_ by the Frenchthey see in Leicester Square, or by the dressmakers and ladies' maidswho go over and call themselves governesses?"
"I wouldn't _like_ it, but I daresay it is often done, nevertheless,"said the other lady good-naturedly. "But very likely those children do_not_ belong to the upper classes."
"I don't know," said the first lady. She stopped as she spoke and lookedafter the children, who had now passed them, thoughtfully. "No," shewent on, "I don't think they are common children. I fancy there must besomething peculiar about them. Can they have lost their way?Antoinette," she added suddenly, turning round. "You may think me veryfoolish and eccentric--'English,' if you like, but I am going to runafter them and see if there is anything the matter. Look after Lili fora moment for me, please."
Antoinette laughed.
"Do as you please, my dear," she said.
So off hastened, in her rich velvet and furs, the other lady. It was notdifficult to overtake the children, for the two pairs of legs hadtrotted a long way and were growing weary. But when close behind themtheir new friend slackened her pace. How was she to speak to them? Shedid not know that they were English, or even strangers, and if they werethe former that did not much mend matters, for, alas! notwithstandingthe half British origin she was rather fond of talking about, the prettyyoung mother had been an idle little girl in her time, and hadconsistently declined to learn any language but her own. _Now_, shewished for her Lili's sake to make up for lost time, and was lookingout for an English governess, but as yet she dared not venture on anyrash attempts. She summoned up her courage, however, and gently touchedthe little girl on the shoulder, and all her suspicions that somethingunusual was in question were awakened again by the start of terror thechild gave, and the pallid look of misery, quickly followed by anexpression of relief, with which she looked up in her face.
"I thought it was Anna," she half whispered, clutching her littlebrother's hand more tightly than before.
"Mademoiselle--my child," said the lady, for the dignity on the littleface, white and frightened as it was, made her not sure how to addressher. "Can I do anything to help you? You are alone--have you perhapslost your way?"
The last few words Gladys, for she of course it was, did not follow. Butthe offer of help, thanks to the kind eyes looking down on her, sheunderstood. She gazed for a moment into these same eyes, and thenseeming to gather confidence she carefully drew out from the pocket ofher ulster--the same new ulster she had so proudly put on for the firsttime the day of the journey which was to have ended with "Papa" andhappiness--a little piece of paper, rather smudgy-looking, it must beowned, which she unfolded and held up to the lady. On it were writtenthe words--
"9 Avenue Gerard."
"Avenue Gerard," repeated the lady; "is that where you want to go? It isnot far from here."
But seeing that the child did not take in the meaning of her words, shechanged her tactics. Taking Gladys by the hand she led her to one sideof the broad walk where they were standing, and pointing to a street atright angles from the rows of houses bordering the Champs Elysees.
"Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the leftand you will see the name, 'Avenue Gerard,' at the corner."]
"Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will seethe name, 'Avenue Gerard,' at the corner."
She pointed as she spoke; then she stooped, and with the sharp point ofthe tiny umbrella she carried, traced in lines the directions she hadgiven, in the gravel on which they were standing. Gladys considered fora moment in silence, then she lifted her head and nodded brightly.
"I understand," she said, "and thank you _very_ much."
Then taking Roger's hand, which, while speaking to the lady she hadlet go, she smiled again, and whispering something to her brother whichmade him pluck off his little cap, the two small pilgrims set off againon their journey. The lady stood for a moment looking after them, and Ithink there were tears in her eyes.
"I wonder if I could have done more for them," she said to herself,"Fancy Lili and Jean by themselves like that! But they know where theyhave to go to--they are not lost."
"How kind she was," said Gladys, as she led her little brother in thedirection the lady had pointed out. "It is not far now, Roger, dear--areyou _very_ tired?"
Roger made a manful effort to step out more briskly.
"Not so _very_, Gladdie. But oh, Gladdie, I was so frightened when Ifelt you stop and when I saw your face. Oh, Gladdie, I thought it was_her_."
"So did I," said Gladys with a shiver.
"Would she have put us in prison?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Gladys. "I heard her say something to Francoiseabout the police. I don't know if that means prison. But these ladieswon't let her, 'cos you know, Roger, they're _English_, like us."
"Is all French peoples naughty?" inquired Roger meekly.
"No, you silly little boy," giving him a small shake, "of course not.Think of Mrs. Nest, and Francoise, and even that lady--oh, I didn't meanto make you cry. You're not silly--I didn't mean it, dear."
But Roger could not at once stop his tears, for they were as much theresult of tiredness and excitement as of Gladys's words.
"Gladdie," he went on plaintively, "what will you do if those ladiesaren't kind to us?"
"They'll help me to send a tele--you know what I mean--a letter in thatquick way, to Miss Susan," replied Gladys confidently. "That's all I'mgoing to ask them. They'd never refuse that."
 
; "And could Miss Susan get here to-day, do you think?"
Gladys hesitated.
