"En voiture!" the guards sang out, and Paul climbed into his carriage, once more the staid M. P. he thought—But was he? Could he ever be again?
Toward Paris, then, the fast mail bore him rapidly; and at the same time toward Langres. When they reached Bâle, Baxter telegraphed to the Hôtel du Rhin in Paris for a suite. At Belfort Paul directed him to send another message cancelling the reservation. And—alas for Paul's good resolutions!—at the station of Langres-Marne, a mile from the old cathedral town itself, he left the train, taking only a big Gladstone bag with him, and sent Baxter on alone to Paris, to wait until he should arrive.
Another short journey remained, so in company with the inevitable soldier, priest, and old lady with a huge umbrella, Paul took a seat in one of the open cars of the little rack-and-pinion railway that runs up the steep hill through the apple orchards to the old cathedral city. In a few minutes the train stopped at a miniature station.
It had begun to rain, and Paul was conscious that he was an object of interest as he stood on the steps of the station looking about him in search of a fiacre.
No vehicle was in sight, so he set himself to tramp up the hill to the Hôtel de l'Europe, at which he had stayed long years before, and of which he still entertained a lively recollection of its cleanness and its quaintness.
The hôtel slept, and Verdayne heard the bell pealing through the silent house as he stood shivering and waiting on the doorstep.
Presently he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn and a shock-headed night porter thrust his face out into the damp evening air.
The sight of Sir Paul's tall figure drew his immediate attention.
"What does Monsieur require?" he asked in accents which were at once civil and surprised.