CHAPTER XII

A TEMPEST IN AN INK-BOTTLE

“I had no idea we should find Antwerp so interesting,” said Sidney a few days later. “Holland I expected to be all that it proved; a fascinating place where one would like to spend an entire summer.”

“And where they charge more for laundry work than any place within my experience,” replied Miss Cavendish, looking up from her accounts; “though as for the rest of our expenses, they fell far below what I was given to suppose. Our week here has cost us about thirteen dollars apiece; that includes our little side trips and our tickets to Antwerp.”

“It doesn’t seem possible that it could be done so cheaply,” returned Sidney, who never could understand how Miss Cavendish managed to keep their expenses within the limit she had set for them.

“If it were anyone else but our clever Gem who was our personal conductor,” said Gabriella, “it could not be done. It is because we have her and because we don’t go to the caravansaries.”

“And because we buy such cheap gingerbread,” added Sidney, slyly.

“Oh, now--” Gabriella began.

“There is a little suggestion of French life here,” Miss Cavendish went on, not heeding these side remarks. “It isn’t quite as sedate as Amsterdam. I agree with you, Sidney, that there is much to attract one.”

“Including this excellent _pension_ with its pretty little garden.”

“And its funny milk-carts with those dear, good, hard-working dogs to draw them,” continued Gabriella.

“It is really a very important city, historically, commercially and artistically,” Miss Cavendish went on. “We shall find plenty of Rubens’ pictures here, his masterpieces, too. The cathedral is specially rich in paintings, and there is a remarkable carved pulpit there which we must not forget to see. St. Jacques is also a splendid church; the stained glass there is remarkably good. You see I have informed myself upon the sights of the city.”

“What shall we find at the Academy?” asked Gabriella.

“Rubens, and still more Rubens, with a number of other examples of good work.”

“Then I foresee that we shall spend several days here very satisfactorily,” Sidney predicted.

Time proved the truth of this, for it was the end of the week before they were ready to leave Antwerp’s interesting streets, where quaint old shops crowding splendid churches lured them to purchase precious laces, rare old silver, and fascinating antiques of all kinds.

[Illustration: “‘IT IS A VERY IMPORTANT CITY, HISTORICALLY, COMMERCIALLY AND ARTISTICALLY.’”]

“I shall not have a penny left for Paris if I keep on,” sighed Gabriella, “and there is Brussels yet to be considered.”

“But you may not want to spend anything there,” Sidney comforted her by saying. “I am told that one gets better laces here for the money, and that it is all a delusion that Paris prices do not obtain in Brussels. It may have been so at one time, but unless you know just where to go you can do better in Paris.”

“There are a dozen places it would be worth while to visit,” remarked Miss Cavendish, when they were on their way to Brussels, “but as long as we are simply skimming the cream very lightly, we shall have to leave them out. There are Treves and Bruges, for example, I should like much to see them. Treves is probably the oldest city this side the Alps, and claims to be older than Rome. Its history is exceedingly interesting. Bruges is a fine old city, too, full of things we would like to see.”

“Some day in my Methuselah incarnation,” announced Gabriella, “I shall come to Europe and visit all the small, no ’count towns. I think we could find a great many curious things in some of the places which nobody ever hears of, and which the guide-books pass over. Antwerp is not lacking in pleasant things to hear about. I like the story of Quentin Matsys, who gave up his trade of blacksmith in order to become an artist and marry an artist’s daughter. One never knows what hidden treasures may lie under ‘hodden grey.’ That blue blouse yonder may cover the heart of a poet.”

“I liked that about the five hundred New Testaments, and all that about Tyndale, who sold his whole edition to the Bishop of London and paid his debts, and then when the bishop had burned the books Tyndale promptly brought out a more perfect edition. I always like to hear of those wily old political tyrants being outwitted. What story did you like best, Gem?”

