CHAPTER XVIII

ALONE IN PARIS

JULIET shrank back in the cab, overwhelmed with horror at the position in which she found herself. That she should be left to take care of herself in a foreign city, with the life and manners of which she had absolutely no acquaintance, seemed an appalling experience to the girl who had been tenderly cared for all her days. It was just this having to fend for herself that she had most dreaded in looking forward to studying music abroad, and which had led her to accept so readily the loving protection which Algernon Chalcombe offered her.

And now he was taken from her, arrested for forgery! The word impressed Juliet with a sore sense of disgrace, and awoke in her heavy misgivings, though she tried hard to persuade herself that it must be a mistake, and Algernon would soon be set at liberty. But meanwhile she had to act for herself, and though she tried hard to rally her courage, terror of the unknown filled her mind, and made her dread the moment when the cab should reach the hotel.

She sat up and looked out at the thoroughfares through which she was passing. The tall houses with their outside shutters closed against the morning sun; the restaurants just opened, with sleepy-looking waiters arranging little tables and chairs beneath an awning on the pavement; the fruit vendors setting out their fresh merchandise, ticketed with prices which seemed to Juliet, unused to reckoning by centimes, preposterously high; the large open spaces, the lines of trees, the fountains, the flowers—she looked on all with dull eyes, seeing in them only what was foreign and unfriendly. Could this be Paris, the gayest city in the world, which she had always longed to see? And could it be herself, Juliet Tracy, who was travelling through it alone, oppressed by a sense of loneliness and fear which amounted almost to despair?

The hotel to which Algernon Chalcombe had directed the cabman to drive was but a third-rate house, though with a reputation for good cookery and good wine, which caused it to be frequented by artists of various kinds, and by such persons generally as had more wit than cash. It was the last hotel at which a young English lady might be expected to present herself alone. It stood amid old and narrow streets, and its porte-cochère was in one of the narrowest; but it had a tolerably spacious courtyard of its own on to which the public rooms opened.

When Juliet drove into it on this Wednesday morning, there was already some stir about the place, other travellers having arrived by early trains. Several persons were standing at the entrance, and Juliet felt the wonder and curiosity of their gaze as she alighted in nervous haste from the vehicle. She had been searching her memory as she drove along for such French phrases as were likely to prove useful now, and she thought herself tolerably prepared for the ordeal before her.

But when she encountered curious stares, and heard the bewildering foreign accents, her wits deserted her, and she could but stammer something of which chambre was the only intelligible word. This was enough, however, for the obsequious waiter who came to meet her. He at once took possession of her travelling bag and wraps, and invited her to follow him into the hotel. There he speedily summoned from the bureau "Madame," who counted amongst her accomplishments that of speaking English.

Juliet found herself confronted by a stout but active woman of middle age, clad in a frowsy dressing-gown, with her hair undressed, and the appearance of one who has but just risen from her bed. Her déshabillé condition, however, afforded madame not the slightest embarrassment. She greeted the newly-arrived guest in the most dignified and affable way, at the same time observing her with a keen scrutiny which heightened the colour in Juliet's cheeks.

"Mademoiselle is English. I speak English—it is not much. Mademoiselle travels alone? They are so courageous, the English misses."

"I am not alone," Juliet began confusedly, "at least, I mean—there was a gentleman with me—but he was unexpectedly detained—and I had to come on alone. He will be here soon, I hope."

A curious expression came to the woman's face as she listened. She smiled a peculiar, meaning smile, which made Juliet suddenly mindful of the strange circumstances under which she had come to Paris, and of the fact that this was to have been her wedding day. Her colour deepened, her head drooped; she felt overwhelmed with shame and confusion.

The woman eyed her more curiously. She shrewdly conjectured that something was wrong; but it was no business of hers. She was not wont to trouble herself concerning the characters or histories of those who came to her hotel. But one consideration had weight with her—the question of whether or not such strangers could pay. Her scrutiny of Juliet's appearance inclined her to believe that she had money, and she smiled on her more affably than before.

"Mademoiselle will wish a large room—one of de best?"

"I do not mind," said Juliet indifferently; "any one will do."

Madame smiled again. It was but too plain that this young English miss was not accustomed to engaging rooms for herself. She was having an adventure—madame liked adventures. They afforded matter for gossip, and were apt to bring money to her pocket.

