The street itself had a certain air of tranquil distinction. One of its extremities seemed barred by the austere walls of the old Luxembourg Palace, and the other by the enormous apse of St. Sulpice, with its statue of St. Paul upright on a pedestal between two columns.
“My favorite saint!” said Ethel, who did not believe in cold and passionless perfection, but in struggles for the best, with tears undoing faults. “St. Paul himself keeps guard over the end of the street! How happy we shall be here, grandma! And we’ll heat ourselves with wood fires and be lighted with candles,” she added with the joy of a child.
“We’ve found a real gem of an apartment,” Ethel said to the Comtesse de Donjeon, that very evening at her “five”-o’clock, which was at four. “Imagine, madame, a door covered with carving, through which you go underneath Medusa heads and cornucopias. We shall burn oil-lamps and candles; that will make us wish to wear flounces and dress our hair à la belle poule—”
“And to play ‘Il pleut, bergère’ on a spinet!” the countess interrupted. “Where did you discover such a gem of an apartment!”
“In the Rue Servandoni,” said Ethel.
“I know,” said the countess; “it’s near St. Sulpice. And, by the way, dear Miss Rowrer, if you wish any bric-à-brac to furnish your shelves, I can recommend you a precious man, a great connoisseur and a distinguished critic, a journalist of the good cause—M. Caracal.”
“Thank you so much, madame! M. Caracal would be very useful to me,” Miss Rowrer had answered.
“He’s a friend of the Duke of Morgania and of your fellow-countryman, Mr. Phil Longwill, whom you are acquainted with, perhaps.”
“Only by name,” Ethel said.
“The duke and Mr. Longwill are coming here to-day, I believe. I will present them to you if you wish.”