Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hôtel Chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all Parisian hotels terribly in want of air. The manager received us with as much attention as though we had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards.
The salle-à-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling glass and silver; a pleasant vision. Richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves with lazy grace. In a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run swiftly.
Then came up our cunning _maître-d'hôtel_, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy.
"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine of old.
"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Château d'Irrac is superior."
"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Château d'Irrac."
And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Château d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Château d'Irrac is much appreciated--especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"
_Amende honorable_, but not accepted; and the Château d'Irrac remained.
Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orléans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.
The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance. Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life--and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown.