"_Non, non_" said he, frankly, and rolled it up,
shoved it back, stuffed the things down, smoothed all over, signed my
ticket, and passed on. We locked up, gave the baggage to porters, and
called a fiacre. As we left the station two ladies met us.
"Is there any one here expecting to see Mrs. C.?" said one of them.
"Yes, madam," said I; "_we_ do."
"God bless you," said she, fervently, and seized me by the hand. It
was Mrs. C. and her sister. I gave He into their possession.
Our troubles were over. We were at home. We rode through streets whose
names were familiar, crossed the Carrousel, passed the Seine, and
stopped before an ancient mansion in the Hue de Verneuil, belonging to
M. le Marquis de Brige. This Faubourg St. Germain is the part of Paris
where the ancient nobility lived, and the houses exhibit marks of
former splendor. The marquis is one of those chivalrous legitimists
who uphold the claims of Henri VI. He lives in the country, and rents
this hotel. Mrs. C. occupies the suite of rooms on the lower floor. We
entered by a ponderous old gateway, opened by the _concierge_,
passed through a large paved quadrangle, traversed a short hall, and
found ourselves in a large, cheerful parlor, looking out into a small
flower garden.
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