Chapter 32

BACK TO PARIS ALONE.

Coming home.--The breaking up of the party.--We start for Paris alone.--Basle, and a search for a hotel.--The twilight ride.--The shopkeeper whose wits had gone "a wool-gathering."--"Two tickets for Paris."--What can be the matter now?--'Michel Angelo's Moses.--Paris at midnight.--The kind _commissionaire_.--The good French gentleman, and his fussy little wife.--A search for Miss H.'s.--"Come up, come up."--"Can women travel through Europe alone?"--A word about a woman's outfit.

TO dash through the town, along the quay where we had walked so many times beneath the trees or leaning over the low parapet fed the fishes, past the two-spired cathedral, the cloisters of which had become so familiar, to mount the hill and draw up before the door of the Bellevue again, welcomed by the innkeeper, and greeted with outstretched hands by "Charles," who had served our chocolate, while familiar faces met us at every window or upon the stairs, to pull up the shutters, throw wide open the windows, and drink in the glorious beauty of the scene before our eyes--all this was delightful, but fleeting, like all earthly joys, and mixed with pain; for here we were to say "good by."

Our pleasant party was to break up. The friends in whose care we had been so long, were off for Germany, and Mrs. K. and I must turn our faces towards home. We were to renew our early and brief experience in travelling alone. It had been as limited as our French, which consisted principally of "_Est-ce que vous avez?_" followed by a pantomimic display that would have done credit to a professional, and "_Quel est le prix?_" succeeded by the blankest amazement, since we could seldom, if ever, understand a reply.

"Are you afraid?" queried our friends.

"No; O, no." The state of our minds transcended fear.

It was a hot day when we took our last view of the lake, as we rode down the hill from the hotel, past the cathedral, past the shaded promenade upon the quay, to the station; but we heeded neither the heat nor the landscape when we were once in the train and on the way. Our hearts were heavy with grief at parting from friends, our spirits weighed down by nameless fears. It was a wicked world, we suddenly remembered. Wolves in sheep's clothing doubtless awaited us at every turn. Roaring lions guarded every station. We clutched our travelling-bags, umbrellas, and wraps, with a grasp only attained by grim fate or lone women. Gradually, however, as the uneventful hours wore away, we forgot that in eternal vigilance lay our safety, and relaxed our hold.

We had left Lucerne at noon; at five o'clock we reached Basle. Here we were to spend the night at the hotel _Les Trois Rois_. Every step of the way to Paris had been made plain to us by our kind friends.

"Let me see; the hotel is close by the station?" queried Mrs. K., when we had left our trunks, as our friends had advised, and followed the crowd to the sidewalk.

"Yes," I replied with assurance, "close by, they said; I am sure."

Accordingly we turned away from the long line of hotel omnibuses backed up against the curb-stone, to the fine hotels on each side of the straight avenue, extending as far as the eye could see. Alas! among their blazing names was no "_Trois Rois_." We read them over and over again. We even tried to pronounce them. Not a king was there, to say nothing of _three_.

In a kind of bewilderment we strayed down the avenue. Might not some one of the fair dwellings gleaming out from the shrubbery prove the house we sought? There was a rattle and clatter behind us; a passing omnibus. Another, and still another followed. Serene faces beamed out upon our perplexity. A cloud of dust enveloped us as the last rolled cheerfully by, upon the end of which we read, with staring eyes, "_Les Trois Rois_."

"Ah!" gasped Mrs. K.

"Sure enough," I replied.

"Why, suppose we take it?" said she, slowly.

"Suppose we do," I assented, with equal deliberation. But by this time the little red omnibus was a speck in the distance.

"At least we can follow it." And we quickened our steps, when, with almost human perversity, it turned a distant corner, and vanished from sight.

Fixing our eyes steadily upon the point of disappearance, we hastened on, and on, and on! I have a faint recollection of green trees, of stately houses, of an immense fountain swaying its white arms in the distance--mirage-like, for we never approached it; of the sun pouring its fierce rays upon us as we toiled on, with our wraps and satchels turning to lead in our arms.

We reached the corner at last. There was no omnibus; no hotel in sight; only the meeting of half a dozen narrow, crooked streets, crowded with carriages, and alive with humanity. All settled purpose left us then; our wits, never very firmly attached, followed. We became completely demoralized.

"Suppose you inquire," suggested Mrs. K., after a period of inaction, during which we were pushed, and jostled, and trampled under foot by the crowd.

If I possessed one capability above another, it was that of asking questions, especially in a strange language. Upon this corner where we were standing, rose an imposing building, in the open doorway of which stood a portly gentleman, with a countenance like the setting sun, in glow and warmth. A heavy mane flowed over his shoulders. Evidently this was the first of the roaring lions! Taking our lives in our hands, we approached him.

"Do you speak English?" I ventured.

"_Nein_," was his reply, with a shrug of the leonine shoulders.

I drew a long breath and began again.

"_Parlez-vous Français?_"

His reply to this was as singular as unprecedented. He turned his back and disappeared up the wide stairs in the rear.

"This _may_ be foreign politeness," I was beginning, doubtfully, when he reappeared, accompanied by an intensified counterpart of himself. The setting sun in the face of this man gave promise of a scorching day.

"_Parlez-vous Français, monsieur?_" I began again, when we had bowed and "_bon-jour_"-ed for some time.

"_Oui, oui, mademoiselle._"

Here was an unexpected dilemma. A terrible pause ensued. Then, with an effort which in some minds would have produced a poem at least, I attempted to make known the object of our quest. I cannot begin to tell of the facial contortions which accompanied this sentence, nor of the ineffable peace which followed its conclusion. It made no manner of difference that his reply was a jargon of unintelligible sounds. Virtue is its own reward. One sentence alone I caught, as the indistinguishable tones flew by. We were to take the first street, and then turn to the right.

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. K., when we had _merci_-d ourselves out of their radiant presences.

I explained the direction we were to follow.

"Horrible countenance he had," she remarked, as we pursued our way.

"O, dreadful," I assented.

"Nobody knows where he may send us," she continued.

