The End of Her Honeymoon Part 4

And then the Senator, motioning her to a chair, sat down too.

"The Poulains," he said gravely--he was telling himself that he had never come across so accomplished an actress as this young Englishwoman was proving herself to be--"the Poulains," he repeated very distinctly, "declare that you arrived here last night alone. They say that they did not know, as a matter of fact, that you were married. You do not seem to have even given them your name."

Nancy stared at him for a moment. Then, "There must be some extraordinary mistake," she said quietly. "The Poulains must have thought you meant someone else. My husband and I arrived, of course together, late last night. At first Madame Poulain said she couldn't take us in as the hotel was full. But at last she said that they could give us two small rooms.

They knew our name was Dampier, for Jack wrote to them from Ma.r.s.eilles. He and I were only married three weeks ago: this is the end of our honeymoon.

My husband, who is an artist, is now at his studio. We're going to move there in a day or two."

She spoke quite simply and straightforwardly, and the Senator felt oddly relieved by her words.

He tried to remember exactly what had happened, what exactly the Poulains had said, when he had gone into the big roomy kitchen which lay to the left of the courtyard.

He had certainly been quite clear. That is, he had explained, in his very good French, to Madame Poulain, that he came to inquire, on behalf of a young English lady, whether her husband, a gentleman named Dampier, had left any message for her. And Madame Poulain, coming across to him in a rather mysterious manner, had said in a low voice that she feared the young lady was toquee--i. e., not quite all right in her head--as, saving Monsieur le Senateur's presence, English ladies so often were! At great length she had gone on to explain that the young lady in question had arrived very late the night before, and that seeing that she was so young and pretty, and also that she knew so very little French, they had allowed her, rather than turn her out, to occupy their own daughter's room, a room they had never, never, under any circ.u.mstances, allowed a client to sleep in before.

Then Madame Poulain had gone out and called Monsieur Poulain; and the worthy man had confirmed, in every particular, what his wife had just said--that is, he had explained how they had been knocked up late last night by a loud ringing at the porte cochere; how they had gone out to the door, and there, seized with pity for this pretty young English lady, who apparently knew so very, very little French, they had allowed her to occupy their daughter's room....

Finally, the good Poulains, separately and in unison, had begged the Senator to try and find out something about their curious guest, as she apparently knew too little French to make herself intelligible.

Now that he heard Nancy's quiet a.s.sertion, the Senator felt sure there had been a mistake. The Poulains had evidently confused pretty Mrs. Dampier with some wandering British spinster.

"Let me go down with you now," she said eagerly. "The truth is--I know you'll think me foolish--but I'm afraid of the Poulains! They've behaved so oddly and so rudely to me this morning. I liked them very much last night."

"Yes," he said cordially. "We'll go right down now; and my girl, Daisy, can come too."

When his daughter came into the room, "There's been some mistake," said Senator Burton briefly. "It's my fault, I expect. I can't have made it clear to Madame Poulain whom I meant. She has confused Mrs. Dampier with some English lady who turned up here alone late last night."

"But we turned up late last night," said Nancy quickly. "Very, very late; long after midnight."

"Still, my brother and I came in after you," said Daisy Burton suddenly.

And then she smiled and reddened. Mrs. Dampier must certainly have overheard Gerald's remark.

"It was an awful job getting a cab after that play, father, and it must have been nearly one o'clock when we got in. As we felt sure this side of the house was shut up we went up that queer little back staircase, and so past the open door of Mrs. Dampier's room," she explained.

To the Senator's surprise, Mrs. Dampier also grew red; indeed, she blushed crimson from forehead to chin.

"My brother thought you were French," went on Daisy, a little awkwardly.

"In fact, we both thought you must be Madame Poulain's daughter. We knew that was Virginie's room, and we've always been hearing of that girl ever since we first came to stay in Paris. She used to be at a convent school, and she's with her grandmother in the country just now, to be out of the Exhibition rush. The Poulains simply wors.h.i.+p her."

The Senator looked very thoughtful as he walked downstairs behind the two girls. The mystery was thickening in a very disagreeable way. Both hotel-keepers had stated positively that the "demoiselle anglaise," as they called her, had slept in their daughter's room....

But what was this the lady who called herself Mrs. Dampier saying?

"My husband and I realised you thought I was Mademoiselle Poulain," said Nancy, and she also spoke with a touch of awkwardness.

