Mr. Seeley had thought that a series of articles on Paris might be suitable for the "Portfolio," if they were written by the editor, who knew the beautiful city so well, and accordingly my husband had decided to go there for a month, in order to take notes and to choose subjects for the illustrations. He never could have been reconciled to the idea of remaining a month in Paris alone, and I bethought myself of a plan, which seemed both economical and pleasant, and which he readily adopted. It was to take Mary with us, and to rent a small apartment in our quiet Hôtel de la Muette; having our meals prepared in our private kitchen (for each apartment was complete), and the cleaning done with the help of a femme de ménage. It would be a sort of life-at-home on a very small scale.
The apartments were like English lodgings without attendance. Moreover, no one belonging to the hotel, not even a servant, had a right to enter the apartments: they were entirely private. One might order the most costly repasts from the luxurious restaurants close at hand, or keep a cordon bleu, or live on bread-and-water like an anchorite, just as one pleased, without anybody noticing it. This liberty was exactly what my husband liked.
We left home on October 9 with Richard, who was to continue his artistic studies in England now, and Mary, whom her father wanted to become acquainted with the different museums, beautiful buildings, and treasures of art, under his direction, for which there could have been no better opportunity.
We all looked forward to this change as to a partie de plaisir, the young people especially, and on our arrival in Paris, M. Mas and his wife received us with great cordiality. They had nothing in common with the ordinary type of hotel-keepers, and welcomed their habitués with a simple, hearty friendliness—such as servants, who had been all their lives in a family, might show to their masters—which pleased my husband much. They showed us, with visible satisfaction, our little apartment, saying that it had been reserved for us on account of "Mademoiselle," because her room would be just close to her mamma's, and the door leading from one to the other might be left open at night. We were told that the kitchen was particularly nice, because Monsieur Paul Baudry, "un artiste aussi," had fitted it up "à neuf" for the three months he had been spending in our present apartment. Early in the morning I went out to order provisions—groceries, fuel, wine, etc., for the month we were to remain at the hotel. We had afterwards an excellent and cheerful déjeuner prepared in our own kitchen. My husband was amused by the contrivances of what he called "the doll's house," and said he did not mind spending a month in that way. In the afternoon we went with the children to see the Hôtel de Ville, Notre Dame, and La Cour de Cassation: in each of these buildings my husband gave us a short explanatory lesson in architecture.
The second day he had already made rules for the division of his time, according to which the mornings would be reserved for writing and correspondence; déjeuner was to be ready at eleven, so as to leave the afternoon free for the work in Paris.
As on the previous day, we were breakfasting together, talking of Richard's prospects in London, when there came a telegram, saying that our dear Aunt Susan thought herself to be sinking, and desired to see us. It was a sudden and a painful blow; my husband had not a moment of hesitation about what he would do. He told us to pack up immediately, whilst he went to look at the railway-guide, and find the first slow night-train for England: Richard and Mary were to go with us—it would be a last satisfaction for their aunt if we arrived in time.
I was full of apprehension for my husband, but, of course, refrained from mentioning my fears.
There was no slow train after four o'clock, so we had to start when it was still daylight, but he kept his eyes closed till darkness rendered invisible the objects we passed on our way. He bore the journey very well on the whole, and on reaching Calais we went on board the steamer immediately. It was midnight, the sea was splendidly phosphorescent, and Richard and Mary took great delight in throwing things into it, to see the sparkles flash about. I had no fear so long as we remained on the water, for Gilbert always enjoyed it, whatever the weather might be, and felt utterly free from nervousness.
Arrived at Dover at four in the morning, we went to bed for a little rest, and after breakfast went out for a walk on the seashore under the cliffs. Richard had never seen the sea before, and he received a profound impression from it. The wind was high, and the big green, crested waves came dashing their foam on to the very rocks at our feet. The alternate effects of sunshine and masses of clouds, violently driven and torn by the squalls, were magnificent; and Richard, more than ever, was fired with the wish to become a painter. His sister, very sensitive to natural beauty, shared his enthusiasm.
The train for London started at three, and on arriving at Charing Cross we found a more reassuring telegram, stating that our aunt was somewhat better. Thus cheered by the hope of seeing her again, Gilbert was able to eat his supper with us before going to bed. I was greatly alarmed by his decision to start early in the morning and to travel throughout the day; but having made such a sacrifice of money in abandoning our apartment and provisions, and in taking the children with us in the hope of giving a last satisfaction to his aunt, I understood that he would on no account run the risk of arriving too late.