Sure enough! In our alarm we stopped short in the street, and stared at each other with horrified countenances.

"I have heard--" I began.

"Yes; and so have I," she went on, shaking her head, and expressing by that gesture most fearful possibilities.

A bright thought seized me. "He told us to turn to the _right_; we will turn to the _left_!" And with that happy, womanly instinct, said to transcend all judgment, _we did_. Strange as it may appear, though we went on for a long half hour, no "_Trois Rois_" gladdened our eyes.

Suddenly Mrs. K. struck an attitude. "A fine appearance we shall present," said she; "two lone women, dusty and heated, our arms full of baggage, straggling up to a hotel two mortal hours after the arrival of the train. We'll take a carriage."

To me this inglorious advent was so distant in prospect that it held no terrors, nothing of mortification even. "_Les Trois Rois_" had become a myth, an idea towards which we vainly struggled.

"If it were only across the street," she went on, rising to the occasion and warming with the subject, "we would go in a carriage."

One approached at that moment. We motioned to it _à la Mandarin_, with our heads, our hands and arms being full. The driver raised his whip and pointed solemnly into the distance. We turned to gaze, seeing nothing but the heavens in that direction. When we looked back, he was gone. We should not like to affirm--we hardly dare suggest--we are sure of nothing but that he vanished from before our eyes.

A second appeared in the distance. We began in time. We pawed the air wildly with our umbrellas. The very satchels and wraps upon our arms nodded and beckoned. In serene unconsciousness the driver held to his course.

"Well!" I exclaimed, indignantly.

"I should think so," added Mrs. K., with emphasis.

"Is there anything peculiar, anything unusual in our personal appearance?" I asked, glancing down upon our dusty appointments. As we concentrated our energies and belongings for one final effort, a benignant countenance smiled out upon us from above a _cipher_. We were storming a private carriage!

The third attempt was more successful. The driver paused. We requested him, in English, to take us to "The Three Kings." He only stared and shook his head. We tried him with "_Les Trois Rois_." He seemed still more mystified.

"What can be done with people who do not understand their own language!" I exclaimed in despair.

We tried it again with our purest Parisian accent. An inkling of our meaning pierced his dull understanding. He rolled heavily down from his seat, and opened the door with the usual "_Oui, oui_." We entered and were driven away.

"Do you think he understood you?" queried Mrs. K.

"No-o."

"Well, where do you suppose he will take us?"

"I don't know, and I don't much care," I responded, in desperation.

We settled back upon the cushions. The peace that follows resignation possessed our souls. O, the luxury of that jolting, rattling ride, as we wound in and out among the tortuous streets! A full half hour passed before the dusky old hotel darkened above us, surmounted by "The Three Kings" arrayed in Eastern magnificence, and wearing gilded crowns upon their heads.

Fate had been propitious. This was our destination, without doubt, though we had made a grand mistake as to its location. We descended at the entrance with the air, I trust, of being equal to the occasion. We calmly surveyed the assembled porters, who hastened to seize our satchels and wraps. We demanded a room, and inquired the hour of _table d'hôte_, as though we had done the same thing a thousand times before. Mrs. K. was right; there was a moral support in that blessed carriage.

_Table d'hôte_ over, we strayed into a pretty _salon_ opening from the _salle à manger_. Both were crowded--over doors and windows, and within cabinets filling every niche and corner--with quaint specimens of pottery--pitchers, vases, and jars, ancient enough in appearance to have graced the domestic establishment of the original "Three Kings." The glass doors thrown back enticed us upon a long, low balcony, almost swept by the rushing river below--the beautiful Rhine hastening on to its hills and vineyards. We leaned over, smitten with sudden homesickness, and sent a message back to Rolandseck of happy memory.

With the faint shadows of coming twilight we wandered out into the square before the hotel. A line of _voitures_ extended down one side, every one of which was quickened into life at our approach. We paused, with foot upon the step of the first, for the _carte_ always proffered, upon which is the number of the driver and the established rate of fares. He only touched his shiny hat and prepared to gather up his reins.

"O, dear!" we said; "this will never do; we must not go." And we stepped down. The porters upon the hotel steps began to cast inquiring glances. One or two stray passers added their mite of curiosity, when the knight-errant, who always breaks a lance for distressed womanhood, appeared upon the scene. We recognized him at once, though his armor was only a suit of gray tweed, and he wore a fashionable round-topped hat for a casque.

Almost before we knew it, we were seated in the carriage, the _carte_ in our hands, and were slowly crawling out of the square--for a subdued snail-pace is the highest point of speed attained by these public vehicles.

The memory of Basle is as shadowy, dim, delightful, as was that twilight ride. Where we were going, we neither knew nor cared; nor, later, where we had been. We wound in and out the close streets of the old part of the city, full of a busy life so far removed from our own, that it seemed a show, a picture; below the surface we could not penetrate. We rolled along wide avenues where the houses on either side were white as the dust under the wheels. Once in a quiet square, we paused before an old _Hôtel de Ville_, frescoed in warm, rich colors. Again upon the outskirts of the city, before a monument; but whether it had been erected to hero or saint I cannot now recall. And somewhere, when the dusk was deepening, we found an old church, gray as the shadows enveloping it, with a horseman, spear in hand, cut in _bas relief_ upon one side. What dragon he made tilt against in the darkness we never knew.

Even our driver seemed to warm beneath the influences which subdued and dissipated our cares. He nodded gently and complacently to acquaintances, eliciting greetings in return, in which we, in a measure, shared. He hummed a guttural, though cheerful song, which found an echo in our hearts. He stood up in his place to point the way to misguided strangers, in whose perplexities we could so well sympathize. And once, having laid down the reins, and paused in our slow advance, he held a long and seemingly enjoyable conversation with a passing friend. To all this we made no manner of objection, rather we entered into the spirit of the hour, and were filled with a complacency which was hastily banished upon our return to the hotel, where, as we put into the hand of our benevolent driver his due, and the generous _pour boire_ which gave always such a twinge to our temperance principles, he demanded more.

