CHAPTER VII.
THE KIND-LOOKING GENTLEMAN.
"A friendly pleasant face he had, They really thought him very nice, And when adown the street he'd gone They nodded to him twice."
CHANCE ACQUAINTANCES.
They were soon ready, for though Gladys had had vague thoughts of tryingto explain that she would like the big trunk unfastened to get out their"best" things, she gave up the idea when Madame Nestor got down the newulsters which she evidently thought quite good enough, and proceeded towrap them both up warmly. It was cold, she said, and thanks to the wayshe glanced out-of-doors when she made this remark, at the same timecarefully covering up their throats with the white silk handkerchiefsthey had had for the journey, Gladys understood her.
"We don't look very nice, do we, Roger?" said the little girl, as withher brother's hand in hers, and Francoise, who was short and stout, andwore a big frilled cap, following close behind. "If there are a lot ofchildren where the band plays we shall seem very plain. But I daresay itdoesn't matter, and these ulsters are very warm."
For it was very cold. It was one of those gray sunless days, lessuncommon in Paris than some people imagine, and the Rue Verte was narrowand the houses composing it very high, so that _stray_ gleams ofsunshine did not very easily get into it. The children shivered a littleas they stood for a moment hesitating as to which way Francoise meantthem to go, and one or two foot-passengers passing hurriedly, as mostpeople do in that busy part of the town, jostled the two little peopleso that they shrank back frightened.
"Give me your hands, little Sir and little Miss," said the sturdypeasant girl, catching hold of them, placing one on each side of her asshe spoke. It went rather against Gladys's dignity, but still in herheart she was glad of Francoise's protection, though even with that theywere a good deal bumped and pushed as they made their way along thenarrow pavement.
"It will be nicer when we get to the Boulevards," said Francoise; "therethe pavement is so much wider."
But Gladys did not understand. She thought the girl said something about_bulls_ and _large_, and she looked up half frightened, expecting to seea troop of cattle coming along the street. There was, however, nothingof the kind to be seen.
"It's not like Whitebeach," said Gladys, trying to make Roger hearacross Francoise's substantial person. But it was no use. Narrow as thestreet was, great heavy waggons and lurries came constantly followingeach other over the stones, so that the noise was really deafening, andit was impossible to hear what was said. By peeping sometimes in frontof Francoise and sometimes behind her, Gladys could catch sight ofRoger's little figure. He was looking solemn and grave; she could tellthat by the way he was walking, even when she did not see his face.
"I'm afraid he's very cold, poor little boy," thought Gladys to herself,quite forgetting her own little red nose and nipped fingers in concernfor her brother.
It was a little better after a while when they got out of the narrowstreet into a much wider one. _Too_ wide Gladys thought it, for the rushof carts and carriages and omnibuses and cabs was really frightening.She saw some people venturing to cross over to the other side in themidst of it all--one lady with a little boy, not much bigger than Roger,especially caught her attention. But she shut her eyes rather than watchthem get across--which they did quite safely after all--so terrified wasshe of seeing them crushed beneath some of the monsters on wheels whichseemed to the child's excited imagination to be pounding down one afterthe other on purpose to knock everything out of their way, like somegreat engines of war. And she squeezed Francoise's hand so tight thatthe girl turned round in a fright to see if any one was hurting Gladys,when a slight movement to one side made her fancy the little servant wasintending to try to cross.
'Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street,' Gladysexclaimed.]
"Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," Gladys exclaimed. AndFrancoise understood what she meant, thanks to her tugs the other way,and set to work assuring her she had no such intention.
"Are you frightened of crossing?" said a voice close beside her--anEnglish voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteousentreaty.
"Yes, dreadfully. I'm sure we'll be killed if she takes us over,"replied Gladys, lifting her little white face and troubled eyes to thestranger.
He turned to Francoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe toattempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. Hespoke, of course, in French, which seemed to him as easy as his ownlanguage, and Francoise replied eagerly. Then again the stranger turnedto Gladys:
"You need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kindvoice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wishto cross. You have not been long here, I suppose--you don't understandFrench?"
"No," said Gladys, gulping down a sob, "we've--we've only just come."
"Ah well, you'll soon feel more at home, and be able to explain all youmean for yourself. Good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps analtogether Englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiledagain, and in another moment had disappeared in the crowd.
