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 trying to 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 new ulsters which she evidently thought quite good enough, and proceeded to wrap them both up warmly. It was cold, she said, and thanks to the way she glanced out-of-doors when she made this remark, at the same time carefully covering up their throats with the white silk handkerchiefs they had had for the journey, Gladys understood her.
"We don't look very nice, do we, Roger?" said the little girl, as with her brother's hand in hers, and Françoise, who was short and stout, and wore a big frilled cap, following close behind. "If there are a lot of children where the band plays we shall seem very plain. But I daresay it doesn't matter, and these ulsters are very warm."
For it was very cold. It was one of those gray sunless days, less uncommon in Paris than some people imagine, and the Rue Verte was narrow and the houses composing it very high, so that stray gleams of sunshine did not very easily get into it. The children shivered a little as they stood for a moment hesitating as to which way Françoise meant them to go, and one or two foot-passengers passing hurriedly, as most people do in that busy part of the town, jostled the two little people so that they shrank back frightened.
"Give me your hands, little Sir and little Miss," said the sturdy peasant girl, catching hold of them, placing one on each side of her as she spoke. It went rather against Gladys's dignity, but still in her heart she was glad of Françoise's protection, though even with that they were a good deal bumped and pushed as they made their way along the narrow pavement.
"It will be nicer when we get to the Boulevards," said Françoise; "there the 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 see a troop of cattle coming along the street. There was, however, nothing of the kind to be seen.
"It's not like Whitebeach," said Gladys, trying to make Roger hear across Françoise's substantial person. But it was no use. Narrow as the street was, great heavy waggons and lurries came constantly following each other over the stones, so that the noise was really deafening, and it was impossible to hear what was said. By peeping sometimes in front of Françoise and sometimes behind her, Gladys could catch sight of Roger's little figure. He was looking solemn and grave; she could tell that 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 concern for her brother.
It was a little better after a while when they got out of the narrow street into a much wider one. Too wide Gladys thought it, for the rush of carts and carriages and omnibuses and cabs was really frightening. She saw some people venturing to cross over to the other side in the midst 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 watch them get across – which they did quite safely after all – so terrified was she of seeing them crushed beneath some of the monsters on wheels which seemed to the child's excited imagination to be pounding down one after the other on purpose to knock everything out of their way, like some great engines of war. And she squeezed Françoise's hand so tight that the 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 was intending to try to cross.
"Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," Gladys exclaimed. And Françoise 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 – an English voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteous entreaty.
"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 the stranger.
He turned to Françoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe to attempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. He spoke, of course, in French, which seemed to him as easy as his own language, and Françoise replied eagerly. Then again the stranger turned to Gladys:
"You need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kind voice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wish to cross. You have not been long here, I suppose – you don't understand French?"
"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 you mean for yourself. Good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps an altogether Englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiled again, 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, poor little souls. I wonder who they can be," said the young man to himself as 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 her that she had not said more to him. "Perhaps he knows Papa, and could have helped us to find him," was the vague thought in her childish brain. It seemed to her that any English-speaking person in this great town of Paris must know "Papa," or something about him.
Françoise walked on; she wished for nothing better than a stroll along the 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 caught sight of a church at a little distance with some trees and green not far from it. It looked quieter and less crowded, and Gladys was seized with a wish to explore in that direction.
She tugged at Françoise.
"Mayn't we go up there?" she said, pointing in the direction of the trees. Françoise understood her. She was a good-natured girl, and turned with the children as Gladys wished, though it was against her liking to leave the noisy crowded Boulevards for the quieter side-streets.
When they got close to the trees they turned out to be in a little enclosure with railings, a very small attempt at a "square garden," for there were houses round it on all sides, and, cold as it was, a few nurses and children were walking about it and looking cheerful enough, though no doubt they wished they were not so far away from the prettier parts of Paris where the parks and walks for children are so lively and amusing. Gladys looked round with a mixture of approval and disappointment.
"It must be here that the band plays," she said to Roger; "but it isn't here to-day. And it's a very small place for a promenade; not nearly so pretty as it was at Whitebeach. But we might play here if it wasn't so cold. 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 go home."