"He claims," said the porter, who was assisting our descent, "that he has been driving with the carriage lamps lighted. There is an extra charge for that."

"But he left his seat to light them this moment, just before we turned into the square," we replied, indignantly.

The porter shrugged his shoulders. That is the end of an argument. There is never anything more to be said. We submitted at once, though our faith in benevolent humanity went to the winds.

Somewhat dispirited, we climbed the stairs to our room. "One day more," we said, "and our troubles will be at an end." But, alas! one day was as a thousand years!

It was to be an all-day's ride to Paris, from nine o'clock in the morning until half past nine or ten at night. So, while waiting for breakfast, we hastened out into the town, in search of a bookstore, and something to while away the dull hours before us.

A young man, of preternaturally serious countenance, was removing the shutters as we entered a musty little shop. We turned over the Tauchnitz's editions of English novels until we had made a choice, the value of our purchases amounting to four or five francs, and gave him a napoleon. With profuse apologies he left us to get it changed. Returning presently, he threw the silver into a drawer, and handed the books to us, with a "_Merci_."

"Yes," we said; "but--" Arithmetic had never been my strength; still something was clearly wrong here.

"The change," said Mrs. K. "He has given us no change." Sure enough; but still he continued to bow and thank us, evidently expecting us to go.

We tried to explain; eliciting only one of the blank stares that usually followed our attempts at explanation.

"The man must be an idiot," Mrs. K. said, gravely.

"He certainly has an imbecile expression of countenance," I assented. He stood still, bowing at intervals, while we calmly weighed and balanced his wits before his eyes. We tried signs; having through much practice developed a system to which the deaf and dumb alphabet is as nothing. We attempted to convince him that a part of the money was ours.

He smiled, and assured us, in a similar way, that the books belonged to us, the money to him.

There was so much justice in this, that we should doubtless have assented, had not his own wits finally asserted themselves. Blushing like a bashful boy, he suddenly exclaimed, counted out the change, and poured it into our hands with so many apologies, that we were glad to retreat.

It was a discouraging beginning for the new day. Still we would not despair. We had assured our anxious friends that we were quite able to take care of ourselves. We would triumphantly prove our own words. Breakfast over, and our bill settled without mishap or misunderstanding, we started for the station in the hotel omnibus, in company with a stout, genial Frenchman, who spoke a little English, and his fussy little wife. When we entered the station, the line formed before the ticket-window was already formidable. It lacked fifteen minutes of the hour when the train would start, and our baggage was--where? We seized a _commissionaire_, slipped a piece of money into his hand in a very bungling, shamefaced way, and, presto! in a moment our trunks appeared among the other baggage, though we had looked in vain for them before. Then, with a sensation of self-consciousness approaching guilt, I stepped to the foot of the line before the ticket-window.

"Two tickets for Paris," I gasped, finding myself, after a time, brought face to face with the sharp-eyed official. "What is the price?" But before I could utter the words, the reply rattled through my head like a discharge of grape-shot. Every finger resolved itself into ten, as I essayed to open my purse and count out the gold pieces. What should I do! I had not enough into ten francs; it might as well have been ten thousand! Mrs. K. was waiting at a little distance; but the place once lost in the line could not be regained, and there was our baggage yet to be weighed, and the hands of the clock frightfully near the hour of departure. There was an impatient stamping of feet behind me, as I stood for a moment dizzy, bewildered, with an angry buzz of voices ringing with the din and roar in my ears. Then I rushed down the room to Mrs. K., and explained as hastily as possible. She filled my purse, and I flew back to find the line pushed forward and my place gone. One glance at the hands of the clock, at the discouraging line of ticket-seekers yet to be served,--how could I go to the foot again! Then I walked straight to the window with the courage of despair. A low growl ran down the line, the _gendarme_ on guard stepped forward, expostulating excitedly; but, blessings on the man at the head of the line, who pushed the others back, and gave me a place, and even upon the grim official behind the window, who smiled encouragement, and gave me the tickets, while the _gendarme_ stormed. I stepped out again, conscious only of the wish--strong as a prayer--that we were safe again in Lucerne, or--some other place of peaceful rest.

Wedged in among the crowd, we saw one trunk after another weighed and removed, while ours remained untouched. I pulled the sleeve of a porter. My hand held my purse. The suggestion was enough. In a moment our trunks were weighed, and the little paper ticket corresponding to our "check" safe in our possession. I turned, conscientiously, to reward the porter; but we were jostled by a score of elbows, each encased in the sleeve of a blue blouse. Which was the one I sought? I could not tell. Each answered my glance of puzzled inquiry with one of expectation. Diving to the depths of my purse, I found it to contain one solitary centime--nothing more. I slipped it into the hand nearest, and from the start of surprise and delight was immediately convinced that it was the wrong man. However, it did not matter. There was no time to explain. The doors opening upon the platform, which remain locked until the last moment, were thrown open, and we hurried away, found places upon the train, and sank back upon the cushions exhausted, but happy. For ten hours at least, nothing could happen to us. The guard passed the window, examining the tickets, and slamming the doors, making our safety doubly sure. A moment more, and with a noiseless motion we were off. Hardly had the train started before it stopped again. One after another our companions left us--for we were not alone in the compartment. "Strange," we said, yet too thoroughly exhausted to be curious. It was still more strange when, after a short time, they each and all returned. They began to whisper among themselves, pointing to us. "What _can_ be the matter _now_?" we queried, suddenly mindful that life is a warfare, and roused to interest.

Our fellow-travellers proceeded to enlighten us in chorus, and in the confusion of the outburst, we caught--by inspiration--at their meaning. We had crossed the frontier into France, and the baggage was examined here. We hastened out and into the station. All the trunks but our own had been checked. With his hand upon one of these, an official demanded the key, upon our appearance. Remembering an episode in its packing, we demurred, and proffered the key of another. Already vexed by the delay, his suspicions were roused now. He demanded the key of the first, which we gave up with wicked delight. The by-standers drew near. Indeed, a crowd was the embarrassing accompaniment to all our unfortunate experiences. The official turned the key with the air of doing his duty if he perished in the attempt, when the lid flew open, and a hoop-skirt, compressed to the final degree, sprang up into his startled face, like a Jack-in-the-box. The spectators laughed--French though they were--as, very red in the face, he vainly tried to replace it, entirely forgetting to search for contraband articles.