"The nurse seems kind enough, but she's rather stupid--just a peasant.And those children look so refined. But they don't seem happy, poorlittle souls. I wonder who they can be," said the young man to himselfas he walked away.
"I wish he was our Papa," said Roger.
"So do I," said Gladys. And then a queer sort of regret came over herthat she had not said more to him. "Perhaps he knows Papa, and couldhave helped us to find him," was the vague thought in her childishbrain. It seemed to her that any English-speaking person in this greattown of Paris must know "Papa," or something about him.
Francoise walked on; _she_ wished for nothing better than a stroll alongthe Boulevards, even though this was by no means the best part of them,or containing the prettiest shops. But Gladys kept wishing for the"promenade" and the band. At the corner of a side-street she caughtsight of a church at a little distance with some trees and green not farfrom it. It looked quieter and less crowded, and Gladys was seized witha wish to explore in that direction.
She tugged at Francoise.
"Mayn't we go up there?" she said, pointing in the direction of thetrees. Francoise understood her. She was a good-natured girl, and turnedwith the children as Gladys wished, though it was against her liking toleave the noisy crowded Boulevards for the quieter side-streets.
When they got close to the trees they turned out to be in a littleenclosure with railings, a very small attempt at a "square garden," forthere were houses round it on all sides, and, cold as it was, a fewnurses and children were walking about it and looking cheerful enough,though no doubt they wished they were not so far away from the prettierparts of Paris where the parks and walks for children are so lively andamusing. Gladys looked round with a mixture of approval anddisappointment.
"It must be here that the band plays," she said to Roger; "but it isn'there to-day. And it's a very small place for a promenade; not nearly sopretty as it was at Whitebeach. But we might play here if it wasn't socold. And there are nice benches for sitting on, you see."
"I don't like being here," said Roger, shaking his head. "I'd like to gohome."
"Home"--again the word fell sadly on the little mother-sister's ear. Butshe said nothing to remind Roger of how homeless they were, though shecould not help sighing when she thought of the only "going home" therewas for them; the little dark bare cheerless bedroom, and the shopfilled with sofas and chairs. Poor Madame Nestor doing her best, butunderstanding so little what a nice bright cosy nursery was like, andstill worse, Mademoiselle Anna's sharp eyes flashing angrily at themacross the table at meat times!
"Wouldn't you like to have a run, Roger?" said Gladys suddenly. "Itwould make us feel warmer, and there's a nice straight bit of pathhere."
Roger made no objection. He let go of Francoise's hand and took hissister's, and by signs Gladys managed to explain to the girl what theymeant to do.
"One, two, thre
e, and away," she called out with an attempt atmerriment, and off they set. Roger's stumpy little legs could not go asfast as Gladys's longer and thinner ones, but she took care not to lethim find that out, and she was rewarded by the colour in his cheeks, andthe brighter look in his eyes when they got back to Francoise again.
"That's right," said she good-naturedly, and in her heart I think shetoo would have enjoyed a run, had it not been beneath her dignity tobehave in so childish a manner within sight of the dignified nurses intheir big cloaks and caps with streaming ribbons, who were strutting upand down the little enclosure.
But it grew colder and grayer.
"One could almost think it was going to snow," said Francoise, lookingup at the sky. Gladys saw her looking up, but did not, of course,understand her words.
"I wonder if she thinks it's going to rain," she said to Roger. "Anywayit's dreadfully cold," and she gave a little shiver.
"We had better go home," said Francoise, for she was so accustomed totalking about everything she did that even the knowledge that she wasnot understood did not make her silent. And taking a hand of each child,she turned to go. Gladys and Roger did not mind; they felt tired, thoughthey had not walked nearly so far as they often did at home, and cold,and there had been nothing in their walk to raise their poor littlespirits, except perhaps the momentary glance of the bright-faced youngEnglishman.
"That gentleman we met looked very kind, didn't he?" said Gladys toRoger, when they had got back to the Rue Verte, and Francoise washelping them to take off their boots.
"Yes," said Roger, in his sober little voice, "I wish----"
"What?" said Gladys.
"I wish he was our Papa!" said Roger again, with a sigh.
"He couldn't be," said Gladys, "he's too young."
"He was _much_ bigger than you; he was bigger than _her_," persistedRoger, pointing to Francoise, for like many little children he could notseparate the idea of age from size, and Gladys knew it was no use tryingto explain to him his mistake.