“I think the legend of St. Genoveva of Treves is delightful, though that takes us some distance from Antwerp. You remember that she was banished to the woods by the intrigues of Golo, Siegfried’s steward, and there her little boy was born, whom she named Sorrowful. His woodland nurse was a gentle hind. After seven years Siegfried and his friends were out hunting, and pursued the hind, whom they started up from her covert. When at last they came up to it they found a lovely boy standing closely clasping the creature’s neck. Then a fair woman appeared, whom Siegfried recognized as his beloved and wronged wife. She was able to vindicate herself from the charges of unfaithfulness which Golo had caused to be made against her and was restored to her husband. After her death she was canonized.”

“That is a pretty tale,” agreed Sidney.

“Brussels is so modern that we shall have to go on a pilgrimage in order to find its ancient streets, I fancy.” Gabriella expressed this opinion as they bowled along the wide boulevards of the city.

“We shall not have to go far,” Miss Cavendish told her, “for the Grand Place where the Hotel de Ville stands is the very centre of historical interest.”

“We’ll go there first thing, then, shall we? What do you most care to see, Gabriella?”

“Her beauty and her chivalry. There is some of the beauty, in that carriage. And oh, what a fine building. What is it?” She put her query to the driver.

“Le Palais de Justice,” he told her.

“We must not fail to go there. I begin to observe that Brussels, like most of the other spots we have visited, is worth while.” And it was several days before the sights of the upper and lower town had been viewed, even hastily. The cathedral with its magnificent stained glass; the Palais de la Nation; the Hotel de Ville, where they happened to be in time to witness a grand wedding; the Bois de la Cambre, where they sat and listened to the band play while they observed fashion in carriages and the rest of the world on foot; these were but a few of the things that occupied their attention.

Miss Cavendish, as usual, was fascinated by the laces, and, having discovered a little shop where moderate prices prevailed, she was beguiled into adding to her purchases an extremely beautiful bertha.

“Um! Um!” exclaimed Gabriella, when it was displayed to her envious eyes, “I’d like to be the fellow to wear that.”

“Perhaps you will be,” returned her godmother.

“Why, Isabella Cavendish, what do you mean? Explain yourself, if you please.”

“I mean that I am buying this for a wedding present. It shall be for the first one of the party who requires it for a wedding gown.”

“Lovely!” exclaimed Gabriella. “I’ll try my best to be the one who earns it.”

“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to set a premium on marrying; that wasn’t my idea at all. I only thought of its being a suggestive gift for one of you girls when the time came, because of the association. Lace will keep, you know, and I am in no hurry to get rid of it, I assure you.”

Gabriella looked at the delicate point with longing eyes. “I don’t intend to let you have it, Sid,” she declared, “for you can afford to buy slathers of lace for your wedding gown, while I shall never have another chance like this.”

Sidney laughed. “How terribly in earnest the child is,” she said. “I’ll tell you what we can do, Rella, we’ll make the compact that it is to be worn by each of us. Whoever has it first will lend it to the others as the occasion requires.”

“Others?” exclaimed Miss Cavendish. “Please leave me out of the question.”

“Indeed we will not,” Sidney spoke with decision. “I prophesy that you will be the very first to require it.”

“It is a lovely scheme,” Gabriella agreed, “and as I intend to marry nothing less than an American multi-millionaire or a wealthy Birmingham manufacturer with a bran-new title, it will be I who shall need it first.”

“We’ll not quarrel over it,” said Miss Cavendish, laughing as she returned the lace to its wrappings. “This is positively my last purchase of lace for this trip. Please bear me witness, girls.”

Although Brussels’ attractions continued to occupy their time, the prospect of Paris absorbed their thoughts and they suddenly decided to set their faces toward the “American heaven.”

“I have sensations, distinct sensations,” Gabriella announced. “My hands are cold and there are creepy feelings running up and down my spine. In five minutes we shall be in Paris, with the Latin quarter contiguous, so to speak, and the Louvre within comfortable distance.”

“I hope your creepy feelings don’t mean that you have taken cold,” remarked Miss Cavendish, practically.