No other incident disturbed the quiet of that long day's ride to Paris. At some queer little station we descended to lunch, and returned to our places, laden, like the spies of Eschol, with luscious grapes. Our fellow-travellers dropped out along the way, only, however, to be replaced by others. We had not succeeded in securing places in the compartment reserved for ladies alone; but the French gentlemen who were our companions proved most courteous in their polite indifference to our movements. An old gentleman among these, elicited our outspoken admiration for his grand head. We were secure in our native language, we knew.

"Lovely face!" we exclaimed, unblushingly. "What a head for a sculptor! Quite like Michel Angelo's Moses, I declare."

Before the day was over, "Michel Angelo's Moses" addressed us in excellent English.

When the darkness gathered, when the night settled down, something of its gloom oppressed us. Once safely housed in Paris, we should be at rest; but there were still difficulties to be overcome. Our friends had telegraphed to Miss H. that we should arrive by this train; but the number of her house we did not know, nor did they. We were only sure that her apartments were over the _Magasin au Printemps_. Still that was tolerably exact; we would not be uneasy. At ten o'clock at night we stepped down from the train into a confusion of tongues and elbows which I cannot describe, and followed the crowd into the baggage-room. I say _followed_--we were literally lifted from our feet and borne along. There was no baggage in sight. We waited until an hour seemed to have passed, and still no trunks appeared.

"Suppose we leave them, and send a porter from the house in the morning to find them;" and acting upon this, we struggled out of the station into the great paved square at one side. The night was dark; but the gas-lights dimly lighted up a line of carriages at the farther side, towards which we hastened, and had seated ourselves in one, when a _commissionaire_ came running across the square, and putting his head in at the carriage window, asked if we had any baggage.

"Yes," we replied; but the rattling words that followed brought only confusion to us. Our minds, already overtaxed, gave way at once. It is pleasant to recall the patience and good-nature of that official. It is pleasant, when old things have so entirely passed away, to remember the Paris of 1869 as, at least, a city into which women might come at midnight, alone, unprotected, and be not only free from insult and imposition, but actually cared for, and sent to their rightful destination, in spite of their own ignorance and incompetence.

"Stay here," said our friend in uniform; and he disappeared, to return in a moment with the stout French gentleman who had been our companion in the hotel omnibus at Basle. We met with mutual surprise, and pleasure on our side at least.

"_Do_ any one look for your baggage?" he asked.

"No," we replied. "We thought we might leave it."

"You must go," he said.

The _commissionaire_ took possession of our check and the driver's _carte_, and I followed the two back to the station, leaving Mrs. K. to guard our satchels, &c., in the carriage.

"Wait one leetle moment," said the kind French gentleman; "I bring madame." And in a moment he dragged the fussy little woman from the crowd, handing her over with the triumphant air of having now settled all difficulties.

"Madame speak ze Eengleesh fine," he said.

Looking down from an immeasurable height, the little madam condescended to remark that their servant was looking for their baggage.

"Ah!" I responded. "Then we are not permitted to leave our trunks."

"I am sure I don't know," she replied, looking so greatly bored, not to say exhausted, that I did not think it best to press the matter. "Our servant is attending to it," she repeated.

Her husband's face fairly glowed with satisfaction while this side conversation was being carried on. Evidently he believed the whole French baggage system to have been elucidated for my benefit. I thanked him heartily, as we exchanged cordial adieus. Even the fussy little woman gathered, for the moment, sufficient life to attempt to bow; which, alas! never got beyond a stare. The _commissionaire_ seized upon a blue-bloused porter, and gave me to him with the check, the _carte_, and a few sharply-spoken directions. Clinging to that blue sleeve, I was borne through the swaying, surging mass of humanity, into the baggage-room--how, I never knew. Our trunks were identified, lifted, not thrown, by my porter upon a hand-truck, which dragged for itself and us an opening in the crowd. Once out upon the platform, the porter pushed doggedly on into the darkness, though I had left Mrs. K. and the carriage in the square at one side. I expostulated. He held persistently to his course. I gave one thought to poor Mrs. K., resigned to what fate I knew not, and then, woman-like, followed my trunks.

It was all explained, when, dimly outlined in the darkness before the station, we espied a sea of shiny hats and shadowy cabs; and when, after long shouting of the number of our own, by the porter and everybody else, it finally crawled up to the steps where we were standing, Mrs. K.'s anxious face looking out of the window.

"I began to think you were lost," she said. "You can fancy my feelings when the driver gathered up the reins and drove out of that square."

We made a thank-offering upon the palm of every grimy hand, suddenly outstretched; then the driver paused, whip in the air, for the address of our destination.

"_Magasin au Printemps_, Boulevard Haussman." He stared, as everybody had, and did, along the way. If they only wouldn't! We repeated it. He conferred, in a low tone, with the man on the next box, who got down from his place, and came around to our window to look at us. One or two lounging porters joined him. The _Magasin au Printemps_ is a large dry and fancy goods establishment, which had been closed, of course, for hours, since it was now nearly midnight. It was as though we had reached New York late at night, and insisted upon being driven to _Stewart's_. The little crowd stared at us solemnly, in a kind of pitiful curiosity, I fancied. I think, by this time, our countenances may have expressed incipient idiocy. We attempted to explain that Miss H.'s apartments were over the _Magasin_, and the driver mounted to his seat, though, I am obliged to confess, with an ominous shake of his head.

As we rolled out into the wide boulevards our spirits rose. The sidewalks were crowded with promenaders, the streets with carriages. The light of a glorious day seemed to have burst upon our dazzled eyes. Paris, gay, beautiful Paris, which never sleeps, was out, disporting herself.

"We will not be anxious," we said; nor were we in the least. "Even if we cannot find Miss H.'s, some hotel will take us in. Or, failing in that, we can drive about until morning."

