“It is the lady in the Rue St. Louis, mamma,” said Eudoxie.
“The lady who gave you macaroons? Oh! yes, I remember. I wonder who she is,” said Madame Casalis. “It is not often we make acquaintance with any of the visitors,” she went on, turning to Cicely. “Their world is a different one from ours, though sometimes my husband has been asked to call upon Protestant families, coming here for the winter. But just now I think we have no acquaintance among the visitors at all.”
“So Madame Gentille will probably remain Madame Gentille to the end of the story, Eudoxie,” said Cicely.
“Well,” replied the child philosophically, “I don’t mind. It is a nice name for her.”
But fate had not so willed it. A few days later when Cicely came downstairs one morning, she found Monsieur Casalis frowning over a letter which, notwithstanding his utmost efforts, he was unable to understand.
“Caroline,” he exclaimed, without looking up, “I have an English letter here which I cannot read. Translate it then for me, I pray thee.”
“It is not Aunt Caroline,” said Cicely. “Shall I do instead, Monsieur Casalis?”
“Thank you, my child,” said the pasteur in a tone of relief, pushing back his spectacles and beginning to stir his coffee, “thank you well. Yes, if you please,” and he held out the letter. “It is forwarded to me by a friend in Paris, Monsieur Carraud, who has received it from some one of his acquaintance in England; a lady, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Cicely, translating it as she spoke. “Yes, it is from a Mrs. Hulme, asking Monsieur Carraud if he has any friends at Hivèritz who would be so kind as to show some attention to a cousin of hers, a Mrs. Crichton, who, with her brother, is spending the winter here. They are quite strangers to Hivèritz, Mrs. Hulme says, and one or other evidently an invalid. It is a very short note, written hurriedly; I think that is all she says.”
“Does she not give the address—let me see, my dear,” asked Monsieur Casalis, looking over Cicely’s shoulder. “Ah! yes, here it is, Madame Creech—Creesh—how say you? Quel nom barbare! Madame Creeshton, Rue St. Louis, No. 14. Ah! yes, I know the apartement. Caroline, my friend,” he continued, as his wife came into the room, “here is something that thou must do to oblige our friend Monsieur Carraud.”