Armand was not only able to secure one cab, but had two at his bidding. A wonderful fellow was Armand, and much given to style.
“Here you are,” he announced with a flourish to Henri when the cabs drew up before a handsome residence, with bronze lions crouching on the stone rests at each side of the entrance.
It was agreed that Henri should enter alone with his precious packet, which delivered and his trust fulfilled, he would be at liberty to seek his mother and place in her own hands the Trouville fortune that had been so hardly won from the iron-bound chest in the depths of the now ruined château on the Meuse.
With heart beating high, head erect, and feeling the responsible charge of a messenger of state, Henri applied at the entrance for admission, and as promptly was admitted.
“Wish I had a picture of Henri receiving the medal for distinguished conduct when he gives up the packet.”
Billy was back in his habit of expressing funny thoughts.
“It is not the house of the Premier,” said Armand, shaking his head. “And the government is not sitting in Paris now. It is the private residence, I am sure.”
“The private residence” is the French way of saying that you just don’t know who does live there.
The minutes passed, and then the half hour.
“I’m glad,” remarked Billy, “that these are not taxicabs. If they were we would have to lighten these belts to pay out.”