And all the world was a-singing....
In the twilight the train dashed past St. Denis and the foundries of Paris, swept under the lea of the hill where the scaffolding a-top showed the building of the great church of Montmartre, and thundered into the resounding grey gateway of the city that stands open to the north—the Gare du Nord.
At the barriers they were met by a French student in black slouch hat and great loose tie full flowing at the throat through the open collar of his short black coat—he wore baggy corduroy pantaloons. The golden-haired youth slapped Noll on the shoulder, pulled off his hat, and held out a hand to Betty—welcoming them to Paris. And Horace Malahide’s warm handshake brought a glow of happiness to them both. His laugh sent all the strangeness flying; they were no longer alone amid an alien people.
Horace, giving Noll a hand with the small baggage, called a porter and told him to hail a cab. The blue-bloused fellow soon had the scanty baggage stowed away on top. Horace smiled a little sadly at the girl’s trunk and the narrow extent of Noll’s belongings.
As they drove off together, Horace explained:
“Now, I’ve got you a room, right at the top, in one of the most delightful houses of the old student quarter. I have sent some of my surplus furniture; but I had to get the concierge to buy you a stove and one or two things.”
He laughed aside all thanks; then he coughed—a little embarrassedly:
“Of course—I told all the boys that you were coming—with a wife, Noll. But the Frenchmen all winked at the word wife; so they’ll be quite friendly and free.”
Horace was to show them everything and put them in the way of pleasant economies.
In the morning he was to move down from his old studio on Montmartre to be near them. Noll was to share his studio, when he was in the mood to paint—Horace was at Gérôme’s atelier at the Beaux Arts.