“Not a motion picture!” chuckled Cynthia. And tomorrow she could go and see it all for herself.
Then a second bridge, Place St. Michel. And a swift turn to the left into a narrow street where noises echoed back from the high stone houses to right and left. They drew up before a door and a boy, in a horizontal striped waistcoat and white shirt sleeves, came out from the hotel entrance. Here was her home in Paris.
Inside, at the little brass-railed desk, they had a key for her room and a letter from Mrs. Brewster, who had made her reservation for her. There was a little cage-like elevator into which one squeezed, barely avoiding the folding doors, and then up, up, like a wobbly balloon. A hallway musty and dark, and at last a tall room with two high French windows opening on to a small balcony.
“Yes, this will do nicely,” said Cynthia in her best French, and so moved into Paris.
When the door closed, Cynthia sat down to catch her breath. So much had happened in the last half hour, she had seen so much that was new, and strange, and lovely. “I suppose there are people that live in Paris all the time and take it as a matter of course,” she told herself. “And, I suppose, I shall get to take it that way too, after a bit. But now it’s all rather frightening. I wonder if I can make myself understood, I wonder if I shall get lost, I wonder ... oh goodness, how shall I order meals? But perhaps menu French is the same everywhere.”
Mrs. Brewster’s letter was reassuring. She seemed to think Cynthia would find everything very simple and easy. “But I am giving you the address of a little French girl, who speaks excellent English, she was a governess in London for some years. If you get lonely, or wish to improve your accent,” ha, accent! “don’t hesitate to look her up.” Enclosed was also a note from Nancy.
“Do come to Conquet,” she begged. “Mother and I are both painting here. It’s all pearly gray mists and long, empty beaches and sabots, and fish and steep streets and old houses. And you can find lots of children to pose for your covers.”
It did sound fun. But Paris seemed quite enough adventure for the moment. And Cynthia’s purse was very flat. She must first see Mr. Culbert, who was over here now, and was the editor of the magazine for which she had a contract for a dozen covers, see if she couldn’t get an advance on the first order, and if he could put her in touch with a way to get models. Just at the moment she hadn’t the slightest idea how to go about getting one for the painting she must do.
She sat down and wrote to Nancy, planning to mail the letter when she went out to dinner. Then leaning out on the little balcony, she watched the light fade in the street below, listening to the sounds of Paris echo up between the ancient, stained, backward sloping housefronts.
What, she wondered, with a little pang of homesickness, were they doing now at home? Six o’clock ... but no, time was different. Was it three over there, or nine, now? The mental gymnastics made her head reel and she decided that she was hungry. But plenty of time yet. Cynthia hated to admit to herself that she dreaded that first meal alone, doubted her ability to order food, even to find her way home again, once she had set her foot off the hotel doorstep. It was after eight o’clock when she finally tore herself away from the window and summoned courage to go out for dinner. “You can’t starve till morning, idiot!” she told herself severely. “Just walk downstairs, and out the door. There must be lots of places to eat within the next two blocks. Why, France is a nation of cooks!”