Still pondering on this mystery she found the house on the Boulevard St. Michel that bore the address of the Mademoiselle Menard. Mrs. Brewster had explained that she lived on the fifth floor and that “in France the first floor is not the ground floor, nor the next, which is called the entresol. You have to go up two flights to get to the first floor and then begin to count from there!” They were long flights, too, and Cynthia had begun to feel a little faint by the time she reached the top. When she found Mr. Culbert, if she ever did, she would certainly beg him to take her out for a real dinner!
Cynthia put her finger on the large white push button and a bell pealed somewhere way off inside. But no one answered it. After a bit she tried again, and then again. What should she do next? She already had visited Notre Dame, and knew the Cluny and Luxembourg Gardens, for the past two days, as well as the palm of her hand. Besides she still felt strangely faint. She leaned against the heavy stone balustrade and looked down.
Suddenly up through the hallway, wafted from below came the most glorious and enchanting odor. Cynthia closed her eyes. It made her think of home, of a loaded dinner table with big plates of corned-beef hash, with an egg on top, slabs of bread and butter, and a thick slice of apple pie with cheese. Oh dear!
Like a good little hound following the scent, Cynthia, hypnotized by that delicious smell, stepped down, step after step, to the floor below. Still that beckoning, delightful odor. Another flight. It was stronger now, over the banisters.
“Heavens!” thought Cynthia. “How can I ever stand this?”
Here was the door and she had tracked it to its lair. A door, heavy and thick and solid, like those above. It was open just a crack, which was why the lovely smell had wandered out. Cynthia leaned against the doorpost. There were tears of hunger and of homesickness in her eyes as she sniffed ... and sniffed. Onions in that hash, too! No calves head in cold oil here, no tough thin steaks that might, or might not, be horsemeat!
Then the door opened with a whoosh and Cynthia almost fell through it into the hall beyond.
“’Ello!” said a cheery voice in French. Another girl, shorter than Cynthia but about her own age, with an amusing long nose, twinkly brown eyes, her hair covered by a chic little straw hat with a red quill, a white wool dress embroidered in red.
The girl continued to chatter something in French. Cynthia looked as blank as a brick wall; she had been wrenched all too suddenly from that corned-beef-hash day-dream.
“Say!” cried the girl suddenly. “You’re an American, too, aren’t you?”