"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.
"Together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances." [Page 240].
"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.