"You understand," he said, "that he is a youth of most careful bringing
up, and his character and morals are without a stain. He is young and has
never been abroad, never even seen a large city, and his parents have
requested me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to see that he is
placed under good influences. He is to study art, but on no account would
his parents wish him to live in the Latin Quarter if they knew of the
immorality which is rife there."
A sound like the click of a latch interrupted him and he raised his eyes,
but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man behind the
parlour-door.
Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance behind her and then beamed on Dr.
Byram.
"It ees well zat he come here. The pension more serious, il n'en existe
pas, eet ees not any!" she announced with conviction.
So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the
gate.
"I trust," he said, eyeing the Convent, "that you will make no
acquaintances among Jesuits!"
Hastings looked at the Convent until a pretty girl passed before the gray
facade, and then he looked at her. A young fellow with a paint-box and
canvas came swinging along, stopped before the pretty girl, said something
during a brief but vigorous handshake at which they both laughed, and he
went his way, calling back, "A demain Valentine!" as in the same breath
she cried, "A demain!"
"Valentine," thought Hastings, "what a quaint name;" and he started to
follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling towards the nearest
tramway station.
II
"An' you are pleas wiz Paris, Monsieur' Astang?" demanded Madame Marotte
the next morning as Hastings came into the breakfast-room of the pension,
rosy from his plunge in the limited bath above.
"I am sure I shall like it," he replied, wondering at his own depression
of spirits.
The maid brought him coffee and rolls. He returned the vacant glance of
the big-headed young man and acknowledged diffidently the salutes of the
snuffy old gentlemen. He did not try to finish his coffee, and sat
crumbling a roll, unconscious of the sympathetic glances of Madame
Marotte, who had tact enough not to bother him.
Presently a maid entered with a tray on which were balanced two bowls of
chocolate, and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at her ankles. The maid
deposited the chocolate at a table near the window and smiled at Hastings.
Then a thin young lady, followed by her counterpart in all except years,
marched into the room and took the table near the window. They were
evidently American, but Hastings, if he expected any sign of recognition,
was disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots intensified his depression.
He fumbled with his knife and looked at his plate.
The thin young lady was talkative enough. She was quite aware of Hastings'
presence, ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but on the other hand
she felt her superiority, for she had been three weeks in Paris and he, it
was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his steamer-trunk.
Her conversation was complacent. She argued with her mother upon the
relative merits of the Louvre and the Bon Marche, but her mother's part of
the discussion was mostly confined to the observation, "Why, Susie!"
The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room in a body, outwardly polite and
inwardly raging. They could not endure the Americans, who filled the room
with their chatter.
The big-headed young man looked after them with a knowing cough,
murmuring, "Gay old birds!"
"They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen," said the girl.