"Anyway, he _isn't_ our Papa," she said sadly. "I wonder what we shalldo now," she went on.
"Isn't it tea time?" asked Roger.
"I'm afraid they don't have tea here," said Gladys. "There's some wineand water and some bread on the table in the little room behind theshop. I'm afraid that's meant for our tea."
She was right; for when Francoise took them downstairs Madame Nestorimmediately offered them wine and water, and when Gladys did her best tomake the old lady understand that they did not like wine, she persistedin putting two or three lumps of sugar into the water in the glasses,which Roger did not object to, as he fished them out before they weremore than half melted, and ate instead of drinking them, but whichGladys thought very nasty indeed, though she did not like not to take itas she had already refused the wine.
"I wish I could get out my doll," said she, "I don't know what to playwith, Roger."
"I wish I could get my donkey," said Roger. And Madame Nestor saw thatthey looked dull and dreary, though she did not know what they said. Abrilliant idea struck her. "I will get them some of the packets ofpatterns to look at," she said, "that will amuse them," and off shetrotted to the workroom.
"Find me the books of patterns, the prettiest ones, of the silky stuffsfor curtains, and some of the cretonnes," she said to one of the younggirls sewing there.
Mademoiselle Anna looked up suspiciously.
"Is there some one in the shop?" she said. "Shall I call MonsieurAdolphe? He has just gone to the other workroom."
"No, no, do not trouble yourself," said Madame Nestor. "I only want thepatterns to amuse my two little birds in there," and she nodded her headtowards the room where the children were.
Anna gave her head a little toss.
"There is no letter about them yet, I suppose," she said.
"Of course not. How could there be?" replied the old lady. "The poorthings have been here but one night. I do not see why you shouldtrouble yourself to be so cross about them. You are not _yet_ mistressof this house," upon which Anna murmured something about being sorry tosee Madame Nestor troubled about the children, that was her only reason,she knew Madame to be so good, etc.
Madame Nestor said no more, for it was seldom she spoke sharply to anyone, and, to tell the truth, she was a little afraid of Anna, who sometime or other was to be married to Adolphe, and take the place of theold lady, who looked forward then to having some rest in a little homeof her own. She did not wish to quarrel with Anna, for she knew shewould make a clever and useful wife to her son, but still unkindness toany one, above all to these little helpless strangers, made her reallyangry.
She made the young workwoman help her to carry the big books of patternsto the little sitting-room, and at sight of them Gladys and Rogerstarted up. They were pleased at the prospect of anything to do, poorlittle things, even lessons would have been welcome, and they weregreatly delighted when, as well as the books, Madame Nestor produced alot of scraps of cretonne with gay flowers and birds in all colour, andmade them understand they might do as they liked with them.
"Let's cut them out," exclaimed Gladys, "we can cut out lovely thingsand then afterwards we can paste them on white paper and make all sortsof things with them."
But there were no scissors! Gladys opened and shut the middle andforefingers of her right hand repeating "scissors," till Madame Nestorunderstood and not only lent her a pair of her own, but sent a littleway down the street to buy a little pair with blunt ends for Roger, soafraid was she of his cutting himself.
"Oh, how nice," exclaimed both children, jumping up to kiss the kind oldwoman. "Now we can cut out beautifully, and when we are tired of cuttingout we can look at these lovely patterns," said Gladys, as she settledherself and Roger comfortably at the table, and Madame Nestor went offto the workroom again, quite satisfied about them for the time.
"You see there are _some_ things to be got really very nice in Paris,Roger," said Gladys in her prim old-fashioned way. "These scissors arereally very nice, and I don't think they were dear. Madame Nestor gavethe boy a piece like a small sixpence, and he brought her a halfpennyback. That isn't dear."
"What did he bring her a halfpenny for? Do they sell halfpennies in theshops here?" asked Roger, looking very puzzled.
"No, of course not. You're too little to understand. That's what theycall 'giving change,'" replied Gladys, wisely. "Ellen told me that oncewhen I went to a shop with her to buy something for Miss Susan. Now,Roger, will you cut out that blue bird, and I'll do these pinky flowers?Then afterwards we can paste them as if the bird was flying out of theflowers; won't that be pretty?"
"I'd rather do the flowers," said Roger. "The bird's nose is sotwisty--I can't do it."
"Very well," said Gladys good-naturedly. "Then I'll do it, and you takethe flowers. See they go in nice big rounds--you can easily do them."
