In the old days there was a little hotel on the Rue Dannou, midway between the Rue de la Paix and what later along became the Avenue de l’Opéra, called the Hôtel d’Orient. It was conducted by a certain Madame Hougenin, whose family had held the lease for more than a hundred years, and was typical of what the comfort-seeking visitor, somewhat initiate, might find before the modern tourist onrush overflowed all bounds and effaced the ancient landmarks—or should I say townmarks?—making a resort instead of a home of the gay French capital. The d’Orient was delightfully comfortable and fabulously cheap.
The wayfarer entered a darksome passage that led to an inner court. There were on the four sides of this seven or eight stories pierced by many windows. There was never a lift, or what we Americans call an elevator. If you wanted to go up you walked up; and after dark your single illuminant was candlelight. The service could hardly be recommended, but cleanliness herself could find no fault with the beds and bedding; nor any queer people about; changeless; as still and stationary as a nook in the Rockies.
A young girl might dwell there year in and year out in perfect safety—many young girls did so—madame a kind of duenna. The food—for it was a pension—was all a gourmet could desire. And the wine!
I was lunching with an old Parisian friend.
“What do you think of this vintage?” says he.
“Very good,” I answered. “Come and dine with me to-morrow and I will give you the mate to it.”
“What—at the d’Orient?”
“Yes, at the d’Orient.”
“Preposterous!”
Nevertheless, he came. When the wine was poured out he took a sip.