“Cinq francs quatre-vingt-cinq.”
Wynne was unaccustomed to French money, and the centimes conveyed nothing to him. He proffered four francs and was amazed at the flow of incomprehensible invective which followed. It was impossible to argue at anything approaching that speed, so he held up his palm with some silver in it and said:
“Alors prenez ce que vous voulez.”
The driver accordingly appropriated eight francs, and with a cry of “ ’Voir et merci,” whipped up his horses and vanished into the night.
Wynne subsequently learned that the fare should have been about one shilling and threepence.
He entered the arched gates and found himself in a small courtyard with a lighted door at the further end. Above this was written, “Hotel du Monde et Madagascar.”
The idea of referring to Madagascar as though it were a satellite of the world pleased his sense of humour and warmed his heart toward the new abode.
The foyer at the hotel was quite small, and there was a little office, on the immediate right of the entrance, in which sat a sweet-looking old lady dressed in black, and wearing a beautifully laundered cap.
Wynne gave her good evening, stated that he wanted a room, “très bon marché,” and told her his name.
“Et moi je suis Rosalie,” returned the little concierge, with the sweetest smile imaginable.