"Theatre, you good-for-nothing! Do I ever join in such frivolities? I have been in bed and asleep ever since ten o'clock—where you ought to be at this hour of the night."
"But la Patrone sent to engage rooms for these gentlemen and you promised to give them. They have come. Open the door. We cannot stay here till daybreak."
"You will stay there till doomsday if it depends on my opening to you. La Patrone never sent and I never promised. I have only one small empty bed in my house, and in the other bed in the same room two of my boys are sleeping. I am very sorry for the gentlemen. My compliments to la Patrone, and before sending gentlemen to me at midnight, she ought to find out if I can accommodate them. Good-night to you, and let us have no more rioting and bell-ringing."
The nightcapped head was withdrawn, the lattice was sharply closed, and we were left to make the best of the situation.
It was serious: nearly one in the morning, the whole town slumbering, and we "homeless, ragged, and tanned."
To remain was useless. Not all the ringing and rowing in the world would bring forth Madame again, though it might possibly produce her avenging spouse. André shouldered his baggage and we began to retrace our steps.
"Back to the hotel," commanded H.C.; "they must put us up somewhere."
"Not a hole or corner unoccupied," groaned André. "You can't sleep in the bread oven. And they will all have gone to bed by the time we get back again."
Suddenly he halted before a house at the corner of the marketplace. It looked little better than a common cabaret, and was also closed and dark. Down went the luggage, as he knocked mysteriously at the shutters.
"What are you doing?" we said. "You don't suppose that we would put up here even for an hour."