Slowly we settled. We would stand of an evening like newly-weds in the newly acquired dominion and plan our furnishings. Yellow and black was to be the color scheme, with my lampshade and piano as keynotes—two armchairs and a divan to be covered with something, and the traces of the era Minard (the officer’s wife) to be eliminated. The lace tidies came off, the pictures of Calvary likewise, the strips of carpet put under the bed, and the statuettes and vases hidden. There was a washstand, a double-decker, and a Japanese screen to be disposed of somehow without Madame’s guessing that we weren’t wild about her furniture. It was days before we dared act. Marje did it. I should have told Madame that we were navrées not to have enough room to keep them and would they be safe in the cellar? but Marje—a diplomatic one—asked Madame if she thought it was quite comme il faut for two young girls to have a washstand in their salon? and with a “I should think not!” it was gone.
We looked at cretonnes—plain stripes; then wiggly stripes with roses and a conventional basket; then a formal design of children playing by a table; and on and on—always introducing yellow. Suddenly we saw our cretonne. A big gray pot of deep-rose peonies, with little white birds hovering over, and a little blue wistaria, all against a blue-and-gray lattice, with ultimate background of black. It is gorgeous. The design is twenty-seven inches high. We bought yards and yards—not to say metres and metres.
Then came upholstering. We worked with pins and warm language, and in five days had covered the divan, two armchairs, and six pillows. Marje did the pinning. I did the cutting. Then two long straight curtains beside the glass doors.
As for our yellow, my wonderful tea-set that I told you about, and some candlesticks painted yellow, and some bright yellow and black-and-tan striped pillows and the lampshade are the only yellow things. In the cretonne was only one pale lemon-colored flower; but I am slowly going round with my little brush and painting in the right yellow with water-colors. It’s wonderful, all of it.
Then we have a nest of tables of plain unvarnished wood that I got for nineteen francs—four tables for less than four dollars—and we fight constantly as to whether they are to be painted cream or black. You can imagine how lovely my black leather writing-pad that you gave me looks on the table, and with Leo sunning in the bay window, why, Mme. de Sévigné need not apply; and I forgot a gorgeous blue hydrangea that Marje gave me for my birthday.
You can’t imagine what a difference it makes to have a place to breathe in, and to play in, and to read the “New Republic” in, and to sew in, and to have afternoon tea in, etc. We feel so settled and permanent. Just wait until the war ends and you all come over to call!
I think we both feel a good deal better for the change. The Shurtleff car has been running fairly well lately.
I must tell you about my birthday—Marje wished me merry birthday the first thing in the morning, and then over at the Vestiaire Miss Curtis and Miss Sturgis presented me with a jar of real guava jelly. They had some left over from a steamer box when I first came, and remembered how fond I was of it. I was tremendously pleased to have any one think of my birthday, over here where everything is so different.
I went visiting all morning and took packages for prisoners, in the car, and sent them off. In the afternoon Marje and I did more visiting and hurried home for tea at five. Mrs. Shurtleff and Gertrude had tea with us and admired the salon, which had lately been fixed up, and then Miss Curtis blew in. She was going away the next day for two days to the country and wanted the Association car to go to the Ford place in her absence. She mentioned also some chairs and tables to be delivered up in Montmartre and a bed that had to go to Neuilly. It was after half-past five,—still later, I guess,—and she looked dead. So we offered to do it for her. She is always so wonderful to us. The car had the things all loaded on, but it’s always a job to go to Montmartre. The streets go straight uphill—so straight that they often end in a flight of steps, not marked on the map, and you have to back down and try another. Finally, we found the little back alley which was our first stop. The concierge’s husband helped unload the table and chairs and he was obsequiously drunk. He was too polite for words, and after the furniture was installed he explained that he was no mover, but a marchand de vin, and wouldn’t ces dames step in pour se refraichir. I couldn’t believe what he was saying, and Marje got hysterical over my tact (so-called), and I wanted to start off quickly, but dignifiedly. The car wouldn’t move. Crowds gathered. Suddenly I bethought myself of pushing the car—it was so very steep. But, of course, we were headed wrong, and you never can start the engine by pushing the car when you’re going backwards. However, we decided to push until we came to a cross street and could then turn around. We did this amid cheers. Then Marje took off the brake and let her coast. Not a leaf stirring. She said the carburetor must be wrong, and that she needed priming. So I pulled out the primer, backing along the cobblestones as fast as I could while the car coasted; all women and children drawing hastily away at the sight of a girl apparently pulling a camion down the street with one finger. But she started that way, and off we went. One has to be habile quelquefois. I think that Santa Claus in the shape of a lady from America is bringing us a self-starter.
Then out to Neuilly with the bed. The poor little woman that we took it to was overjoyed, as she and her children had taken turns sleeping on the floor ever since theirs had gone from their home là-bas.