CHAPTER II.
LOST IN THE LOUVRE.
"Oh how I wish that I had lived In the ages that are gone!"
A CHILD'S WISH.
It was--did I say so before? the children's first visit to Paris. Theyhad travelled a good deal, for such small people quite "a _very_ gooddeal," as Molly used to maintain for the benefit of their lessexperienced companions. They knew England, "of course," Ralph would sayin his lordly, big-boy fashion, Scotland too, and Wales, and they hadspent some time in Germany. But they had never been in Paris, and theexcitement on finding the journey safely past and themselves really therewas very considerable.
"And, Molly," said Sylvia, on their way from the railway station to thehotel where rooms had been engaged for them, "remember you've _promised_not to awake me in the middle of the night if you begin thinking aboutthe top of the bed coming down."
"And, oh, Sylvia! I _wish_ you hadn't reminded me of it just now," saidMolly pathetically, for which all the satisfaction she received was asomewhat curt observation from Sylvia, that she shouldn't be so silly.
For Sylvia, though in reality the kindest of little elder sisters, wassometimes inclined to be "short" with poor Molly. Sylvia was clever andquick, and very "capable," remarkably ready at putting herself, as itwere, in the place of another and seeing for the time being, through hisor her spectacles. While Molly had not got further than opening wide hereyes, and not unfrequently her mouth too, Sylvia, practical in the waythat only people of lively imagination can be so, had taken in the wholecase, whatever it might be, and set her ready wits to work as to the bestthing to be said or done. And Molly would wonderingly admire, and wishshe could manage to "think of things" the way Sylvia did.
They loved each other dearly, these two--but to-night they were tired,and when people, not children only, big people too, very often--aretried, it is only a very little step to being cross and snappish. Andwhen aunty, tired too, and annoyed by the unamiable tones, turned roundto beg them to "_try_ to leave off squabbling; it was so thoughtless ofthem to disturb their grandmother," two or three big tears welled up inMolly's eyes, though it was too dark in the omnibus, which was takingthem and their luggage from the station, for any one to see, and shethought to herself what a terrible disappointment it would be if, afterall, this delightful, long-talked-of visit to Paris, were to turn out notdelightful at all. And through Sylvia's honest little heart there darteda quick sting of pain and regret for her sharpness to Molly. How was itthat she could not manage to keep the resolutions so often and soconscientiously made? How was it that she could not succeed inremembering at the time, the very moment at which she was tempted tobe snappish and supercilious, her never-_really_-forgotten motive forpeculiar gentleness and patience with her younger sister, the promiseshe had made, now so many years ago, to the mother Molly could scarcelyeven remember, to be kind, _very_ kind, and gentle to the little,flaxen-haired, toddling thing, the "baby" whom that dear mother had lovedso piteously.
"Eight years ago," said Sylvia to herself. "I was five and Molly onlythree and a half then. Poor little Molly, how funny she was!"
And a hand crept in under Molly's sleeve, and a whisper reached her ear.
"I don't mean to be cross or to tease you, Molly."
And Molly in a moment was her own queer, happy, muddle-headed little selfagain.
"Dear Sylvia," she whispered in return, "of course you don't. You neverdo, and if the top of the bed _did_ come down, I'm sure I'd pull you outfirst, however sleepy I was. Only of course I know it _won't_, and it'sjust my silly way, but when I'm as big as you, Sylvia, I'll get out ofit, I'm sure."
"You're as big as me now, you silly girl," said Sylvia laughingly, whichwas true. Molly was tall and well-grown for her age, while Sylvia wassmall, so that very often, to Molly's delight, they were taken for twins.
"In my body, but not in my mind," rejoined Molly, with a little sigh. "Iwish the growing would go into my mind for a little, though I wouldn'tlike to be _much_ smaller than you, Sylvia. Perhaps we shouldn't bedressed alike, then."
"Do be quiet, Molly, you are such an awful chatterbox," growled Ralphfrom his corner. "I was just having a nice little nap."
He was far too "grown-up" to own to the eagerness with which, as theywent along, he had been furtively peeping out at the window besidehim--or to join in Molly's screams of delight at the brilliance of theillumined shop windows, and the interminable perspective of gas lampsgrowing longer and longer behind them as they rapidly made their way.
A sudden slackening of their speed, a sharp turn, and a rattle over thestones, told of their arrival at their destination. And "Oh!" criedMolly, "I _am_ so glad. Aren't you awfully hungry, Sylvia?"