"I don't quite know. I don't know how long it takes _people_ to comethat way. But I'm afraid it costs a good deal. We must ask the ladies.Perhaps they'll get us a little room somewhere, where Anna can't findus, till Miss Susan sends for us."
"But," continued Roger, "what will you do if they're _out_, Gladdie?"
Gladys did not answer. Strange to say, practical as she was, thispossibility had never occurred to her. Her one idea had been to make herway to the Avenue Gerard at once, then it had seemed to her that alldifficulties would be at an end.
"What's the good of saying that, Roger," she said at last. "If they'reout we'll----"
"What?"
"Wait till they come in, I suppose."
"It'll be very cold waiting in the street--like beggars," grumbledRoger. But he said it in a low tone, not particularly wishing Gladys tohear. Only he was so tired that he had to grumble a little.
Suddenly Gladys pulled up.
"There it is," she said. "Look up there, Roger; that's the name,'Av-e-nue Ger-ard.' It's just a street. I thought an avenue would havebeen all trees, like in the country. Nine--I wonder which is nine?"
Opposite to where they stood was No. 34. Gladys led Roger on a littlebit and looked at the number on the other side. It was 31, and the nextbeyond that was 29.
"It's this way. They get littler this way," she exclaimed. "Come on,Roger, darling--it's not far."
"But if we've to wait in the street," repeated Roger faintly, for hewas now possessed by this new idea.
Gladys said nothing--perhaps she did not hear.
"Twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three," she said, as they passed eachhouse, so intent on reaching No. 9 that she did not even feelfrightened. Between seventeen and fifteen there was a long space ofhoardings shutting off unbuilt-upon ground--nine seemed a very long timeof coming. But at last--at last!
It was a large, very handsome house, and Gladys, young as she was, saidat once to herself that the English ladies, as she had got into the wayof calling them, must be _very_ very rich. For she did not understandthat in Paris one enormous house, such as the one she was standingbefore, contains the dwellings of several families, each of which isoften as large as a good-sized English house, only without stairs onceyou have entered, as all the rooms are on one floor.
"I wonder which is the front door," said Gladys. "There seem so many inthere." For the great doors of the entrance-court stood open, and,peeping in, it seemed to her that there was nothing but doors on everyside to be seen.
"We must ask," she at last said resolutely, and foraging in her pocketshe again drew forth the crumpled piece of paper with "No. 9 AvenueGerard," and armed with this marched in.
A man started up from somewhere--indeed he had been already watchingthem, though they had not seen him. He was the porter for the wholehouse.
"What do you want--whom are you looking for?" he said. At first,thinking they _were_ little beggars or something of the kind, for thecourtyard was not very light, he had come out meaning to drive themaway. But when he came nearer them he saw they were not what he hadthought, and he spoke therefore rather more civilly. Still, he neverthought of saying "Mademoiselle" to Gladys--no children of the upperclasses would be wandering about alone! Gladys's only answer was to holdout the bit of paper.
"Avenue Gerard, No. 9," read the man. "Yes, it is quite right--it ishere. But there is no name. Who is it you want?"
"The English ladies," replied Gladys in her own tongue, which she stillseemed to think everybody should understand. She had gathered themeaning of the man's words, helped thereto by his gesticulations.
"The English ladies--I don't know their name."
Only one word was comprehensible by the porter.
"English," he repeated, using of course the French word for "English.""It must be the English ladies on the second floor they want. No doubtthey are some of the poor English those ladies are so kind to. Andyet--" he looked at them dubiously. They didn't quite suit hisdescription. Anyway, there was but one answer to give. "The ladies wereout; the children must come again another day."
Gladys and Roger, too, understood the first four words. Their worstfears had come true!
If Gladys could have spoken French she would perhaps have found courageto ask the man to let them come in and wait a little; for as,speechless, still holding poor Roger by the hand, she slowly moved togo, she caught sight of a cheerful little room where a bright fire wasburning, the glass door standing half open, and towards which the porterturned.
"That must be his house," thought Gladys in a sort of half-stupid dreamyway. It was no use trying to ask him to let them go in and wait there.There was nowhere for them--he seemed to think they were beggars, andwould perhaps call the police if they didn't go away at once. So shedrew Roger out into the street again, out of the shelter of the court,where the wind felt rather less piercing, and, without speaking,wandered a few steps down the street they had two minutes ago toiledalong so hopefully.
"Where are you going, Gladdie? What are you going to do? I knew they'dbe out," said Roger, breaking into one of his piteous fits of crying.
Gladys's heart seemed as if it was going to stop. What _was_ she goingto do?
Wait in the street a little, she had said to Roger. But how could they?The wind seemed to be getting colder and colder; the daylight even wasbeginning to fade a little; they were not only cold, they weredesperately hungry, for they had had nothing to eat except the littlebowl of milk and crust of bread--that was all Francoise had been able togive them early that morning. She had been out at the market when thechildren ran away from Anna in one of her terrible tempers, so Gladyshad not even been able to ask her for a few sous with which to getsomething to eat. Indeed, had Francoise been there, I daresay they wouldhave been persuaded by her to wait till Adolphe came home, for he wasexpected that evening, though they did not know it!
