Arrived at the gates of the golf club we were ashamed at first to go in. We were tired and dusty and blown to pieces, and the paths and hedges looked too neat and dressy for words. But we did hop out and walk up to a gentle-looking gray-bearded Frenchman with a black straw hat, and asked if we could go in. He said he was enchanté to have Americans come to the club, and took us himself up to the first tee. I looked wistfully at the little piles of sand and thought of the many hours spent under an electric light between four walls of fish-net on Seventy-second Street, and longed for my driver.
We wandered up to some fir trees in the rough about halfway to the first green and flopped down on the ground. We were both pretty tired and didn’t know where we could spend the night, or what, in fact, the next move would be. Marje said that she couldn’t go another step until she had a nap, and as we didn’t know when we should see a bed, we crawled under the low branches of the fir tree, spread our coats over us, and went to sleep.
It was twenty minutes of four when we woke up. We jumped out of the bushes and so startled a man who was driving off that he sliced his shot and the ball went whizzing between our heads. It was surprising to see men caddies in battered French uniforms—probably réformés for tuberculosis—and also young husky girl caddies toting around armfuls of clubs. These were the only reminders of war, for on the veranda were Americans and French people in white tennis shoes and blazers playing bridge. You can’t imagine the thrill of seeing good-looking people wearing clothes and jewelry, sitting around and calling out “No trumps”—after what this winter has been in Paris.
My, but we felt good after our nap! We met our friend with the black hat and he took us inside the clubhouse. He showed us most especially the mural decorations—scenes in Fontainebleau—which were from his brush. One of the silver loving-cups in the glass case had “Compliments of Charles Crocker” on it, and Marje discovered that he is a relation of hers in Fitchburg.
We became very chummy with graybeard, and I mentioned in passing that we couldn’t find a place to stay. He gave us his card—M. Paul Tavernier—and said that he knew an old couple who had a lovely house which they rented furnished for the summer, beginning July 1st. Just now they rented rooms overnight and would serve the petit déjeuner. It was nice of him to recommend us, not knowing us at all, but he must have known we were nice, we looked so innocent and unattractive. It seems funny that over here when I’m traveling I spend my time trying to look utterly unattractive and I meet with dazzling success; but such a difference as it makes when choosing hats!
I have had a gnawing eagerness to see Moret. I believe it’s where the Barnards used to live; and Professor Churchill, head of the art department in Northampton, knew George Gray Barnard there, and used to mention the town and its environs in his lectures. The road leads through the forest, and I can imagine nothing lovelier than the acres of velvet green grass and giant green trees. You feel so tiny in between.
We hurried back to Fontainebleau and found 25 rue de l’Arbre Sec to be a plain-looking house on a narrow, cobbled side street. Our ring was answered by a nice-looking little woman, who became cordial when we mentioned M. Tavernier’s name. She led us through the house, which was dark and finely furnished, and upstairs to a bedroom done in pink, with white furniture. The windows looked out on a court and a heavenly garden—undreamed of from the street.
Mme. Moreau, our hostess,—I call her hostess for she seemed just like it,—made up the bed in fresh linen, hemstitched and monogrammed, put fresh towels in our private adjoining bathroom, and puttered around us adorably. She said that she didn’t serve any meals except breakfast, but would we like eggs with our coffee? We jumped for joy. I haven’t had an egg for breakfast since I was in Pau.
We sauntered out for dinner at 7.30. We went to the France et Angleterre, the chic-est hotel there, and ate on the Terrace with all the swells. A few of the very few members of Paris haute société that I know were there, and bowed quite informally over their pearls. I was becomingly gowned in my old brown felt hat, the coat of my winter suit, the little blue serge model, and a pair of men’s shoes that I bought from the Vestiaire. No matter. We watched the officers and their lady friends and the Rolls Royces and Renaults and negotiated our asparagus with perfect nonchalance.
To bed in that wonderful room. The armoire was all lined with satin, and there was a plain gray velvet carpet, and canework let into the head and foot of the bed, and the bed was set in an alcove with a canopy. Oh, I tell you it was great; twelve francs, for the two of us.