"Home" – again the word fell sadly on the little mother-sister's ear. But she said nothing to remind Roger of how homeless they were, though she could not help sighing when she thought of the only "going home" there was for them; the little dark bare cheerless bedroom, and the shop filled with sofas and chairs. Poor Madame Nestor doing her best, but understanding so little what a nice bright cosy nursery was like, and still worse, Mademoiselle Anna's sharp eyes flashing angrily at them across the table at meat times!
"Wouldn't you like to have a run, Roger?" said Gladys suddenly. "It would make us feel warmer, and there's a nice straight bit of path here."
Roger made no objection. He let go of Françoise's hand and took his sister's, and by signs Gladys managed to explain to the girl what they meant to do.
"One, two, three, and away," she called out with an attempt at merriment, and off they set. Roger's stumpy little legs could not go as fast as Gladys's longer and thinner ones, but she took care not to let him find that out, and she was rewarded by the colour in his cheeks, and the brighter look in his eyes when they got back to Françoise again.
"That's right," said she good-naturedly, and in her heart I think she too would have enjoyed a run, had it not been beneath her dignity to behave in so childish a manner within sight of the dignified nurses in their big cloaks and caps with streaming ribbons, who were strutting up and down the little enclosure.
But it grew colder and grayer.
"One could almost think it was going to snow," said Françoise, looking up 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. "Anyway it's dreadfully cold," and she gave a little shiver.
"We had better go home," said Françoise, for she was so accustomed to talking about everything she did that even the knowledge that she was not 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, though they 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 little spirits, except perhaps the momentary glance of the bright-faced young Englishman.
"That gentleman we met looked very kind, didn't he?" said Gladys to Roger, when they had got back to the Rue Verte, and Françoise was helping 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," persisted Roger, pointing to Françoise, for like many little children he could not separate the idea of age from size, and Gladys knew it was no use trying to explain to him his mistake.
"Anyway, he isn't our Papa," she said sadly. "I wonder what we shall do 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 wine and water and some bread on the table in the little room behind the shop. I'm afraid that's meant for our tea."
She was right; for when Françoise took them downstairs Madame Nestor immediately offered them wine and water, and when Gladys did her best to make the old lady understand that they did not like wine, she persisted in 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 were more than half melted, and ate instead of drinking them, but which Gladys thought very nasty indeed, though she did not like not to take it as she had already refused the wine.
"I wish I could get out my doll," said she, "I don't know what to play with, Roger."
"I wish I could get my donkey," said Roger. And Madame Nestor saw that they looked dull and dreary, though she did not know what they said. A brilliant idea struck her. "I will get them some of the packets of patterns to look at," she said, "that will amuse them," and off she trotted to the workroom.
"Find me the books of patterns, the prettiest ones, of the silky stuffs for curtains, and some of the cretonnes," she said to one of the young girls sewing there.
Mademoiselle Anna looked up suspiciously.
"Is there some one in the shop?" she said. "Shall I call Monsieur Adolphe? He has just gone to the other workroom."
"No, no, do not trouble yourself," said Madame Nestor. "I only want the patterns to amuse my two little birds in there," and she nodded her head towards 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 poor things have been here but one night. I do not see why you should trouble yourself to be so cross about them. You are not yet mistress of this house," upon which Anna murmured something about being sorry to see 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 any one, and, to tell the truth, she was a little afraid of Anna, who some time or other was to be married to Adolphe, and take the place of the old lady, who looked forward then to having some rest in a little home of her own. She did not wish to quarrel with Anna, for she knew she would make a clever and useful wife to her son, but still unkindness to any one, above all to these little helpless strangers, made her really angry.
She made the young workwoman help her to carry the big books of patterns to the little sitting-room, and at sight of them Gladys and Roger started up. They were pleased at the prospect of anything to do, poor little things, even lessons would have been welcome, and they were greatly delighted when, as well as the books, Madame Nestor produced a lot of scraps of cretonne with gay flowers and birds in all colour, and made them understand they might do as they liked with them.
