It was some comfort to the indignant girls to find towers and fountains and streets named for Jeanne D’Arc, and one church sacred to the wonderful maid, where mass is said for soldiers. They came to that in returning from St. Catharine’s Hill, from which they had gazed down upon the Seine.
“What a tiny river,” said Kirke; “no wider than a New England brook!”
It mattered little to them that Corneille was born at Rouen, and that William the Conqueror died there. Their interest in the history of the city was centred in the trial and martyrdom of Joan the Maid.
Their next resting-place was Mantes, at an old hotel built around an open court—the very court, so Pauline was told, where William the Conqueror received his deathblow, falling from his horse.
“But I’m thankful to say William didn’t die here,” said the lively girl, tilting her nose. “They carried him to an abbey at Rouen, where I hope ’twas cleaner!”
“But Mantes is an interesting city, anyway,” returned Molly dreamily. “Just think, Polly, it’s eight hundred years old!”
“Humph! not very forward for its age,” sniffed Pauline. “Can’t even keep out of the dirt! Mould and antiquity are all very well for those that can afford ’em; as for me, I’m satisfied with simple magnificence.”
She found “simple magnificence” a day or two after at the Palace of Versailles, in the Glass Saloon, a ball-room lined with mirrors.
“Yankee Molly, can you believe your ears? The guide-book says this is where Queen Victoria once opened the ball with Napoleon Third!”
And Pauline danced airily across the floor, by way of illustration.