"Dear Mrs. Allonby," she protested faintly, while being carried off to the house, "indeed, I am not at all hungry, and not so very tired."
"Oh, but you are!" she insisted. "Dreadfully tired. And you must have some tea at once—in my room. I had mine long ago, out of doors. I will make tea for you in my own Etna—the one that upset in my dress-basket. Are you expected? Have you engaged rooms? Let me take you in to Madame Bontemps, proprietress and manager. Most civil and obliging; will make you very comfortable. We shall find her in the office. Heinrich? What's become of the porter? Madame Bontemps? What on earth's the matter?"
The inner door, which had been closed at sunset, yielded to pressure, and let a torrent of strident voices and sounds of discord pour out upon the startled air, disclosing a spectacle that caused both ladies to retreat in momentary terror, and despair of all peaceful and safe passage through the hall.
Madame Bontemps had, as it were, taken the stage—that is, the middle of the hall—and with blazing eyes and murderous gestures, was calling down what sounded the most terrific maledictions upon the devoted head of the stalwart Swiss porter, Heinrich, who, with bristling moustache and hair and balled fists, thundered back denunciations even more terrific with gestures of even greater violence.
"And not a policeman to be had!" Ermengarde lamented. "What on earth is to be done? She will be killed, and so will he. Heinrich! Madame! Monsieur Bontemps! Feu—au secours!" she cried, heedless of the new arrival's suggestion to wait till the storm was over. But of this there appeared to be little chance. Madame Bontemps, her features distorted with fury, shrieked fiercer and fiercer maledictions at the retreating Heinrich, springing across the hall at him, when he fled from her onset, soon to return to the charge, before which she in her turn retreated, with denunciations and gestures that put Madame Bontemps' life at a pin's fee.
"If there was only a fire-bell," murmured Ermengarde, looking round, deaf to her companion's reassurance that the contest would be bloodless, "or a police-whistle, or even a cab-stand!"
But Madame, undismayed and active, her rolled back hair quivering, her tall form dilating, her hands on her hips, repulsed the charge of Heinrich with such a torrent of abuse as drove him back once more to the middle of the hall. There both stood, still shouting and misunderstanding each other in three languages for a measurable space, during which Monsieur Bontemps lounged in an easy attitude, cigarette in mouth, at the office door, softly stroking his beard, and contemplating the engagement with indifference, tinged with approval and admiration of the majesty and fury of Madame.
"It is just this," he explained, with gentle condescension, when the storm lulled, "the French of Madame is incomplete; she supplements it with the Italian of the country—a tongue entirely unknown to Heinrich. The French of Heinrich, on the contrary, is absolutely vile. He supplements it with German, of which both he and Madame are partly ignorant, and with Swiss-German, a tongue known to none but those mountaineers. Hence misunderstandings. Myself, I ignore all. Que voulez-vous?"
Yielding to pressure, however, he at length drew the infuriated lady's attention from the combat to the claims of her guests. In a moment her looks of fury were replaced by smiles of courteous welcome; her blazing eyes shed light of soft inquiry, and she came forward with a stately bow and a genial, "Bon soir, mesdames," while Heinrich as quickly forgot his wrongs and his wrath, and, dissolving into cheerful smiles, took his usual station by the door. Finally, the tumult being succeeded by perfect calm, he blandly picked up a few of the woman of mystery's parcels, which had arrived beforehand, and carried them to her room, whither they were preceded by the stately presence of Madame Bontemps herself.
The new arrival never forgot the tea brewed for her that evening. To that she attributed every digestive disturbance that afflicted her all her life after.