A thought of our respective and respectable families did cross our minds with this lawless suggestion. In happy unconsciousness, they believed us still safe with our friends.

We crawled up the Boulevard Haussman. There were the closed doors and shutters of the _Magasin au Printemps_. Two or three other doors met our gaze. The driver paused before one. We descended, and pulled the bell. You must know there are no doorsteps, in Paris, leading to front doors, as with us. The first floor is, almost without exception, given up to shops; and dwellings, unless pretentious enough to be houses enclosing a court-yard and entered from the street by passing through great gates, are simply apartments in the two, three, and four stories above these shops.

Some invisible mechanism swung back the great double doors as we pulled the bell, disclosing a pretty, paved court-yard, with a fountain in the centre, surrounded by pots of flowers. A glass door at one side, revealed wide marble stairs, down which a charming little portress was tripping.

"Is this Miss H.'s?" we asked in English. She only shook her head. We paraded our French. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, then, with a "_Oui, oui_," ran past us to the carriage, and gave some directions to the driver, emphasizing her words with a pair of plump little hands. Then, with a "_bon nuit_," she disappeared, and the great doors closed again. Evidently we were being taken care of, we thought, as we settled back again in the carriage. We stopped before another door, already open, and disclosing a flight of wide, stone stairs, ascending almost from the sidewalk. Immediately upon pulling the bell--as though the wire had been attached to it--a long, loose-jointed, grotesque, yet horrible figure appeared at the head of the stairs, half-stooping to bring himself within the range of my vision, swinging his arms like a Dutch windmill, and grinning in a way which seemed to open his whole head.

"Is--is this Miss H.'s?" I ventured from the sidewalk.

He only beckoned still more wildly for me to ascend. I drew back. Good Heavens! What was the matter with him? And still, while I stared fascinated, yet horror-stricken, he continued, without intermission, these speechless contortions and evolutions. Although he uttered not a sound, he seemed to say with every cracking joint, "Come up, come up," while he scooped the air with his bony hands.

I remembered that it was midnight; that we were alone, and in wicked Paris; that we had been religiously brought up; that Mrs. K.'s husband was the superintendent of a large and flourishing Sunday school; that my father was a minister of the gospel. I planted my feet firmly upon the sidewalk. I folded my arms rigidly. I shook my head virtuously. Come up? Chains should not drag me. Then I turned to the carriage.

"Mrs. K., do come and see this man."

She came. Together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances.

"Dreadful!" said I, remembering the Sunday school.

"Awful!" said she, recalling the pious ancestors. And again we shook our heads at his blandishments to the point of dislocation. The driver, who had been all this time tipped back against a tree, began to show symptoms of impatience. Something must be done.

"Suppose you ask for some one who can speak English," suggested Mrs. K.

"Sure enough." And I did. With one last, terrible grimace the ogre's heels disappeared up the second flight of stairs.

There came down in a moment a thoroughly respectable appearing porter, who informed us, in English, that we were expected, our telegram having been received; though, through the ambiguity of its address, it had been sent first to a house below. The people there had promised to forward us, however, in case we followed the telegram. This accounted for the movements of the little portress.

The _ogre_ proved to be a most good-natured _concierge_, who had been instructed to keep the door open in anticipation of our arrival.

So our fears had been but feathers, after all, blown away by a breath; our troubles only a dream, to be laughed over in the awakening.

* * * * *

Here the story of our journeying may end. The remaining distance, through the kindness of friends, new and old, was accomplished without difficulty or annoyance. We reached our own homes in due time, and like the princess in the fairy tales, "lived happily forever afterwards."

A few practical words suggest themselves here which would pass unnoticed in a preface--where, perhaps, they belong. First, in regard to the question often asked, "Can women travel alone through Europe?" Recalling our own experience,--too brief to serve as a criterion,--I should still say, "_Yes_." We met, frequently, parties of ladies who had made the whole grand tour alone. In Switzerland we found English women, constantly, without escort. The care of choosing routes, of looking after baggage and buying tickets, of managing the sometimes complicated affairs attendant upon sight-seeing, with the vexations and impositions met with and suffered on every hand, no woman would voluntarily accept without great compensation, I am sure. But if she prefers even these cares to seeing nothing of the world, they can be borne, and the annoyances, to a great extent overcome, through patience and growing experience.

Then, if you start alone, or without being consigned to friends upon the other side,--which no _young_ woman would think of doing,--you are almost sure to join, at different times, other parties, whose way is your own; and far preferable this is to making up a large company before leaving home--the members of which usually disagree before reaching the continent, and often part in mutual disgust. "There is nothing like travelling to bring out a person's real nature," say some. But this is untrue. Travelling develops, rather than reveals, I think, and under conditions favorable only to the worse side of one's nature. You are bewildered by the multitude of strange sights and ways; the very foundation of usages is broken up; you are putting forth physical exertions that would seem superhuman at home, and are mentally racked until utterly exhausted,--for there is nothing so exhausting as continued sight-seeing,--and at this point people say they begin "to find each other out."

An occasional period of rest--not staying within doors to study up the guide-books, but entire cessation from seeing, hearing, or doing--and a scrap from the mantle of charity, will save many a threatened friendship at these times. We learned to know our strength--how weak it was; and to await in some delightful spot, chosen for the purpose, returning energy, courage, and _interest_; for even that would be banished at times by utter weariness and exhaustion.

In former times, Americans fitted themselves out for Europe as though bound to a desert island. Wider intelligence and experience have opened their eyes and reformed their judgment; still, a word upon this subject will not be unwelcome, I am sure, to girls especially, who contemplate a trip over the ocean.

In the first place, your steamer outfit is a distinct affair. You are allowed to take any baggage you wish for into your state-room; but, if wise, you will not fill the narrow space, nor encumber yourself with anything larger than a lady's _hat box_, which may offer a tolerable seat to the stewardess, or visitors of condolence, in case seasickness confines you to berth or sofa. Even preferable to this is a flat, English portmanteau, which can be slipped under the lower berth. If you sail for Liverpool, you can leave this at your hotel there in charge of the head waiter until you return, and thus avoid the expense and care of useless baggage.