“Oh, dear, no; they are purely mental effects. There, we have stopped. Do you dare get out, Gem, and project yourself into the hands of a Parisian cab-driver? I am scared to death of them and don’t dare to lift my eyelids till we get fairly started out of the station. Have we everything? Oh!” This last exclamation was due to the fact that Miss Cavendish was interviewing a respectable-looking interpreter, who agreed for the sum of one franc to put their luggage through the customs, get them a cab and see them safely started for the proper address.

“It is worth double the amount to be freed from responsibility,” acknowledged Miss Cavendish, who, on this occasion, was a little nervous. “I have something the feeling that Daniel must have had when he entered the lions’ den. I wonder if we shall ever have the courage to venture into the streets of Paris alone.”

“We have done it everywhere else,” Gabriella rejoined, “and we have never been gobbled up.”

“I suppose it is exceedingly silly and provincial to feel as if Paris were more dangerous than any other city, and no doubt I shall recover my equilibrium as soon as I get my bearings,” Miss Cavendish assured her charges. “Don’t lose faith in me, girls, because I employed an interpreter.”

“It would take more than a dozen interpreters to make us lose faith in you,” they insisted, loyally.

“It is beautiful. It isn’t in the least disappointing,” Gabriella exclaimed suddenly. “We are coming to the fine part of the city. This must be the Champs Élysées. There is the Arc d’Étoile, isn’t it? Are we to be near that, then?”

“I think so,” returned Miss Cavendish, a little uncertainly. “Yes, this is our street,” as they turned off the great thoroughfare.

“Good! Then we shall see the driving and the crowds and all that.”

“But you must remember that the gay season is over and what we shall see of Paris will not be the fashion and the show of spring and autumn.”

“We shall see enough, no doubt,” returned Gabriella, nothing discouraged.

Madame, their landlady, was a typical Frenchwoman, who greeted them in voluble French and assigned them their rooms with a business-like air. The rooms were not large, but were comfortable and looked out upon a long green court. “This is better than I could have believed,” asserted Miss Cavendish. “I rather inclined toward the Luxembourg quarter till Miss Bailey advised me to come here, for, as she said, the air is better and it will be cooler in case we have hot weather. I suppose we should perhaps see more of the life of the streets on the other side of the city, but, upon the whole, I am inclined to think that we have chosen wisely.”

“At least,” said Sidney, “we have not five or six long flights to climb, for this is only the second floor from the street.”

Gabriella was reading a note which the maid had just brought her. “The Baileys have arrived,” she remarked.

“How did you find that out?” Sidney asked in surprise.

“From this note,” returned Gabriella.

“Miss Bailey is writing to you? What for?”

“I didn’t say the note was from Miss Bailey,” replied Gabriella, blushing furiously.

“Gabriella, Gabriella, remember the multi-millionaire, or the Birmingham manufacturer,” warned Sidney. But Gabriella only laughed and thrust the note inside her blouse.

Sidney looked at her suspiciously. “You let that Briton know when and where we were coming,” she said.

“Well, not exactly as you put it,” Gabriella made reply. “He wrote to ask,--that was when we were in Antwerp,--and I answered when it was decided that we should be here the first of this week, and I furthermore told him that we were coming to a house recommended by Miss Bailey. I didn’t suppose I should find a note here, though it was natural enough, as he is not three squares away.”

“For pity’s sake,” exclaimed Miss Cavendish. “Is this to be a repetition of Florence, Gabriella? What is the object of his writing to you?”

“He wants us all to go to the Salon with him. It will be open only a few days longer, and he wanted me to know that. I am sure it is very decent of him.”

“So it is,” returned Miss Cavendish, somewhat mollified, “but I do hope, Gabriella, that you will not lead that young man a dance.”

“Oh, bless you, no. We are on very good terms with England, so there is no reason why I should try to revenge myself for any of the offences of his forefathers. I don’t bear any grudge because of taxation without representation.”

