The End of Her Honeymoon - Marie Belloc Lowndes (elon musk reading list .TXT) 📗

“Cocher? l’Hôtel Saint Ange, Rue Saint Ange!”

The voice of John Dampier, Nancy’s three-weeks bridegroom, rang out strongly, joyously, on this the last evening of their honeymoon. And before the lightly hung open carriage had time to move, Dampier added something quickly, at which both he and the driver laughed in unison.

Nancy crept nearer to her husband. It was tiresome that she knew so little French.

“I’m telling the man we’re not in any hurry, and that he can take us round by the Boulevards. I won’t have you seeing Paris from an ugly angle the first time—darling!”

“But Jack? It’s nearly midnight! Surely there’ll be nothing to see on the Boulevards now?”

“Won’t there? You wait and see—Paris never goes to sleep!”

And then—Nancy remembered it long, long afterwards—something very odd and disconcerting happened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon. The horse stopped—stopped dead. If it hadn’t been that the bridegroom’s arm enclosed her slender, rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown out.

The cabman stood up in his seat and gave his horse a vicious blow across the back.

“Oh, Jack!” Nancy shrank and hid her face in her husband’s arm. “Don’t let him do that! I can’t bear it!”

Dampier shouted out something roughly, angrily, and the man jumped off the box, and taking hold of the rein gave it a sharp pull. He led his unwilling horse through the big iron gates, and then the little open carriage rolled on smoothly.

How enchanting to be driving under the stars in the city which hails in every artist—Jack Dampier was an artist—a beloved son!

In the clear June atmosphere, under the great arc-lamps which seemed suspended in the mild lambent air, the branches of the trees lining the Boulevards showed brightly, delicately green; and the tints of the dresses worn by the women walking up and down outside the cafés and still brilliantly lighted shops mingled luminously, as on a magic palette.

Nancy withdrew herself gently from her husband’s arm. It seemed to her that every one in that merry, slowly moving crowd on either side must see that he was holding her to him. She was a shy, sensitive little creature, this three-weeks-old bride, whose honeymoon was now about to merge into happy every-day life.

Dampier divined something of what she was feeling. He put out his hand and clasped hers. “Silly sweetheart,” he whispered. “All these merry, chattering people are far too full of themselves to be thinking of us!”

As she made no answer, bewildered, a little oppressed by the brilliance, the strangeness of everything about them, he added a little anxiously, “Darling, are you tired? Would you rather go straight to the hotel?”

But pressing closer to him, Nancy shook her head. “No, no, Jack! I’m not a bit tired. It was you who were tired to-day, not I!”

“I didn’t feel well in the train, ‘tis true. But now that I’m in Paris I could stay out all night! I suppose you’ve never read George Moore’s description of this very drive we’re taking, little girl?”

And again Nancy shook her head, and smiled in the darkness. In the world where she had lived her short life, in the comfortable, unimaginative world in which Nancy Tremain, the delightfully pretty, fairly well-dowered, orphan, had drifted about since she had been “grown-up,” no one had ever heard of George Moore.

Strange, even in some ways amazing, their marriage—hers and Jack Dampier’s—had been! He, the clever, devil-may-care artist, unconventional in all his ways, very much a Bohemian, knowing little of his native country, England, for he had lived all his youth and working life in France—and she, in everything, save an instinctive love of beauty, which, oddly yet naturally enough, only betrayed itself in her dress, the exact opposite!

A commission from an English country gentleman who had fancied a portrait shown by Dampier in the Salon, had brought the artist, rather reluctantly, across the Channel, and an accident—sometimes it made them both shiver to realise how slight an accident—had led to their first and decisive meeting.

Nancy Tremain had been brought over to tea, one cold, snowy afternoon, at the house where Dampier was painting. She had been dressed all in grey, and the graceful velvet gown and furry cap-like toque had made her look, in his eyes, like an exquisite Eighteenth Century pastel.

One glance—so Dampier had often since assured her and she never grew tired of hearing it—had been enough. They had scarcely spoken the one to the other, but he had found out her name, and, writing, cajoled her into seeing him again. Very soon he had captured her in the good old way, as women—or so men like to think—prefer to be wooed, by right of conquest.

There had been no one to say them nay, no one to comment unkindly over so strange and sudden a betrothal. On the contrary, Nancy’s considerable circle of acquaintances had smilingly approved.