Its contents your own good sense will in a measure suggest. Let me add--a double gown or woollen wrapper, in which you may sleep, flannels (even though you cross the ocean in summer), merino stockings, warm gloves or mittens, as pretty a hood as you please, only be sure that it covers the back of your head, since you will ignore all cunning craft of hair dressing, for a few days at least, and even after you are well enough to appear at the table, perhaps. Bear in mind that the Northern Atlantic is a cold place, and horribly open to the wind _at all seasons of the year_; that you will live on the deck when not in your berth or at your meals, and that the deck of an ocean steamer partakes of the nature of a whirlwind. Fur is by no means out of place, and skirts should be sufficiently heavy to defy the gales, which convert everything into a sail. Take as many wraps as you choose--and then you will wish you had one more. A large shawl, or, better, a carriage-robe, is indispensable, as you will very likely lie rolled up like a cocoon much of the time. A low sea-chair, or common camp-chair, is useful to older people; but almost any girl will prefer a seat upon the deck itself; there are comfortable crannies into which no chair can be wedged.

By all means avoid elaborate fastenings to garments. A multiplicity of unmanageable "hooks and eyes" is untold torment at sea; and let these garments be few, but warm. You will appreciate the wisdom of this suggestion, when you have accomplished the herculean task of making your first state-room toilet.

If you are really going abroad for a season of _travel_, take almost nothing. You can never know what you will need until the necessity arises. If you anticipate, you misjudge. Your American outfit will render you an oddity in England. But do not change there, or you will be still more singular in Paris. It is as well to start with but one dress besides the one you wear on the steamer--anything you chance to have; a black alpaca, or half-worn black silk, is very serviceable. When you reach Paris, circumstances and the season will govern your purchases; and this same dress will be almost a necessity for constant railway journeys, rainy-day sight-seeing, and mule-riding in Switzerland. A little care and brushing, fresh linen, and a pretty French tie, will make it presentable--if not more--at any hotel dinner table.

A warm shawl or wrap of some kind you will need for evenings,--even though you travel in summer,--for visiting the cathedrals, which are chill as a tomb; and for weeks together among the mountains you will never throw it aside. But if you can take but one, _don't_ provide yourself with a _water-proof_. They are too undeniably ugly, and not sufficiently warm for constant wear. If it rains slightly, the umbrella, which you will buy from force of necessity and example in England, will protect you; if in torrents, you will ride. Indeed, you will always ride, time is so precious, cab-hire so cheap, and distances so great in most foreign cities.

Lastly, let me beg of you to provide yourself with an abundant supply of patience and good-nature. Without these, no outfit is complete. Try to laugh at annoyances. Smile, at least. And do not anticipate difficulties. Above all, enjoy yourself, and then everybody you meet will enjoy you. And so good by, and "God bless us every one."

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=FIELD BOTANY.= A Handbook for the Collector. Containing Instructions for Gathering and Preserving Plants, and the Formation of a Herbarium. Also Complete Instructions in Leaf Photography, Plant Printing, and the Skeletonizing of Leaves. By WALTER P. MANTON. Illustrated. 50 cents.

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HOW TO ENLARGE THE ANT TO THE SIZE OF AN ELEPHANT.

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Uniform with the author's "Handbooks of Natural History," and equally valuable.

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=BROKEN ENGLISH.= A Frenchman's Struggles with the English Language. By Professor E. C. DUBOIS, author of "The French Teacher." Cloth, 50 cents; cheap edition, paper, 30 cents.

The Professor's famous lecture, delivered all over the country. Amusing as a narrative, instructive as a handbook of French conversation.

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=WHAT IS TO BE DONE.= A Handbook for the Nursery, with useful Hints for Children and Adults. By ROBERT B. DIXON, M.D. Small 4to. Cloth, 50 cents.

Dr. Dixon has produced a work that will be gladly welcomed by parents. His "remedies" are indorsed by many prominent medical men.

_Sold by all booksellers, or sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._

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TROPHIES OF TRAVEL.

=DRIFTING ROUND THE WORLD;= A Boy's Adventures by Sea and Land. By CAPT. CHARLES W. HALL, author of "Adrift in the Ice-Fields," "The Great Bonanza," etc. With numerous full-page and letter-press illustrations. Royal 8vo. Handsome cover. $1.75. Cloth. Gilt. $2.50.

"Out of the beaten track" in its course of travel, record of adventures, and descriptions of life in Greenland, Labrador, Ireland, Scotland, England, France, Holland, Russia, Asia, Siberia, and Alaska. Its hero is young, bold, and adventurous; and the book is in every way interesting and attractive.

EDWARD GREÉY'S JAPANESE SERIES.

=YOUNG AMERICANS IN JAPAN;= or, The Adventures of the Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo. With 170 full-page and letter-press illustrations. Royal 8vo, 7 x 9½ inches. Handsomely illuminated cover. $1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

This story, though essentially a work of fiction, is filled with interesting and truthful descriptions of the curious ways of living of the good people of the land of the rising sun.

=THE WONDERFUL CITY OF TOKIO;= or, The Further Adventures of the Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo. With 169 illustrations. Royal 8vo, 7 x 9½ inches. With cover in gold and colors, designed by the author. $1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

"A book full of delightful information. The author has the happy gift of permitting the reader to view things as he saw them. The illustrations are mostly drawn by a Japanese artist, and are very unique."--_Chicago Herald._

=THE BEAR WORSHIPPERS OF YEZO AND THE ISLAND OF KARAFUTO;= being the further Adventures of the Jewett Family and their Friend Oto Nambo. 180 illustrations. Boards. $1.75. Cloth, $2.50.

Graphic pen and pencil pictures of the remarkable bearded people who live in the north of Japan. The illustrations are by native Japanese artists, and give queer pictures of a queer people, who have been seldom visited.

HARRY W. FRENCH'S BOOKS.

