Two Little Waifs Part 18

said the other lady good-naturedly. "But very likely those children do _not_ belong to the upper cla.s.ses."

"I don't know," said the first lady. She stopped as she spoke and looked after the children, who had now pa.s.sed them, thoughtfully. "No," she went on, "I don't think they are common children. I fancy there must be something peculiar about them. Can they have lost their way?

Antoinette," she added suddenly, turning round. "You may think me very foolish and eccentric--'English,' if you like, but I am going to run after them and see if there is anything the matter. Look after Lili for a moment for me, please."

Antoinette laughed.

"Do as you please, my dear," she said.

So off hastened, in her rich velvet and furs, the other lady. It was not difficult to overtake the children, for the two pairs of legs had trotted a long way and were growing weary. But when close behind them their new friend slackened her pace. How was she to speak to them? She did not know that they were English, or even strangers, and if they were the former that did not much mend matters, for, alas! notwithstanding the half British origin she was rather fond of talking about, the pretty young mother had been an idle little girl in her time, and had consistently declined to learn any language but her own. _Now_, she wished for her Lili's sake to make up for lost time, and was looking out for an English governess, but as yet she dared not venture on any rash attempts. She summoned up her courage, however, and gently touched the little girl on the shoulder, and all her suspicions that something unusual was in question were awakened again by the start of terror the child gave, and the pallid look of misery, quickly followed by an expression of relief, with which she looked up in her face.

"I thought it was Anna," she half whispered, clutching her little brother's hand more tightly than before.

"Mademoiselle--my child," said the lady, for the dignity on the little face, white and frightened as it was, made her not sure how to address her. "Can I do anything to help you? You are alone--have you perhaps lost your way?"

The last few words Gladys, for she of course it was, did not follow. But the offer of help, thanks to the kind eyes looking down on her, she understood. She gazed for a moment into these same eyes, and then seeming to gather confidence she carefully drew out from the pocket of her ulster--the same new ulster she had so proudly put on for the first time the day of the journey which was to have ended with "Papa" and happiness--a little piece of paper, rather smudgy-looking, it must be owned, which she unfolded and held up to the lady. On it were written the words--

"9 Avenue Gerard."

"Avenue Gerard," repeated the lady; "is that where you want to go? It is not far from here."

But seeing that the child did not take in the meaning of her words, she changed her tactics. Taking Gladys by the hand she led her to one side of the broad walk where they were standing, and pointing to a street at right angles from the rows of houses bordering the Champs Elysees.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gerard,' at the corner."]

"Go along there," she said, "and then turn to the left and you will see the name, 'Avenue Gerard,' at the corner."

She pointed as she spoke; then she stooped, and with the sharp point of the tiny umbrella she carried, traced in lines the directions she had given, in the gravel on which they were standing. Gladys considered for a moment in silence, then she lifted her head and nodded brightly.

"I understand," she said, "and thank you _very_ much."

Then taking Roger's hand, which, while speaking to the lady she had let go, she smiled again, and whispering something to her brother which made him pluck off his little cap, the two small pilgrims set off again on their journey. The lady stood for a moment looking after them, and I think there were tears in her eyes.

"I wonder if I could have done more for them," she said to herself, "Fancy Lili and Jean by themselves like that! But they know where they have to go to--they are not lost."

"How kind she was," said Gladys, as she led her little brother in the direction the lady had pointed out. "It is not far now, Roger, dear--are you _very_ tired?"

Roger made a manful effort to step out more briskly.

"Not so _very_, Gladdie. But oh, Gladdie, I was so frightened when I felt you stop and when I saw your face. Oh, Gladdie, I thought it was _her_."

"So did I," said Gladys with a shiver.

"Would she have put us in prison?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Gladys. "I heard her say something to Francoise about the police. I don't know if that means prison. But these ladies won't let her, 'cos you know, Roger, they're _English_, like us."

"Is all French peoples naughty?" inquired Roger meekly.

"No, you silly little boy," giving him a small shake, "of course not.

Think of Mrs. Nest, and Francoise, and even that lady--oh, I didn't mean to make you cry. You're not silly--I didn't mean it, dear."

But Roger could not at once stop his tears, for they were as much the result of tiredness and excitement as of Gladys's words.

"Gladdie," he went on plaintively, "what will you do if those ladies aren't kind to us?"

"They'll help me to send a tele--you know what I mean--a letter in that quick way, to Miss Susan," replied Gladys confidently. "That's all I'm going to ask them. They'd never refuse that."

"And could Miss Susan get here to-day, do you think?"

Gladys hesitated.

"I don't quite know. I don't know how long it takes _people_ to come that way. But I'm afraid it costs a good deal. We must ask the ladies.

Perhaps they'll get us a little room somewhere, where Anna can't find us, till Miss Susan sends for us."

"But," continued Roger, "what will you do if they're _out_, Gladdie?"

Gladys did not answer. Strange to say, practical as she was, this possibility had never occurred to her. Her one idea had been to make her way to the Avenue Gerard at once, then it had seemed to her that all difficulties would be at an end.

"What's the good of saying that, Roger," she said at last. "If they're out we'll----"

"What?"

"Wait till they come in, I suppose."

"It'll be very cold waiting in the street--like beggars," grumbled Roger. But he said it in a low tone, not particularly wishing Gladys to hear. Only he was so tired that he had to grumble a little.

Suddenly Gladys pulled up.

"There it is," she said. "Look up there, Roger; that's the name, 'Av-e-nue Ger-ard.' It's just a street. I thought an avenue would have been all trees, like in the country. Nine--I wonder which is nine?"

Opposite to where they stood was No. 34. Gladys led Roger on a little bit and looked at the number on the other side. It was 31, and the next beyond that was 29.

"It's this way. They get littler this way," she exclaimed. "Come on, Roger, darling--it's not far."

"But if we've to wait in the street," repeated Roger faintly, for he was now possessed by this new idea.

Gladys said nothing--perhaps she did not hear.

"Twenty-seven, twenty-five, twenty-three," she said, as they pa.s.sed each house, so intent on reaching No. 9 that she did not even feel frightened. Between seventeen and fifteen there was a long s.p.a.ce of h.o.a.rdings shutting off unbuilt-upon ground--nine seemed a very long time of coming. But at last--at last!

It was a large, very handsome house, and Gladys, young as she was, said at once to herself that the English ladies, as she had got into the way of calling them, must be _very_ very rich. For she did not understand that in Paris one enormous house, such as the one she was standing before, contains the dwellings of several families, each of which is often as large as a good-sized English house, only without stairs once you have entered, as all the rooms are on one floor.

"I wonder which is the front door," said Gladys. "There seem so many in there." For the great doors of the entrance-court stood open, and, peeping in, it seemed to her that there was nothing but doors on every side to be seen.

"We must ask," she at last said resolutely, and foraging in her pocket she again drew forth the crumpled piece of paper with "No. 9 Avenue Gerard," and armed with this marched in.

A man started up from somewhere--indeed he had been already watching them, though they had not seen him. He was the porter for the whole house.

"What do you want--whom are you looking for?" he said. At first, thinking they _were_ little beggars or something of the kind, for the courtyard was not very light, he had come out meaning to drive them away. But when he came nearer them he saw they were not what he had thought, and he spoke therefore rather more civilly. Still, he never thought of saying "Mademoiselle" to Gladys--no children of the upper cla.s.ses would be wandering about alone! Gladys's only answer was to hold out the bit of paper.