"Mademoiselle perhaps will not mind if the room is rather high up?" she said.

"Oh no," said Juliet wearily. She only longed to gain a place of shelter, far from the curious eyes that continued to watch her closely as she talked with madame.

"Good," said madame, taking a key from the board on which it hung; "I have de very thing to please mademoiselle."

So saying, she led the way up a flight of stone stairs, and Juliet followed, the porter laden with her belongings bringing up the rear. One flight after another they mounted; it seemed as if presently they must arrive at the roof, when madame paused, inserted her key in the lock of a door, and opened it.

"See, see, mademoiselle," she said, inviting Juliet to enter, "it is a good room—a beautiful room."

The room was of tolerable size, but low. The polished floor was bare save for a strip of carpet here and there. There was a round table in the centre covered with a showy cloth. A couch covered with crimson velvet stood at one side against the wall; there was an easy-chair and four plainer ones upholstered to match. A gilt clock, which would not go, and some imposing-looking vases were on the mantelshelf, above which was a large pier-glass in a gilt frame. The bed, elaborately draped, stood in a recess. The washstand with its tiny ewer and basin was hidden away in a closet which opened from the room. Viewed with madame's eyes, the room was everything that a lady could desire.

She was surprised that it was not accepted with more enthusiasm; but Juliet only said wearily that it would do, and gazed about her with dull eyes, conscious only that the atmosphere was oppressively close and musty, and that the room somehow lacked comfort.

"Mademoiselle will wish something to eat after her journey," said madame, who had already by examining Juliet's luggage ascertained that she came from London. "If she will say what, it shall be served to her here."

At first, Juliet refused everything; but after some persuasion, she said timidly that she would like a cup of tea.

"Adolphe shall bring it directly," madame said, and hurried away to make it herself.

As soon as she had gone, Juliet rushed to the window and made desperate attempts to open it. She did not understand its foreign construction, and for some time strove in vain; but at last she succeeded in forcing it open, and leaned out to breathe the fresh air. Then she saw to her surprise that her window commanded nothing save a view of roofs. One roof shelved away from its very sill, then there was a narrow space beyond which rose another roof, and another and another. To right and left they spread, rising and falling in varying heights, with tall chimneys appearing here and there.

At one side the beautiful old belfry of a church was visible, and this was the sole object on which the eye could rest with pleasure. Juliet drew in her head with a heavy sigh. Somehow the sight of all those strange roofs, sheltering a life of which she knew nothing, brought home to her a bitter sense of her own lonely, forsaken, dreary position. She moved restlessly about the room, struggling to suppress the emotion which threatened to overwhelm her.

It seemed an age ere Adolphe, the waiter who had received her on her arrival, made his appearance carrying the tea in triumph. He had all the accessories on the tray. There was a metal teapot, a huge jug of hot water, and one almost as large tilled with milk; but the tea proved lukewarm and undrinkable. The making of tea was not to be included amongst the hotel's triumphs of cookery. Juliet drank a little of the milk, and then, unable to bear up longer against fatigue and misery, threw herself on the bed and sobbed and cried till sleep came to her relief and wrapped her in blissful oblivion.

She slept for many hours, and when she awoke it was past midday. She sat up and gazed about her with dazed eyes, not knowing for a few moments where she was. The crimson velvet chairs, the showy adornments of the foreign room, quickly brought everything to her recollection, and she uttered a low groan of despair. What was she to do? How could she stay on here alone? Would Algernon ever come to her rescue?

She sprang from the bed, impatient of the thoughts that tormented her. She unlocked her trunk and began to take out some of her things. She examined the resources of her room, carefully arranged her belongings, and finally proceeded to make her toilette in the most leisurely way, wishing to occupy as much time as possible. She brushed out her long shining hair and put it up with fastidious care, deriving even in her misery some satisfaction from the effect she produced. She exchanged her travelling gown for one of a soft grey material which became her admirably. The sense of freshness and coolness she thus attained was reviving; but oh, was ever a day so long us this?