=OUR BOYS IN INDIA.= The wanderings of two young Americans in Hindustan, with their exciting adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. With 145 illustrations. Royal 8vo, 7 x 9½ inches. Bound in emblematic covers of Oriental design, $1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

While it has all the exciting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid in its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the Hindu. The illustrations are many and excellent.

=OUR BOYS IN CHINA.= The adventures of two young Americans, wrecked in the China Sea on their return from India, with their strange wanderings through the Chinese Empire. 188 illustrations. Boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold. $1.75. Cloth, $2.50.

This gives the further adventures of "Our Boys" of India fame in the land of Teas and Queues.

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HARRY W. FRENCH'S BOOKS.

=THE ONLY ONE.= A Novel. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

"The Only One" is a powerful story, dealing with the lights and shadows of life in America, Naples, and Persia. Written in a dashing style, sometimes deeply tragic, at others humorous in the extreme, it presents pictures of human life that attract and interest by their naturalness and vividness.

=CASTLE FOAM;= or, The Pauper Prince. A story of real life, true love, and intrigue in the brilliant capital of Prussia. 12mo. $1.50.

"A novel of remarkable power, and strangely unlike any yet written by an American. There is something in the beauty and intensity of expression that reminds one of Bulwer in his best days."--_Cincinnati Commercial._

=NUNA, THE BRAMIN GIRL.= 16mo. Cloth. $1.25.

"This book is beautifully written, and abounds in novel and dramatic incidents."--_St. Louis Globe Democrat._

=EGO=, The Life Struggles of Lawrence Edwards. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

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=GEMS OF GENIUS.= 4to. Illuminated covers. Gilt. $2.00.

"Fifty full-page illustrations, selected from the art-works of as many foreign painters, with text descriptive of each, from the pen of one of our native Ruskins."--_New-York Mail._

ART AND ARTISTS. A history of the birth of art in America, with biographical studies of many prominent American artists, and nearly one hundred illus. from their studios. Cloth. Gilt. $3.00.

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=OUR BOYS IN INDIA.= The wanderings of two young Americans in Hindustan, with their exciting adventures on the sacred rivers and wild mountains. With 145 illustrations. Royal octavo, 7 x 9½ inches. Bound in emblematical covers of Oriental design, $1.75. Cloth, black and gold, $2.50.

A new edition of the most popular of books of travel for young folks, issued last season. While it has all the exciting interest of a romance, it is remarkably vivid in its pictures of manners and customs in the land of the Hindu. The illustrations are many and excellent.

=OUR BOYS IN CHINA.= The adventures of two young Americans, wrecked in the China Sea on their return from India, with their strange wanderings through the Chinese Empire. 188 Illustrations. Boards, ornamental covers in colors and gold, $1.75. Cloth, $2.50.

After successfully starting the young heroes of his previous book, "Our Boys in India," on their homeward trip, the popular lecturer, extensive traveller, and remarkable story-teller, has them wrecked in the China Sea, saved, and transported across China: giving him an opportunity to spread for young folks an appetizing feast of good things.

_Sold by all booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._

=LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.=

MISS VIRGINIA F. TOWNSEND'S BOOKS.

Uniform Edition. Cloth. $1.50 Each.

BUT A PHILISTINE.

"Another novel by the author of 'A Woman's Word' and 'Lenox Dare,' will be warmly welcomed by hosts of readers of Miss Townsend's stories. There is nothing of the 'sensational,' or so-called realistic, school in her writings. On the contrary, they are noted for their healthy moral tone and pure sentiment, and yet are not wanting in STRIKING SITUATIONS AND DRAMATIC INCIDENTS."--_Chicago Journal._

LENOX DARE.

"Her stories, always sunny and healthful, touch the springs of social life, and make the reader better acquainted with this great human organization of which we all form a part, and tend to bring him into more intimate sympathy with what is most pure and noble in our nature. Among the best of her productions we place the volume here under notice. In temper and tone the volume is calculated to exert a healthful and elevating influence."--_New-England Methodist._

DARYLL GAP; or, Whether it Paid.

A story of the petroleum days, and of a family who struck oil. "Miss Townsend is a very entertaining writer, and, while she entertains, at the same time instructs. Her plots are well arranged, and her characters are clearly and strongly drawn. The present volume will not detract from the reputation she has heretofore enjoyed."--_Pittsburg Recorder._

A WOMAN'S WORD, AND HOW SHE KEPT IT.

"The celebrity of Virginia F. Townsend as an authoress, her brilliant descriptive powers, and pure, vigorous imagination, will insure a hearty welcome for the above-entitled volume in the writer's happiest vein. Every woman will understand the self-sacrifice of Genevieve Weir, and will entertain only scorn for the miserable man who imbittered her life to hide his own wrong-doing."--_Fashion Quarterly._

THAT QUEER GIRL.

"A fresh, wholesome book about good men and good women, bright and cheery in style, and pure in morals. Just the book to take a young girl's fancy, and help her to grow up, like Madeline and Argia, into the sweetness of real girlhood; there being more of that same sweetness under the fuss and feathers of the present day than a casual observer might suppose."--_People's Monthly._

ONLY GIRLS.

"This volume shows how two persons, 'only girls,' saved two men from crime, even from ruin of body and soul; and all this came about in their lives without their purpose or knowledge at the time, and not at all as they or anybody else would have planned it; but it comes about well and naturally enough. The story is ingenious and graphic, and kept the writer of this notice up far into the small hours of yesterday morning."--_Washington Chronicle._

_Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid on receipt of price._

=LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.=

LEE AND SHEPARD'S DOLLAR NOVELS.

=JOHN THORN'S FOLKS.= By ANGELINE TEAL. Cloth. $1.00.

=BARBARA THAYER.= By MISS ANNIE JENNESS. Cloth. $1.00. Popular Edition. Paper. 50 cents.

=THE ONLY ONE.= A Novel by HARRY W. FRENCH, author of "Castle Foam," "Nuna, the Bramin Girl," "Our Boys in China," "Our Boys in India," etc. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

This work was published as a serial in "The Boston Globe," and made a sensation. It will have a large sale in its new dress.

