“‘World renowned Professor Reynaldo.’ That sounds Spanish but he says he’s from Paris—‘Parisien’—will be here on Tuesday evening to give a demonstration of his stupendous and altogether unexplainable power of the human eye,” Nancy translated loosely. “It also says his demonstration will be held in the meat market. ... I suppose that’s the biggest room they have, except the church, and that admission will be one and two francs. Standing room fifty centimes. Poor thing, he can’t make much of a living out of that.”
“Let’s go,” suggested Cynthia.
“Eh? ... Well ... yes.” Then as the idea struck her. “I think it would be fun. Maybe mother would like to go. Let’s ask her now.”
Mrs. Brewster was amused at the idea and quite willing they should go, but refused to be a third of the party. “Not if it’s to be held in the meat market. I never could stand the odor of so many sides of beef and mutton. But you children go along. I’m sure you will find it an amusing cross section of the peasant’s amusement. I believe they have never had a hypnotist here before.”
But Cynthia very nearly didn’t get to the entertainment after all. For on Sunday afternoon she went swimming with Nancy. It was an hour or two after dinner, the warmest part of the day when the girls took their bathing suits and crossed the little path across the tidal river. The way straggled along the top of a high, wind-torn meadow where coarse grasses tangled about the feet and where, on the rocks below, the sea piled, churning among the crevices. But the further side of this little peninsula was the bathing beach, quite wild and deserted, and one could choose any of a hundred grass-grown sand dunes for a dressing room.
Nancy had raced on ahead, and Cynthia sneezed twice, and wondered if she ought to go for this swim, after all. She wrestled with her conscience for a bit ... and conscience lost.
It was a beautiful swim, but about midnight Cynthia awoke with such a sore throat she could scarcely whisper. “Oh, darn!” she murmured feverishly. “What a bother! I do hope I’m not going to be sick!”
She lay for a bit thinking about that, then rapped gently beside her bed. She heard Nancy’s springs creak, heard her mutter something sleepily, and in a moment the light of Nancy’s candle appeared beneath the crack of the door. The crack widened and a sleepy voice asked, “Did you rap, honey? Oh, you poor thing! Cynthia, you are a wreck!”
Mrs. Brewster was called immediately and then Madame. Together they applied a hot, oily cloth to Cynthia’s throbbing throat, a funny aluminum hot-water bottle to her feet, and gave her a dose of something else, equally unpleasant and equally hot. Then she was given something to breathe on a handkerchief ... Cynthia muttered that it nearly blew off the top of her head, but it did miraculously clear her nose for its original purpose of breathing.
Next day she felt heaps and heaps better and protested that she could easily get up. But she was kept in bed till noon and then allowed out only for a short stroll in the sunshine, equipped with a handkerchief soaked in the breathing stuff. “But no more bathing till you are quite over this,” was the stern order of Nancy’s mother.