One evening in October a nondescript sort of vehicle, the German makers of which could alone know the name, arrived at a small village not far from the banks of the Rhine, clattering into the yard of the only inn the place contained. A gentleman and lady descended from it, and a parley ensued with the hostess, more protracted than it might have been, in consequence of the travellers' imperfect German, and her own imperfect French. Could madame accommodate them for the night, was the substance of their demand.
"Well—yes," was madame's not very assured answer: "if they could put up with a small bedroom."
"How small?"
She opened the door of—it was certainly not a room, though it might be slightly larger than a boot-closet; madame called it a cabinet-de-toilette. It was on the ground-floor, looking into the yard, and contained a bed, into which one person might have crept, provided he bargained with himself not to turn; but two people, never. Three of her beds were taken up with a milor and miladi Anglais, and their attendants.
Mrs. Ravensworth—a young wife—turned to her husband, and spoke in English. "Arnold, what can we do? We cannot go on in the dark, with such roads as these."
"My love, I see only one thing for it: you must sleep here, and I must sit up."
Madame interrupted; it appeared she added a small stock of English to her other acquirements. "Oh, but dat meeseraable for monsieur: he steef in legs for morning."
"And stiff in arms too," laughed Arnold Ravensworth. "Do try and find us a larger bedroom."
"Perhaps the miladi Anglaise might give up one of her rooms for dis one," debated the hostess, bustling away to ask.