And for an hour or two the children were as really happy as they hadbeen for a good while, and when the thought of their father and what hadbecome of him pressed itself forward on Gladys, she pushed it back withthe happy trust and hopefulness of children that "to-morrow" would bringgood news.
* * * * *
In a part of Paris, at some distance from the Rue Verte, that veryafternoon three people were sitting together in a pretty drawing-roomat "afternoon tea." They were two ladies--a young, quite young one, andan older. And the third person was a gentleman, who had just come in.
"It's so nice to find you at home, and above all at tea, Auntie," hesaid to the elder lady. "It is such a horrid day--as bad as London,except that there's no fog. You haven't been out, I suppose?"
"Oh yes, indeed we have," replied the young lady. "We went a long waythis morning--walking--to auntie's upholsterer, quite in the centre ofthe town. It looks very grim and uninviting there, the streets are sonarrow and the houses so high."
"I've walked a good way too to-day," said the young man.
"I am glad to hear it, my boy," said his aunt. "I have b
een a littleafraid of your studying too hard this winter, at least not takingexercise enough, and you being so accustomed to a country life too!"
"I don't look very bad, do I?" said the young man, laughing. He stood upas he spoke, and his aunt and sister glanced at him with pride, thoughthey tried to hide it. He was tall and handsome, and the expression ofhis face was particularly bright and pleasant.
"You are very conceited," said his sister. "I am not going to pay youany compliments."
He sat down again, and a more serious look came into his face; for somemoments he did not speak.
"What are you thinking about, Walter?" asked his sister.
Walter looked up.
"I was thinking about two little children I met to-day," he said. "Awayover on the Boulevard X---- ever so far."
"That is not so very far from where we were this morning," interruptedthe aunt.
"They were such tiny things, and they looked so forlorn and so unhappy;I can't get them out of my head," said Walter.
"Did you give them anything? Did they seem quite alone?" asked Rosamond.
Walter laughed.
"You don't understand," he said; "they were not beggars. Bless me! Ishouldn't like to encounter that very imperious little lady if shethought I had made you think they were beggars."
"'Imperious little lady,' and 'poor forlorn little things;' what do youmean, Walter?" said Rosamond.
"I mean what I say. They did look forlorn little creatures, and yet thesmall girl was as imperious as a princess. They were two little Englishchildren, newly arrived evidently, for they didn't understand a word ofFrench. And they were being taken care of by a stupid sort of peasantgirl turned into a 'bonne.' And the little girl thought the nurse wasgoing to cross the street, and that she and the small boy would bekilled, and she couldn't make the stupid owl understand, and I heardthem talking English, and so I came to the rescue--that was all."
"It isn't anything so very terrible," said the aunt. "No doubt they andtheir bonne will learn to understand each other in a little."
"It wasn't that only," said Walter reflectively; "there was somethingout of gear, I am sure. The children looked so superior to the servant,and so--so out of their element dragging up and down that rough crowdedplace, while she gaped at the shop windows. And there was something sopathetic in the little girl's eyes."
"In spite of her imperiousness," said Rosamond teasingly.
"Yes," said Walter, without smiling. "It was queer altogether--thesending them out in that part of the town with that common sort ofservant--and their not knowing any French. I suppose the days are goneby for stealing children or that sort of thing; but I could really havefancied there was something of the kind in this case."
Rosamond and her aunt grew grave.
"Poor little things!" they said. "Why did you not ask them who they wereor where they came from, or something?" added Rosamond.
"I don't know. I wish I had," said Walter. "But I'm not sure that Iwould have ventured on such a freedom with the little girl. I'm notindeed."
"Then they didn't look _frightened_--the maid did not seem cross tothem?"
"Oh no, she was good-natured enough. Just a great stupid. No, theydidn't look exactly frightened, except of the horses and carriages; butbewildered and unhappy, and out of their element. And yet so plucky! I'mcertain they were well-bred children. I can't make it out."
"Nor can I," said Rosamond. "I wonder if we shall ever hear any moreabout them."
Curiously enough she dreamt that night that she was again in thefurniture shop in the Rue Verte, and that she heard again a noise whichshe thought to be mice, but that pulling back a chair to see, she cameupon two little children, who at once started to their feet, crying:"We're the boy and girl he met. Take us home, do. We're not mice, and weare _so_ unhappy."