=LORD OF HIMSELF.= A Novel by FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD, author of "Handbook of English Literature," etc. A new edition. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

"This novel is one that has come into American literature to stay."--_Boston Post._

"Spirited, fresh, clean-cut, and deeply thoughtful."--_Boston Gazette._

=DORA DARLING:= The Daughter of the Regiment. By J. G. AUSTIN. 16mo. Cloth, $l.00. A thrilling story of the great Rebellion.

=OUTPOST.= By J. G. AUSTIN. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00. A Sequel to "Dora Darling," but each story complete in itself.

=NUMA ROUMESTAN.= By ALPHONSE DAUDET. Translated from the French by Virginia Champlin. With ten illustrations. Cloth. $1.00.

The latest work of fiction from the pen of Alphonse Daudet, and derives its main interest from the generally accepted belief that the hero of the novel is really Gambetta, the French statesman.

=KINGS IN EXILE.= By ALPHONSE DAUDET. A new edition. 16mo. Cloth. $1.00.

=LIKE A GENTLEMAN.= By Mrs. MARY A. DENISON. A Temperance Novel, by a well-known author. Cloth. $1.00.

Mrs. Denison is well known as the author of "That Husband of Mine," a summer book which exceeded in sale any thing published in America. This book is in a more thoughtful vein, but is very entertaining. The style is bright and witty.

=HIS TRIUMPH.= By the author of "That Husband of Mine," "Like a Gentleman," etc. Cloth. $1.00.

=A TIGHT SQUEEZE.= The adventures of a gentleman, who, on a wager of ten thousand dollars, undertook to go from New York to New Orleans in three weeks, without money or the assistance of friends. Cloth, $1.00. Paper, 50 cents.

=PUDDLEFORD PAPERS;= or, Humors of the West. By H. R. RILEY. Illustrated. A new edition. $1.00.

"This is a rich book. Any one who wants a genuine, hearty laugh, should purchase this volume."--_Columbus Gazette._

=THE FORTUNATE ISLAND=, and other Stories. By MAX ADELER. Illustrated. Cloth. $1.00.

"Max Adeler is a fellow of infinite humor."--_Albany Evening Journal._

"Extravagant, of course, are these stories, but entertaining and amusing, and instructive too."--MARGERY DEANE, _Newport News._

_Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._

LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers, Boston.

YOUNG FOLKS' HEROES OF HISTORY.

By GEORGE MAKEPEACE TOWLE.

Handsomely Illustrated. Price per vol., $1.25. Sets in neat boxes.

VASCO DA GAMA: HIS VOYAGES AND ADVENTURES.

"Da Gama's history is full of striking adventures, thrilling incidents, and perilous situations; and Mr. Towle, while not sacrificing historical accuracy, has so skilfully used his materials, that we have a charmingly romantic tale."--_Rural New-Yorker._

PIZARRO: HIS ADVENTURES AND CONQUESTS.

"No hero of romance possesses greater power to charm the youthful reader than the conqueror of Peru. Not even King Arthur, or Thaddeus of Warsaw, has the power to captivate the imagination of the growing boy. Mr. Towle has handled his subject in a glowing but truthful manner; and we venture the assertion, that, were our children led to read such books as this, the taste for unwholesome, exciting, wrong-teaching boys' books--dime novels in books' clothing--would be greatly diminished, to the great gain of mental force and moral purpose in the rising generation."--_Chicago Alliance._

MAGELLAN; OR, THE FIRST VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD.

"What more of romantic and spirited adventures any bright boy could want than is to be found in this series of historical biography, it is difficult to imagine. This volume is written in a most sprightly manner; and the life of its hero, Fernan Magellan, with its rapid stride from the softness of a petted youth to the sturdy courage and persevering fortitude of manhood, makes a tale of marvellous fascination."--_Christian Union._

MARCO POLO: HIS TRAVELS AND ADVENTURES.

"The story of the adventurous Venetian, who six hundred years ago penetrated into India and Cathay and Thibet and Abyssinia, is pleasantly and clearly told; and nothing better can be put into the hands of the school boy or girl than this series of the records of noted travellers. The heroism displayed by these men was certainly as great as that ever shown by conquering warrior; and it was exercised in a far nobler cause,--the cause of knowledge and discovery, which has made the nineteenth century what it is."--_Graphic._

RALEGH: HIS EXPLOITS AND VOYAGES.

"This belongs to the 'Young Folks' Heroes of History' series, and deals with a greater and more interesting man than any of its predecessors. With all the black spots on his fame, there are few more brilliant and striking figures in English history than the soldier, sailor, courtier, author, and explorer, Sir Walter Ralegh. Even at this distance of time, more than two hundred and fifty years after his head fell on the scaffold, we cannot read his story without emotion. It is graphically written, and is pleasant reading, not only for young folks, but for old folks with young hearts."--_Woman's Journal._

DRAKE: THE SEA-LION OF DEVON.

Drake was the foremost sea-captain of his age, the first English admiral to send a ship completely round the world, the hero of the magnificent victory which the English won over the Invincible Armada. His career was stirring, bold, and adventurous, from early youth to old age.

_Sold by all Booksellers, and sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._

=LEE & SHEPARD, Publishers BOSTON.=

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Varied hyphenation was retained. Boldface type is depicted by = and italic by _.

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 28, repeated word "a" removed from text (blossomed into a bell)

Page 35, "iniquitious" changed to "iniquitous" (most iniquitous proceeding)

Page 39, "beginnnig" changed to "beginning" (my heart beginning)

Page 82, "heartly" changed to "heartily" (were heartily ashamed)

Page 101, "Sevres" changed to "Sèvres" (pier of Sèvres)

Page 101, "Sevres" changed to "Sèvres" (transferred to Sèvres)

Page 130, "Hotel" changed to "Hôtel" (and the old Hôtel de Ville)

Page 212, "beautifull" changed to "beautiful" (head, past beautiful)

Page 216, "momentry" changed to "momentary" (a momentary life)

End of Project Gutenberg's An American Girl Abroad, by Adeline Trafton