Finally, at the end of a lane I came to a gate, and, entering, found my way through a tangled orchard leading to a small settlement of frame houses fronting on a winding path. I looked about for the inevitable concierge, to whom to disclose my identity and ask permission to enter this bohemian community, when, with a growl, an ugly-looking dog rushed to the end of his chain and, with his scrubby neck bristling, stood eyeing me viciously. Over his kennel was printed in blue letters “Concierge,” evidently the work of Marcelle’s neighbor, the “clown,” I thought. Measuring the length of the brute’s chain and the circle it would describe, if swung in my direction, I shied by him and kept on my way. At the narrowest part of the path I found another sign: “Room for three automobiles only.” Over the door of the smallest house I read: “Château of the Duke and Duchess of Montmartre.” I passed the poet’s house, a little box of a place, half smothered in a tangled garden. He had decorated his modest façade with the verses of Villon and Verlaine; a satyr in stone rose from a labyrinth of flowers, and nearby a marble nymph, bathing in a miniature pool, peered laughingly from her hiding-place at the immovable satyr. Art was far more cheaply to be had there than three meals a day.
The pathway now ran through a short thicket. Beyond it lay the crest of the lane, an expanse of blue sky, and, nestling in the prettiest of tiny gardens, the “Villa Polichinelle.”
Marcelle, who had been watching me find my way, now called to me from an upper window, and came down to greet me in a sunbonnet and a calico wrapper.
“I am so glad you have come,” she said, cheerily. “And did the plan work well?” she added, with a laugh.
“Perfectly,” I replied. “Only you did not put in the dog.”
“Ah! Cerbère—yes, I know. He growled at you because you were a stranger. He is not a bad old fellow, tho, when you know him; you see he seems to feel responsible for us.”
I could not help shivering at the thought that Marcelle came home long after midnight, often alone, through rain, snow and slush, passing, to get to this mountain retreat, through one of the worst quarters of Paris, inhabited for the most part by gentlemen and their consorts whose records are as black as the ace of spades.
“Now,” said my hostess, “you must see all of my modest kingdom. First my garden, then my family, and then my house.”
“Good,” said I, “the garden shall come first.”
“Ah! I am glad you love flowers,” cried Marcelle, growing enthusiastic as I complimented her upon the beauty of her roses. She threw aside her sunbonnet and led me triumphantly to a bed of red and yellow tulips, which was edged by a row of box skirting the neatly-raked gravel path, so characteristic of French gardens.