All the world loves a masterful lover, and Nancy Tremain was far too pretty, far too singular and charming, to become engaged in the course of nature to some commonplace young man. This big, ugly, clever, amusing artist was just the contrast which was needed for romance.

And he seemed by his own account to be making a very good income, too! Yet, artists being such eccentric, extravagant fellows, doubtless Nancy’s modest little fortune would come in useful—so those about them argued carelessly.

Then one of her acquaintances, a thought more good-natured than the rest, arranged that lovely, happy Nancy should be married from a pleasant country house, in a dear little country church. Braving superstition, the wedding took place in the last week of May, and bride and bridegroom had gone to Italy—though, to be sure, it was rather late for Italy—for three happy weeks.

Now they were about to settle down in Dampier’s Paris studio.

Unluckily it was an Exhibition Year, one of those years, that is, which, hateful as they may be to your true Parisian, pour steady streams of gold into the pockets of fortunate hotel and shop keepers, and which bring a great many foreigners to Paris who otherwise might never have come. Quite a number of such comfortable English folk were now looking forward to going and seeing Nancy Dampier in her new home—of which the very address was quaint and unusual, for Dampier’s studio was situated Impasse des Nonnes.

They were now speeding under and across the vast embracing shadow of the Opera House. And again Dampier slipped his arm round his young wife. It seemed to this happy man as if Paris to-night had put on her gala dress to welcome him, devout lover and maker of beauty, back to her bosom.

“Isn’t it pleasant to think,” he whispered, “that Paris is the more beautiful because you now are in it and of it, Nancy?”

And Nancy smiled, well pleased at the fantastic compliment.

She pressed more closely to him.

“I wish—I wish—” and then she stopped, for she was unselfish, shy of expressing her wishes, but that made Dampier ever the more eager to hear, and, if possible, to gratify them.

“What is it that you wish, dear heart?” he asked.

“I wish, Jack, that we were going straight home to the studio now—instead of to an hotel.”

“We’ll get in very soon,” he answered quickly. “Believe me, darling, you wouldn’t like going in before everything is ready for you. Mère Bideau has her good points, but she could never make the place look as I want it to look when you first see it. I’ll get up early to-morrow morning and go and see to it all. I wouldn’t for the world you saw our home as it must look now—the poor little living rooms dusty and shabby, and our boxes sitting sadly in the middle of the studio itself!”

They had sent their heavy luggage on from England, and for the honeymoon Nancy had contented herself with one modest little trunk, while Dampier had taken the large portmanteau which had been the useful wedding present of the new friend and patron in whose house he had first seen his wife.

Swiftly they shot through the triple arch which leads from the Rue de Rivoli to the Carousel. How splendid and solitary was the vast dimly-lit space. “I like this,” whispered Nancy dreamily, gazing up at the dark, star-powdered sky.

And then Dampier turned and caught her, this time unresisting, yielding joyfully, to his breast. “Nancy?” he murmured thickly. “Nancy? I’m afraid!”

“Afraid?” she repeated wonderingly.

“Yes, horribly afraid! Pray, my pure angel, pray that the gods may indulge their cruel sport elsewhere. I haven’t always been happy, Nancy.”

And she clung to him, full of vague, unsubstantial fears. “Don’t talk like that,” she murmured. “It—it isn’t right to make fun of such things.”

“Make fun? Good God!” was all he said.

And then his mood changed. They were now being shaken across the huge, uneven paving stones of the quays, and so on to a bridge. “I never really feel at home in Paris till I’ve crossed the Seine,” he cried joyously. “Cheer up, darling, we shall soon be at the Hôtel Saint Ange!”

“Have you ever stayed in the Hôtel Saint Ange?” she said, with a touch of curiosity in her voice.

“I used to know a fellow who lived there,” he said carelessly. “But what made me pick it out was the fact that it’s such a queer, beautiful old house, and with a delightful garden. Also we shall meet no English there.”

“Don’t you like English people?” she asked, a little protestingly.

And Dampier laughed. “I like them everywhere but in Paris,” he said: and then, “But you won’t be quite lonely, little lady, for a good many Americans go to the Hôtel Saint Ange. And for such a funny reason—”

“What reason?”

“It was there that Edgar Allan Poe stayed when he was in Paris.”

Their carriage was now engaged