And grandmother, who, to tell the truth, had been indulging in apeaceful, _real_ little nap--not a sham one like Ralph's--quite woke upat this, and told Molly it was the best sign in the world to be hungryafter a journey; she was delighted to find her so good a traveller.
The "dinner-tea" which, out of consideration for the children's homehours, had been ordered for them, turned out delicious. Never had theytasted such butter, such bread, such grilled chicken, and fried potatoes!And to complete Molly's satisfaction the beds proved to have no tops tothem at all.
"I told you so," said Ralph majestically, when they had made the tour ofthe various rooms and settled who was to have which, and though neitherSylvia nor Molly had the slightest recollection of his "telling you so,"they were wise enough to say nothing.
"But the little doors in the walls are quite as bad, or worse,"Ralph continued mischievously. "There's one at the head of your bed,Molly,"--Molly and Sylvia were to have two little beds in the same room,standing in a sort of alcove--"which I am almost sure opens on to asecret staircase."
Molly gave a little shiver, and looked up appealingly.
"Ralph, you are not to tease her," said aunty. "Remember all yourpromises to your father."
Ralph looked rather snubbed.
"Let us talk of something pleasant," continued aunty, anxious to changethe subject. "What shall we do to-morrow? What shall we go to see first?"
"Yes," said grandmother. "What are your pet wishes, children?"
"Notre Dame," cried Molly.
"The Louvre," said Sylvia.
"Anything you like. I don't care much for sightseeing," said Ralph.
"That's a pity," said aunty drily. "However, as you are the onlygentleman of the party, and we are all dependent on you, perhaps it isjust as well that you have no special fancies of your own. So to-morrowI propose that we should go a drive in the morning, to give you a generalidea of Paris, returning by Notre Dame. In the afternoon I have somecalls to make, and a little shopping to do, and you three must not forgetto write to your father. Then the next day we can go to the Louvre, asSylvia wished."
"Thank you, aunty," said Sylvia. "It isn't so much for the pictures Iwant to go, but I do so want to see the room where poor Henry the Fourthwas killed. I am _so_ fond of Henry the Fourth."
Aunty smiled, and Ralph burst out laughing.
"What a queer idea!" he said. "If you are so fond of him, I should thinkyou would rather _not_ see the room where he was killed."
Sylvia grew scarlet, and Molly flew up in her defence.
"You've no business to laugh at Sylvia, Ralph," she cried. "_I_understand her quite well. And she knows a great deal more history thanyou do--and about pictures, too. Of course we want to see the pictures,too. There's that beautiful blue and orange one of Murillo's that papahas a little copy of. _It's_ at the Louvre."
"I didn't say it wasn't," retorted Ralph. "It's Sylvia's love of horrorsI was laughing at."
"She _doesn't_ love horrors," replied Molly, more and more indignant.
"_You_ needn't talk," said Ralph coolly. "Who was it that took a box ofmatches in her pocket to Holyrood Palace, and was going to strike one tolook for the blood-stains on the floor? It was the only thing you caredto see, and yet you are such a goose--crying out if a butterfly settleson
you. I think girls are----"
"Ralph, my boy," said grandmother, seeing that by this time Molly wasalmost in tears; "whatever you think of girls, you make me, I am sorry tosay, think that boys' love of teasing is utterly incomprehensible--andoh, _so_ unmanly!"
The last touch went home.
"I was only in fun, grandmother," said Ralph with unusual meekness; "Ididn't mean really to vex Molly."
So peace was restored.
To-morrow turned out fine, deliriously fine.
"Not like England," said Molly superciliously, "where it _always_ rainswhen you want it to be fine."
They made the most of the beautiful weather, though by no means agreeingwith aunty's reminder that even in Paris it did sometimes rain, and thethree pairs of eager feet were pretty tired by the time bed-time came.
And oh, what a disappointment the next morning brought!
The children woke to a regular, pouring wet day, no chance of fulfillingthe programme laid out, for Sylvia was subject to sore throats, andgrandmother would not let her go out in the damp, and there would be nofun in going to the Louvre without her. So, as what can't be cured _must_be endured, the children had just to make the best of it and amusethemselves in the house in the hopes of sunshine again for to-morrow.These hopes were happily fulfilled.
"A lovely day," said aunty, "all the brighter for yesterday's rain."
"And we may go to the Louvre," exclaimed Sylvia eagerly.
Aunty hesitated and turned, as everybody did when they were at a loss, tograndmother.
"What do you think?" she said. She was reluctant to disappoint thechildren--Sylvia especially--as they had all been very good the daybefore, but yet----"It is Saturday, and the Louvre will be so crowded youknow, mother."
"But _I_ shall be with you," said Ralph.
"And _I_!" said grandmother. "Is not a little old lady like me equal totaking care of you all?"
"Will you really come too, dear grandmother?" exclaimed Sylvia and Mollyin a breath. "_Oh_, how nice!"
"I should like to go," said grandmother. "It is ever so many years sinceI was at the Louvre."
"Do let us go then. Oh, do let us all go," said the little girls. "Youknow we are leaving on Tuesday, and something might come in the way againon Monday."
So it was settled.
"Remember, children," said grandmother as they were all getting out ofthe carriage, "remember to keep close together. You have no idea howeasily some of you might get lost in the crowd."
"_Lost!_" repeated Sylvia incredulously.
"LOST!" echoed Molly.
"LOST!" shouted Ralph so loudly that some of their fellow-sight-seers,passing beside them into the palace, turned round to see what was thematter. "How could we _possibly_ get lost here?"
"Very easily," replied aunty calmly. "There is nothing, to peopleunaccustomed to it, so utterly bewildering as a crowd."
"Not to me," persisted Ralph. "I could thread my way in and out of thepeople till I found you. The _girls_ might get lost, perhaps."
"Thank you," said Molly; "as it happens, Master Ralph, I think it wouldbe much harder to lose us than you. For one thing we can speak Frenchever such a great deal better than you."
"And then there are two of us. If one of us was lost, grandmother andaunty could hold out the other one as a pattern, and say, 'I want a matchfor this,'" said Sylvia laughing, and a little eager to prevent theimpending skirmish between Ralph and Molly.
"Hush, children, you really mustn't chatter so," said aunty. "Use youreyes, and let your tongues, poor things, rest for a little."
They got on very happily. Aunty managed to show the children the specialpicture or pictures each had most wanted to see--including the "beautifulblue and orange" one of Molly's recollection. She nearly screamed withdelight when she saw "how like it was to the one in papa's study," buttook in good part Ralph's cynical observation that a thing that wascopied from another was generally supposed to be "like" the original.
Only Sylvia was a little disappointed when, after looking at the picturesin one of the smaller rooms--a room in no way peculiar or remarkable asdiffering from the others--they suddenly discovered that they were in thefamous "Salle Henri II.," where Henry the Fourth was killed!
"I didn't think it would be like this," said Sylvia lugubriously. "Why dothey call it 'Salle Henri II.?' It should be called after Henry theFourth; and I don't think it should have pictures in, and be just like acommon room."
"What would you have it? Hung round with black and tapers burning?" saidher aunt.
"I don't know--any way I thought it would have had old tapestry," saidSylvia. "I should like it to have been kept just the way it was then."
"Poor Sylvia!" said grandmother. "But we must hurry on, children. We havenot seen the 'Petite Galerie' yet--dear me, how many years it is since Iwas in it!--and some of the most beautiful pictures are there."
They passed on--grandmother leaning on aunty's arm--the three childrenclose behind, through a room called the "Salle des Sept Cheminees," alonga vestibule filled with cases of jewellery, leading again to one of thegreat staircases. Something in the vestibule attracted grandmother'sattention, and she stopped for a moment. Sylvia, not interested in whatthe others were looking at, turned round and retraced her steps a fewpaces by the way they had entered the hall. A thought had struck her.
"I'd like just to run back for a moment to Henry the Fourth's Room," shesaid to herself. "I want to notice the shape of it exactly, and how manywindows there are, and then I think I can fancy to myself how it looked_then_, with the tapestry and all the old-fashioned furniture."
No sooner thought than done. In a moment she was back in the room whichhad so curiously fascinated her, taking accurate note of its features.
"I shall remember it now," she said to herself, after gazing round herfor a minute or two. "Now I must run after grandmother and the others, orthey'll be thinking I am lost."
She turned with a little laugh at the idea, and hastened out of the room,through the few groups of people standing or moving about, looking at thepictures--hastened out, expecting in another moment to see the familiarfigures. The room into which she made her way was also filled withpictures, as had been the one through which she had entered the "SalleHenri II." She crossed it without misgiving: she had no idea that she hadleft the Salle Henri II. by the opposite door from that by which she hadentered it!
Poor little Sylvia, she did not know that grandmother's warning wasactually to be fulfilled. She was "lost in the Louvre!"