"Roger, _darling_, try not to cry so," said Gladys, at last finding hervoice. "Wait a moment and I'll try to think. If only there was a shopnear, perhaps they'd let us go in; but there are no shops in thisstreet."
No shops and very few passers-by, at this time of day anyway. A stepsounded along the pavement just as Gladys had drawn Roger back to thewall of the house they were passing, meaning to wipe his eyes and turnup the collar of his coat to keep the wind from his throat. Gladyslooked up in hopes that possibly, in some wonderful way, the new-comermight prove a friend in need. But no--it was only a man in a sort ofuniform, and with a black bag strapped in front. Gladys had seen onelike him at the Rue Verte; it was only the postman. He glanced at themas he passed; he was a kind-hearted little man, and would have beenquite capable of taking the two forlorn "bebes" home to his good wife tobe clothed and fed--for there are many kind Samaritans even in careless,selfish big towns like Paris--but how were they to guess that, or howwas he to know their trouble? So he passed on; but a house or twofarther on he stopped again, being accosted by a gentleman comingquickly up the street in the other direction, just as he was turning into the courtyard of No. 9.
"There is only a paper for you, sir," he said to the young man, whom heevidently knew, in answer to his inquiry. "Will you take it?"
"Certainly," was the reply; and both, after a civil good-evening, weregoing on their way when a sound made them stop. It was Roger--allGladys's efforts had been useless, and his temper as well as his couragegiving way he burst into a loud roar. He was too worn out to have keptit up for long at such a pitch, but while it lasted it was veryeffective, for both the gentleman and the postman turned back.
"I noticed these children a moment ago," said the latter. "I wondered ifthey had lost their way, but I dared not wait."
"I'll see what it is," said the young man good-naturedly. But thepostman lingered a moment.
"What's the matter?" asked the young man in French. "What's the littleboy crying for?" he went on, turning to Gladys.
But her answer asto
nished him not a little. She stared blankly up in hisface without speaking for a moment. Then with a sort of stifled screamshe rushed forward and caught his hands.
"Oh you're the nice gentleman we met--you are--_don't_ say you're not.You're the English gentleman, aren't you? Oh, will you take care ofus--we're all alone--we've run away."
Walter kept her poor little hands in his, but for half a moment he didnot speak. I think there were tears in his eyes. He had so often thoughtof the little pair he had met on the Boulevards, that somehow he did notseem to feel surprised at this strange meeting.
"My little girl," he said kindly, "who are you? Where have you run awayfrom? Not from your home? I remember meeting you; but you must tell memore--you must tell me everything before I can help you or take youwhere you want to go."
"No. 9 Avenue Gerard; that's where we were going," replied Gladysconfusedly. "But they're out--the ladies are out."
"And we have to wait in the stre-eet," sobbed Roger.
Walter started.
"9 Avenue Gerard," he said; "how can that be? Whom do you know there?"
"Some ladies who'll be kind to us, and know what we say, for they'reEnglish. I don't know their name," answered Gladys.
Walter saw there was but one thing to be done. He turned to the postman.
"I know who they are," he said rapidly in French, with the instinctivewish to save this little lady, small as she was, from being made thesubject of a sensational paragraph in some penny paper. "I have seenthem before. They had come to see my aunt, who is very kind to hercountry-people, and were crying because she was out. It will be allright. Don't let yourself be late. I'll look after them."
And relieved in his mind the postman trotted off.
Walter turned to Gladys again.
"_I_ live at No. 9," he said. "Those ladies are my aunt and my sister.So the best thing you can do is to come in with me and get warm. Andwhen my aunt comes home you shall tell us all your troubles, and we willsee what to do."
"And you won't give us to the police?" asked Gladys, with a suddenmisgiving. "We've _not_ done anything naughty. Will the ladies comesoon?"
For though on the first impulse she had flown to Walter with fullconfidence, she now somehow felt a little frightened of him. Perhaps hisbeing on such good terms with the postman, whose uniform vaguelyrecalled a policeman to her excited imagination, or his speaking Frenchso easily and quickly, had made her feel rather less sure of him. "_You_won't give us to the police?" she repeated.
Walter could hardly help smiling.
"Of _course_ not," he answered. "Come now, you must trust me and not beafraid. Give me your hand, my little man; or stay, he's very tired, I'llcarry him in."
And he lifted Roger in his arms, while Gladys, greatly to hersatisfaction, walked quietly beside them, her confidence completelyrestored.
"He's very polite, and he sees I'm _big_," she said to herself as shefollowed him into the court, past the porter's bright little room, fromwhence that person put out his head to wish Walter a respectful"good-evening," keeping to himself the reflection which explains so manymysteries to our friends across the water, that "the English are reallyvery eccentric. One never knows what they will be doing next."