“A glass of water,” said Mr. Fawcett, with a smile. “I think a little brandy would be more to the purpose. Don’t you think so, Miss Winter? Mother,” he continued, turning to the lady in the carriage, “I think our best plan will be to drive mademoiselle—I beg your pardon,” to Geneviève, “I don’t think I heard your name.”
“Casalis,” murmured the girl, but Mr. Fawcett did not catch the word.
“To drive the young lady to our hotel,” he went on; “it is close at hand, and then when you have rested a little,” he turned again to Geneviève, “you must allow us to drive you home.”
“I would like better to go to the house—home, I mean—now, thank you,” said Geneviève. “It is not very far—Rue de la Croix. I think I can walk now.”
“Pray do not attempt it,” said Lady Frederica. “It will be much better to do as my son proposes. Miss Winter, will you help the young lady to get into the carriage? Perhaps,” she added to Geneviève, “your servant (‘maid’ she was going to have said, but poor Mathurine’s appearance puzzled her; her short stout figure, sunburnt face, and fête-day cap by no means suggesting the conventional lady’s-maid) “will follow us if you will direct her to the hotel. What is the name of our hotel, Miss Winter? I never can remember; we have been at so many lately.”
“Hotel d’Espagne,” replied Miss Winter briskly, having by this time settled Geneviève comfortably in the place of honour by Lady Frederica’s side, and seated herself opposite. Then the handsome young ‘milord’ jumped up on to the box again, and the carriage drove off. The little crowd that the accident had collected dropped off one by one, leaving Mathurine standing alone in the middle of the road, shading her eyes with her hand, as she watched the carriage disappear.
“But he is distingué, ce jeune milord!” she murmured to herself, “those are the English of the first rank without doubt, and mademoiselle so beautiful, so gracieuse. Quel dommage she had not a pretty new robe d’été to-day, like the demoiselles Rousille! Still it might have been spoilt, for she is covered with dust. And a dress of alpaca one can brush. Without doubt it is all for the best.”
She gave two or three funny little grunts of satisfaction—it seemed to Mathurine she could see a long way into the future that afternoon—and then trotted away down the street in the direction of the Hotel d’Espagne.
Nearly an hour later, just as Madame Casalis was beginning to think that her messengers must be loitering greatly on their way, she was startled by the sound of a carriage driving past the window of the room where she was sitting and then stopping at the door.
The Rue de la Croix was a quiet little street, leading to nowhere in particular, and quite out of the thoroughfare of Hivèritz; rarely entered therefore but by foot-passengers. But Geneviève’s mother had hardly time to make up her mind whether, in Mathurine’s absence, she must open the door herself, or depute little Eudoxie or one of the boys to do so, when she heard familiar voices in the passage, and in another moment Geneviève, closely followed by Mathurine, came in.