The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ wrath. "I must ask you to produce the plan before I begin my Perquisition."

      "But, monsieur," exclaimed the hotel-keeper piteously, "I cannot give you a plan of our hotel! How should we have such a thing? The house is said to be three hundred years old. We have even been told it should be classed as an Historical Monument!"

      "Every hotel-keeper is bound to have a plan of his hotel," said the Agent roughly. "And I shall report you for not complying with the law. If a plan of the Hôtel Saint Ange did not exist, it was your duty to have one made at your own expense."

      "Bien, bien, monsieur! It shall be done," said Poulain resignedly.

      "To have a Perquisition without a plan is a farce!" said the man, this time addressing Gerald Burton. "An absolute farce! In such an old house as this there may be many secret hiding-places."

      "There are no secret hiding-places in our hotel," screamed Madame Poulain angrily. "We have no objection at all to being inspected in the greatest detail. But I must warn you, gentlemen, that your job will take some time to carry through."

      The Police Agent shrugged his shoulders disagreeably. "Come along," he said sharply. "Let us begin at once! We would like to start by seeing your own rooms, madame."

      Gerald Burton began to feel very uncomfortable. Under pleasanter, more normal circumstances he would have thoroughly enjoyed a long exhaustive inspection of a house which had probably been remodelled, early in the eighteenth century, on the site of a mediaeval building.

      For the first time since he had begun to study with a view to excelling in the profession he had himself chosen, he had forgotten his work--the work he so much enjoyed--for three whole days. This Perquisition brought some of the old interest back. As an architect he could not but be interested and stimulated by this intimate inspection of what had been a magnificent specimen of a French town mansion.

      When the search party reached the bed-chamber of the hotel-keeper and his wife Gerald Burton drew back, but Madame Poulain gave him a smart tap on the arm. "Go in, go in!" she said tartly, but he saw there were tears in her eyes. "We have nothing to hide, Monsieur Gerald! This is my room of memories; the room where our beloved Virginie was born. Little did I think it would ever be dishonoured by the presence of the police!"

      Gerald, thus objurgated, walked through into a large room, low-ceilinged as are all rooms situated on the entresol floor of a Paris house.

      Over the bed hung Madame Poulain's wedding wreath of artificial orange blossoms in a round glass case. Photographs of the beloved Virginie taken at various stages of her life, from infancy to girlhood, were the sole other adornment of the room, and formed an odd contrast to the delicately carved frames of the old dim mirrors let into grey panelled walls.

      "What have we here?" cried the Police Agent tapping one of the panels which formed the wall opposite the door and the fireplace.

      "It is a way through into our daughter's room," said Poulain sullenly, and opening what appeared to be a cupboard door.

      The American took an eager step forward.

      This must be the place in which, according to Nancy's account, John Dampier had stood concealed during that eventful moment when he, Gerald, and his sister Daisy, had stood looking into the tiny room.

      Yes, two or three people might well stand hidden in this deep recess, for the cupboard was almost as large as the smaller of the two apartments of which it formed the connecting link.

      The Police Agent, following young Burton, stepped down into Virginie's room:--his voice softened:--"A very charming room," he said, "this little nest of mademoiselle your daughter!"

      "We had to cut a window out of the wall," observed Madame Poulain, "When we first came here this was a blind closet where the aristocrats, it seems, used to powder their hair--silly creatures that they were! As if anyone would like to be white before their time!"

      "We had better go up this staircase," said the Police Agent, passing out of Mademoiselle Poulain's room.

      And the six of them all filed up the narrow staircase, glancing into many a curious, strange little apartment on the way.

      Every inch of space had been utilised in view of the business the Exhibition rush had brought the Poulains. Still, even on the upper floors, Gerald Burton noticed that there remained intact many beautiful suites of apartments now divided and let out as single rooms.

      Not a word had been said of the coming Perquisition to those staying in the hotel. But Madame Poulain, by some means best known to herself, had managed to get rid of them all for the morning. And it was well that she had done so, for in more than one case the Police Agent and his men lifted the lid of travelling trunks, unhesitatingly pulled out drawers, and flung open the doors of hanging cupboards.

      Gerald Burton was in turn amused, interested, and disgusted. The glimpses which this search revealed into other people's lives seemed dishonourable, and instinctively he withdrew his gaze and strove to see as little as possible.

      Having thoroughly examined all the street side of the Hôtel Saint Ange, the three police emissaries started their investigations on the other side of the quadrangle, that which gave on the courtyard and on the garden.

      When the party came round to the rooms occupied by Senator Burton and his family, Madame Poulain came forward, and touched the Police Agent on the arm:--"The lady who imagines that we have made away with her husband is here," she whispered. "You had better knock at the door, and then walk straight in. She will not be pleased--perhaps she will scream--English people are so prudish when they are in bed! But never mind what she says or does: there is no reason why her room should not be searched as well as that of everybody else."

      But the woman's vengeful wish was to remain ungratified.

      Nancy Dampier had dressed, and with Daisy's help she had even made her bed. The Police Agent--Gerald Burton was deeply grateful to him for it--treated her with consideration and respect.

      "C'est bien! C'est bien! madame," he said, just glancing round the room, and making a quick sign to his men that their presence was not required there.

      At last the weary party, for by that time they were all very weary, reached the top floor of the Hôtel Saint Ange.

      Here were rough garrets, oppressively hot on a day like this, but each and all obviously serving some absent client of the hotel as temporary dwelling-place.

      Madame Poulain looked quite exhausted. "I think," she said plaintively, "I will remain here, monsieur, at the end of the passage. You will find every door unlocked. Perhaps we ought to tell you that these rooms are not as a rule inhabited, or indeed used by us in any way. That must excuse their present condition. But in a season like this--well, dame! we could fill every cranny twice over!"

      Gerald and the three Frenchmen walked along the corridor, the latter flinging open door after door of the curious cell-like little bedrooms furnished for the most part with only an iron bed, a couple of chairs, and the usual walnut-wood wardrobe.

      "What's this?" asked one of the men sharply. "We find a door plastered up here, Monsieur Poulain."

      But it was Madame Poulain who came languidly forward from the end of the passage. "Yes," she said. "If you wish to see that room you will have to get a ladder and climb up from the outside. A young Breton priest died here last January from scarlet fever, monsieur--" she lowered her voice instinctively--"and the sanitary authorities forced СКАЧАТЬ