“But you simply cannot help flirting.”

“Oh yes, I can; I have helped it on occasions.”

“Then let this be one of the occasions.”

Gabriella looked up at her with a little inscrutable smile and set to work to arrange her belongings. During this process she placed a travelling ink-bottle upon the table which stood directly in front of the window and upon a level with the sill. In reaching for something upon the other side of the table the bottle was overturned, and before anyone could rescue it, over it fell, rolled out, and dropped with a crash into the court below, breaking into fragments. The effect was electrifying. In an instant there was excited voices raised above and below stairs; heads were thrust from the windows; the concierge, with angry gesticulations, consulted his wife; even a gendarme appeared to add to the general excitement.

“Did they think it was dynamite, or what?” questioned Gabriella in dismay.

At this instant there was a peremptory knock at the door. A maid, with flustered manner and red face, appeared. Madame wished to know the occasion of the disaster. How did it happen?

Each with the best French that she could summon tried to explain. It was an accident; the bottle had rolled out, they tried to tell her. Had anyone been hurt? Was any damage done?

“No, they were assured, but--” Here came a long speech spoken in such rapid utterance that they could not exactly follow, nor could they gather why the matter should so stir up the whole household. The maid was evidently not satisfied, for she took herself off still talking.

Presently another appeared. This one was English. Madame wished to know where the bottle was standing when the accident occurred. Had it been placed upon the window-sill?

“No, no,” returned Miss Cavendish, “it was upon the table. As you can see, it is very easy for anything to roll out.”

“Ah-h!” A smile of satisfaction overspread Betty’s face. Then it was all right. Perhaps the ladies did not know that it was against the law to place anything upon the window-sill, in case of danger to the passers-by. She would explain.

She withdrew and the report was taken to those below, the gesticulating and red-faced concierge subsided; the interested bystanders who had congregated slouched back into the street; the heads disappeared from the windows, and all was serene again.

“Did you ever know such a tempest in an ink-bottle?” exclaimed Sidney. “One would suppose that we had at least made an attempt to blow up the Louvre, or had tried to assassinate the president, and all because an ink-bottle fell out of the window.”

“Yes, but isn’t it French to get so excited over it?” laughed Miss Cavendish. “As soon as they discovered that we had not flagrantly broken a law, the circumstance ceased to interest them.”

“All the same, with their ‘_liberté_, _fraternité_ and _égalité_,’ there will be no one brotherly enough to give me a new ink-bottle,” complained Gabriella. “I don’t suppose I can ever get such a nice, complete American contrivance as it was. All the time they were fussing over the matter I was feeling aggrieved at my loss.”

“But it really might have injured some one if it had fallen upon a French head,” said Sidney.

“It wouldn’t have been my fault,” returned Gabriella, still aggrieved, “though I suppose I would have had the blame fixed upon me after the manner of the French, who do not give foot-passengers the right of way, but, when these are run down by an impudent cabby, make them pay a fine for getting in the way, even if they are broken to bits.”

“Do you mean in pocket?” asked Sidney.

“That from you, Sidney Shaw! I didn’t expect it. Wait till you get out into the streets and are in a hurly burly of automobiles, cabs and omnibuses, and while you are trying to get out of the way a vile cab-driver deliberately makes for you, then you’ll not make sickly puns.”

In response to this lecture, Sidney acknowledged that she had been sinfully flippant. “That is why,” Gabriella went on, “I answered Taffy’s note. I knew we should feel the need of a protector in this wicked city. I think it would be well if you and Gem were each to look out for one, for I am not sure that one will go around.”

“After which crafty remark I think you would better get ready for dinner,” suggested Miss Cavendish. “Speak for yourself and Sidney; I can get along by myself.”

“And I made the sacrifice of meeting that Briton again simply on your account,” returned Gabriella.

“You outrageous falsifier!” exclaimed Miss Cavendish.

Gabriella laughed, but it was noticed that she dressed with unusual care that evening.