He gave a glance at the guardian who was pacing up and down the hall, and Will slipped a heavy pourboire into the man’s hand.
“Is Monsieur Phil up there?”
“The former gardener? Yes. Go up.” Lifting a piece of tapestry at the corner of a wall, a little door appeared—it was the door of the staircase.
“Go ahead, M. Caracal; show us the way!” Ethel said.
Caracal, proud to lead, showed them the way up. They went on, turning round and round in single file, the staircase being wide enough for nothing else.
“This reminds me of going up the Monument in London,” Ethel said.
“And me of the corkscrew in the Mammoth Cave,” said grandma.
“Only a few more steps,” said Caracal, as he opened the door giving on the roof.
The light was dazzling. Great clouds floated high in a sky that was sweet and calm. Across the branches of the garden they looked on Paris, bathed in sun. The great city stretched out from horizon to horizon and, vibrating with the heat, seemed to wave like a sea. Grandma, Ethel, and Will, as well as the duke, stopped short. While the distant view was full of grandeur, the nearer scene was just as charming. There were shaded alleys, and under the oleanders and apple- and pear-trees, currants and strawberries were ripening. Caracal was already beginning his explanations.
“The green spots you see over there are the hanging gardens of the Rue de Valois. If we were a little higher up we could see those of the Automobile Club of the Place de la Concorde. This is the way they make them—first a layer of Norway tar, then fine sand, and then gravel—”