Senator Burton put out his right hand and laid it, rather heavily, on his daughter's shoulder.

She stopped and turned round. "Yes, father?"

"Then I suppose you also saw Mr. Dampier, Daisy?"

Eagerly he hoped for confirmation of the charming stranger's story. But--

"No," she said reluctantly. "We only saw Mrs. Dampier and the Poulains, father--they were all in the room together. You see, we were outside on the dark staircase, and just stopped for a minute on the landing to say good-night to the Poulains, and to tell them that we had come in."

"I suppose, Mrs. Dampier, that by then your husband had already gone to his room?" But in spite of his efforts to make his voice cordial the Senator failed to do so.

"No, he hadn't gone upstairs then." Nancy waited a moment, puzzled, then she exclaimed, "I remember now! Jack had just stepped up into a big cupboard which forms one side of the little room. He came out again just as Miss Burton and--and your son had gone on upstairs." Again she reddened uncomfortably, wondering if this nice, kind girl had heard Jack's unflattering epithets concerning "the young American cub." But no, Jack's voice, if angry, had been low.

When they were at the bottom of the staircase the Senator turned to his daughter.

"Daisy," he said quietly, "I think it will be best for this lady to see Madame Poulain with me alone." And as his daughter showed no sign of having understood, he said again, with a touch of severity in his voice: "Daisy, I desire you to go upstairs."

"You'll bring Mrs. Dampier up again, father?"

He hesitated--and then he said, "Yes, should she wish it, I will do so."

And Daisy Burton turned away, up the stairs again, very reluctantly. Her indulgent father was not given to interfere with even the most casual of her friends.h.i.+ps, and she already felt as if this attractive young Englishwoman was to be her friend.

Madame Poulain came slowly across the courtyard, and the Senator was struck by her look of ill-health, of languor. Clearly the worthy woman was overtaxing her strength. It was foolish of the Poulains not to have more help in, but French people were like that!

Senator Burton knew that these good folks were trying to ama.s.s as large a dowry as possible for their adored only child. Virginie was now of marriageable age, and the Poulains had already selected in their own minds the man they wished to see their son-in-law. He was owner of an hotel at Chantilly, and as he was young, healthy, and reputed kind and good-tempered, he had the right to expect a good dowry with his future wife. The fact that this was an Exhibition Year was a great stroke of luck for the Poulains. It almost certainly meant that their beloved Virginie would soon be settled close to them in charming salubrious Chantilly....

The proprietress of the Hotel Saint Ange now stood close to Senator Burton and his companion. Her voluble tongue was stilled for once: she was twisting a corner of her blue check ap.r.o.n round and round in her strong, sinewy-looking fingers.

"Well, Madame Poulain," the American spoke very gravely, "there has evidently been some strange misunderstanding. This lady a.s.serts most positively that she arrived here last night accompanied by her husband, Mr. Dampier."

A look of--was it anger or pain?--came over Madame Poulain's face. She shook her head decidedly. "I have already told monsieur," she said quickly, "that this lady arrived here last night alone. I know nothing of her husband: I did not even know she was married. To tell you the truth, monsieur, we ought to have made her fill in the usual form. But it was so late that we put off the formality till to-day. I now regret very much that we did so."

The Senator looked questioningly at Nancy Dampier. She had become from red very white. "Do you understand what she says?" he asked slowly, impa.s.sively.

"Yes--I understand. But she is not telling the truth."

The Senator hesitated. "I have known Madame Poulain a long time," he said.

"Yes--and you've only known me a few minutes."

Nancy Dampier felt as though she were living through a horrible nightmare--horrible and at the same time absurd. But she made a great effort to remain calm, and to prove herself a sensible woman. So she added quietly: "I can't tell--I can't in the least guess--why this woman is telling such a strange, silly untruth. It is easy to prove the truth of what I say, Mr. Burton. My husband's name is John Dampier. He is an artist, and has a studio here in Paris."

"Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"

"Of course I do." The question stung her, this time past endurance. "I think I had better have a cab and drive there straight," she said stiffly.

"Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage all right by myself now."

Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened, hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of concern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl--she looked even younger than his daughter--pretend that she had come here accompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?

Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no very pleasant expression on her face.

"Well," she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieur le Senateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse us of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrived with a man--as to that I say nothing--but I a.s.sert most positively that in that case he left her before she actually came into the Hotel Saint Ange."