"Let's cut them out," exclaimed Gladys, "we can cut out lovely things and then afterwards we can paste them on white paper and make all sorts of things with them."
But there were no scissors! Gladys opened and shut the middle and forefingers of her right hand repeating "scissors," till Madame Nestor understood and not only lent her a pair of her own, but sent a little way down the street to buy a little pair with blunt ends for Roger, so afraid was she of his cutting himself.
"Oh, how nice," exclaimed both children, jumping up to kiss the kind old woman. "Now we can cut out beautifully, and when we are tired of cutting out we can look at these lovely patterns," said Gladys, as she settled herself and Roger comfortably at the table, and Madame Nestor went off to 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 are really very nice, and I don't think they were dear. Madame Nestor gave the boy a piece like a small sixpence, and he brought her a halfpenny back. That isn't dear."
"What did he bring her a halfpenny for? Do they sell halfpennies in the shops here?" asked Roger, looking very puzzled.
"No, of course not. You're too little to understand. That's what they call 'giving change,'" replied Gladys, wisely. "Ellen told me that once when 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 the flowers; won't that be pretty?"
"I'd rather do the flowers," said Roger. "The bird's nose is so twisty – I can't do it."
"Very well," said Gladys good-naturedly. "Then I'll do it, and you take the 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 had been for a good while, and when the thought of their father and what had become of him pressed itself forward on Gladys, she pushed it back with the happy trust and hopefulness of children that "to-morrow" would bring good news.
In a part of Paris, at some distance from the Rue Verte, that very afternoon three people were sitting together in a pretty drawing-room at "afternoon tea." They were two ladies – a young, quite young one, and an 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," he said 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 way this morning – walking – to auntie's upholsterer, quite in the centre of the town. It looks very grim and uninviting there, the streets are so narrow 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 been a little afraid of your studying too hard this winter, at least not taking exercise 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 up as he spoke, and his aunt and sister glanced at him with pride, though they tried to hide it. He was tall and handsome, and the expression of his face was particularly bright and pleasant.
"You are very conceited," said his sister. "I am not going to pay you any compliments."
He sat down again, and a more serious look came into his face; for some moments 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. "Away over on the Boulevard X – ever so far."
"That is not so very far from where we were this morning," interrupted the 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! I shouldn't like to encounter that very imperious little lady if she thought I had made you think they were beggars."
"'Imperious little lady,' and 'poor forlorn little things;' what do you mean, Walter?" said Rosamond.
"I mean what I say. They did look forlorn little creatures, and yet the small girl was as imperious as a princess. They were two little English children, newly arrived evidently, for they didn't understand a word of French. And they were being taken care of by a stupid sort of peasant girl turned into a 'bonne.' And the little girl thought the nurse was going to cross the street, and that she and the small boy would be killed, and she couldn't make the stupid owl understand, and I heard them 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 and their bonne will learn to understand each other in a little."
"It wasn't that only," said Walter reflectively; "there was something out 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 crowded place, while she gaped at the shop windows. And there was something so pathetic in the little girl's eyes."
"In spite of her imperiousness," said Rosamond teasingly.
"Yes," said Walter, without smiling. "It was queer altogether – the sending them out in that part of the town with that common sort of servant – and their not knowing any French. I suppose the days are gone by for stealing children or that sort of thing; but I could really have fancied 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 were or where they came from, or something?" added Rosamond.
"I don't know. I wish I had," said Walter. "But I'm not sure that I would have ventured on such a freedom with the little girl. I'm not indeed."
"Then they didn't look frightened– the maid did not seem cross to them?"
"Oh no, she was good-natured enough. Just a great stupid. No, they didn't look exactly frightened, except of the horses and carriages; but bewildered and unhappy, and out of their element. And yet so plucky! I'm certain they were well-bred children. I can't make it out."
"Nor can I," said Rosamond. "I wonder if we shall ever hear any more about them."
Curiously enough she dreamt that night that she was again in the furniture shop in the Rue Verte, and that she heard again a noise which she thought to be mice, but that pulling back a chair to see, she came upon 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 we are so unhappy."