“Go ahead,” Audiberte would say to her brother when the proprietor came to them with complaints. It was pretty queer if one hadn’t the right to make music in this Paris that makes so much noise one cannot sleep at night! So he continued to practise. Then the proprietor demanded their rooms. But when they left the Passage du Saumon, the hostelry so well known in their native province, one that recalled their native land, they felt as if their exile were heavier to bear and that they had journeyed still a bit farther North.
The night before they left, after another long, unfruitful journey taken by Valmajour, Audiberte hurried her men through dinner without speaking a word, but with the light of firm resolution shining in her eyes. When it was over she threw her long brown cloak over her shoulders and went out, leaving the washing of the dishes to the men.
“Two months, almost two months since we came to Paris,” she muttered through her clenched teeth. “I’ve had enough, I am going to speak to this Menister myself—”
She arranged the ribbon of her head-dress, that, perched over her wavy hair in high bows, stood up like a helmet, and rushed violently from the room, her well-blacked boot-heels kicking at every step the heavy material of her gown. Father and son stared at each other alarmed, but did not dare to restrain her; they knew that any interference would but exasperate her anger. They passed the afternoon alone together, hardly speaking as the rain battered against the windows, the one polishing his bag and fife, the other cooking the stew for supper over a good, big fire that he took advantage of Audiberte’s absence to kindle, and over which he was for once getting thoroughly warm.
Finally her quick steps, the short steps of a dwarf, were heard in the corridor. She entered beaming.
“Too bad our windows do not look out upon the street,” she said, removing her cloak, which was perfectly dry. “You might have seen the beautiful carriage in which I came home.”
“A carriage! you are joking!”
“And two servants, and liveries—it is making a great stir in the hotel!”
Then in a wondering silence she described and acted out her adventure. In the first place and to start with—instead of going to the Minister, who would not have received her, she found out the address—one can get anything if one talks politely—of the sister of Mme. Roumestan, the tall young lady who came to see them at Valmajour. She did not live at the Ministry but with her parents in a quarter full of little, badly-paved streets that smelt of drugs and reminded Audiberte of her own province. It was ever so far away and she was obliged to walk. She found the place at last in a little square surrounded with arcades like the placette at Aps.
The dear young lady—how well she had received her, without any haughtiness, although everything looked very rich and handsome in the house, much gilding, and many silken curtains hung round on this side and that, in every direction: