While the chauffeur started the engine, the shopman with brilliant smiles delivered the music and the bag. The door clicked. Audrey noticed the clock, the rug, the powder-box, the speaking-tube, and the mirror. She gazed, and saw a face triumphant and delicious in the mirror. The car began to glide forward. She leaned back against the pale grey upholstery, but in her soul she was standing and crying with a wild wave of the hand, to the whole street:
“It is a miracle!”
In a moment the gigantic car stopped in front of the Hôtel du Danube. Two attendants rushed out in uniforms of delicate blue. They did not touch their hats—they raised them. Audrey descended and penetrated into the portico, where a tall dandy saluted and inquired her will. She wanted rooms; she wanted a flat? Certainly. They had nothing but flats. A large flat on the ground-floor was at her disposal absolutely. Two bedrooms, sitting-room, bathroom. It had its own private entrance in the courtyard. She inspected it. The suite was furnished in the Empire style. Herself and maid? No. A friend! Well, the maids could sleep upstairs. It could arrange itself. She had no maid? Her friend had no maid? Ah! So much the better. Sixty francs a day.
“Where is the dining-room?” demanded Audrey.
“Madame,” said the dandy, shocked. “We have no dining-room. All meals are specially cooked to order and served in the private rooms. We have the reputation....” He opened his arms and bowed.
Good! Good! She would return with her friend in one hour or so.
“106 Rue Delambre,” she bade the chauffeur, after being followed to the pavement by the dandy and a suite.
“Rue de Londres?” said the chauffeur.
“No. Rue Delambre.”
It had to be looked out on the map, but the chauffeur, trained to the hour, did not blench. However, when he found the Rue Delambre, the success with which he repudiated it was complete.