The clock in the old church belfry she could see from her window was only now striking three! What could she do with herself? Apparently her room was situated above the kitchen, and high as was her window, the smell of cooking reached her nostrils, making her aware that she was very hungry. But she had not the courage to go down and ask for food. She shrank from encountering curious eyes again, or from meeting more of those meaning, smiling glances from madame, which even now stung her as she recalled them.

She remembered that she had some biscuits in her travelling bag, and she ate these with what remained of the milk that had been brought to her. She had a novel, too, in her bag, and she tried to pass the time in reading that, but found it impossible to fix her attention upon it. No one came near her, though she heard plenty of life and stir in the house. Steps resounded on the stairs and along the passages, and voices vehemently raised reached her ears from time to time. Once or twice she heard the sound of an arrival, which she hoped might be that of Algernon. But the steps she heard advancing always ceased ere they reached her door. Presently, as her reflections grew more serious, she found herself, in spite of her loneliness and fear, hoping that he would not come.

How slowly the hours passed! She watched the face of the clock in the belfry, and the hands scarcely seemed to move. But they did creep steadily on. Four o'clock struck, and then five, then six. At each hour, Juliet's thoughts turned homewards, and she pictured what her mother and sisters would be doing, and imagined the words her mother might be uttering concerning herself. Ah, she would be thinking that she was with the Felgates at Folkestone. She would never dream of her in such a position as this. And Juliet began to realise, as she had not before done, the enormity of the deceit of which she had been guilty.

The six strokes had not long resounded from the belfry when there came a tap at Juliet's door. She started up, half scared by the sound, and opened the door. Adolphe stood there. With some difficulty, Juliet understood his errand; he came to announce that dinner was served, and to ask if mademoiselle would not descend for it.

Juliet had for some time been conscious of the increased savouriness of the fumes which rose from the kitchen. She was feeling faint and sick for want of food; so, with a sense of gratitude, she accepted the man's invitation and followed him quickly down the stairs.

He led the way to the salle à manger on the ground-floor. With dismay, Juliet saw as she entered that it was full of people. She felt that her entrance created a sensation, as she advanced up the long room to the seat the waiter drew out for her.

Madame, her appearance so changed since the early morning that Juliet scarcely recognised her, was busy ladling out soup at a side-table, but turned to bid her "good-evening" smilingly as she passed.

Juliet sat down hurriedly, and for a while did not lift her eyes from her soup, which proved excellent. When at last she was compelled to raise her eyes, she perceived that opposite to her sat a long line of men, each with his serviette tightly tucked into his collar and depending over his chest, and each with his eyes fixed on her. At any other time the sight of so many men feeding like bibbed infants must have excited Juliet's sense of the ludicrous; but now she felt no inclination to laugh, only a great longing to escape from those curious eyes.

On her own side of the table near the top were four young women, who talked and laughed loudly, and whose remarks were not always in the best taste. Their accent told Juliet that they were Americans, and she gathered from their talk that they were art students belonging to one of the studios in Paris. She soon became aware that she was an object of considerable interest to them. Whenever she glanced in their direction, she found their eyes upon her, and the way in which they would nudge each other and suddenly lower their tones convinced her that they were discussing her appearance and probable history.

After that Juliet hardly knew what she ate. Her face and ears burned. She fancied that everyone who looked at her must know that she was a girl who had run away from home. Ah, if only they knew how fervently she longed to be safe in the shelter of her home once more!

It seemed as if the long, tedious meal would never come to an end; but at last it was over, and Juliet made her escape and hurried back to her own room, resolved that she would not again come down to take a meal in public. There she sat till the daylight faded, when she went disconsolately to bed; and thus ended her first day in Paris.

The following day brought her the same problem how to pass its hours. Strange to say, much as Juliet regretted the step she had taken, she never thought of turning back. It did not occur to her that she ought to write to her mother and confess all, or go home in penitence and seek the forgiveness she so ill deserved. No; it seemed to her that she had taken a step from which there could be no going back. If her mother did not already know, she soon must know what she had done, and she would hate the child who had shown herself so ungrateful. And such a feeling of shame came over Juliet, when she realised the position in which she had placed herself, that she could only desire to flee far from everyone who had known her in the past.

As Juliet sat drearily gazing on the sunlit roofs, madame arrived to pay her a visit.

"Mademoiselle should amuse herself now she is in Paris," she suggested; "she will find herself dull if she sits here all alone. She should go out and see the shops—the shops are beautiful. And the Louvre is not far-off, where there are pictures and statues. Mademoiselle should see the Louvre. And if mademoiselle has no French money, I can arrange that for her."

"No, I have no French money," said Juliet, opening her purse.

She gave madame some sovereigns, which she readily agreed to change, and did, reserving for herself, however, a liberal discount. Then, urged to it by madame, Juliet with a heavy heart set out to make acquaintance with the city of Paris.

How lonely she felt as she trod the broad, sunny streets, filled with gay, talkative people who seemed to have little to do save enjoy themselves, and who bestowed on her an amount of attention that was positively alarming, no words can tell. Here were the vaunted shops of Paris, with their windows filled with novelties that at one time would have enchanted her; but she glanced at them with listless eyes. What could she care now about the freshest millinery, the latest robes, the most rare and costly lingerie, or the latest eccentricities in trinkets? She felt no desire to make a purchase.

Could dainty gloves or costly trifles yield any pleasure to a girl who had been false to every dictate of duty, broken the closest bond of love, and deliberately forsaken all that made life worth living? Juliet shrank from every eye that rested on her as she went along. She felt as if all who looked on her must read the story of her wilfulness and ingratitude.

Once, as she stood by a shop window, only half conscious of the objects on which her eyes rested, she caught the words, "La belle Anglaise," and was aware that a gentleman who stood near was directing to her the attention of the lady who was his companion. Startled by finding herself thus observed, Juliet moved quickly away, and turned the corner into another street which appeared less frequented.

She wandered aimlessly on till the appearance of a house on the opposite side of the way arrested her attention, and she stood still to look at it. It was a large, substantially built house, with neatly curtained windows. But what struck Juliet as remarkable was that inscribed on its front were the words in English—"Asked of God," followed by a date many years back, and below them the words—"Given of God," with a date a few years later. The meaning was clear. The house stood there a memorial of answered prayer, and was probably the home of English workers.

As she stood and gazed at it, some association of ideas brought to Juliet's mind the thought of Mr. Mainprice, and of the summer night at Lynton, when under the influence of his words she had seemed to see the two ways opening before her, her own way and God's way, and had deliberately chosen to follow her own. To what had that way led her? The tears rose in her eyes as her heart gave to that question its bitter answer.

The next moment, Juliet felt someone touch her arm, and turning saw a lady beside her. The girl looked at her in wonder. She was undoubtedly English, for her style of dress—the little close-fitting bonnet and plain serge gown—resembled that of Salome. It was a good, strong, gentle face which the bonnet framed, and it had a look which somehow seemed familiar to Juliet, though she did not think she had seen the lady before.

"Pardon me," said the lady, in the kindliest manner, "I think you are English, and perhaps a stranger in Paris?"

"Yes," said Juliet involuntarily.

"Would you not like to come in and see our home? Then we could have a little talk together, and if I could be of any service to you I should be so happy."

For a moment, Juliet hesitated. The gentle, persuasive speech of her countrywoman won upon her. She felt a great longing to accept the sympathy thus proffered, but quickly she recollected the circumstances under which she had come to Paris, and shrank with alarm from the thought of being questioned concerning these.

"No, thank you. I must be going on. I must not stay, indeed," she said hastily.

"Perhaps we could arrange a meeting for some other time," suggested the lady. "Would you mind telling me your name, and where you are staying?"

For a moment Juliet was too confused to reply. A deep, painful flush suffused her face. But pride came to, her aid, and lifting her head, she said haughtily,—

"Excuse me, I cannot see that there is any occasion," and walked quickly on.

The lady stood still for a moment, looking after the girl with troubled eyes. Then she followed her, keeping at such a distance as enabled her to see whither Juliet went. She noticed that presently the girl appeared to be in some doubt as to her road, and paused once or twice to ask her way of a passer-by. Finally she passed up a narrow street, having first received some directions from a man who stood at the corner selling matches. The lady knew the man, and went forward to speak to him.

"Good-day, Varnier," she said to him in French. "That was a young English lady who spoke to you just now. What place did she want?"

"The Hotel Rome," he replied.

"Ah," said the lady thoughtfully. And turning, she slowly retraced her steps.