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It was difficult to obtain supplies; but the two waifs were still welcome to the best, sat down daily with the family to table, and at the due intervals were supplied with clean napkins, which they scrupled to employ. Madame Chevillon observed the fact and reprimanded them. But they stood firm; eat they must, but having no money they would soil no napkins.
Madame Chevillon stood, one hand on fat hip, the other shading old eyes that they might watch the progress of the cart up the blinding whiteness of the village street. "To the forest, and yet again to the forest and to the forest always," she said, turning into the darkened billiard room. "Marie, beware, thou, of the forest.
Instead it shewed the candid face of a real homesickness, and it spoke with convincing and abominably aggravating plainness of Long Barton. The little hooded diligence was waiting in the hot white dust outside the station. "But yes. It is I who transport all the guests of Madame Chevillon," said the smiling brown-haired bonnetless woman who held the reins. Betty climbed up beside her.
She always arranged everything neatly, but nothing ever would stay arranged. She wrote to her father, explaining that Madame Gautier had brought her and the other girls to Grez for the summer, and she gave as her address: Chez Madame Chevillon, Pavilion du Jardin, Grez.
He stood still a moment and looked at her. "Now we're on terra cotta," he said, "let me remind you that we've not shaken hands. Oh, but it's good to see you again!" "Look well, my child," said Madame Chevillon, "and when you see approach the Meess, warn me, that I may make the little omelette at the instant." "Oh, la, la, madame!" cried Marie five minutes later.
Craye, and she meant it. "But I don't know where to go. Tell me where to go." "Can't you go home?" "No: I won't. That's too much." "Go somewhere and sketch." "Yes, but where?" said poor Betty impatiently. "Go to Grez," said the other, not without second thoughts. "It's a lovely place close to Fontainebleau Hotel Chevillon. I'll write it down for you. Old Madame Chevillon's a darling.
"Ah," said Madame Chevillon comfortably, "I thought Mademoiselle was artist; and for the artists and the Spaniards the convenances exist not. But Mademoiselle is also English. They eat the convenances every day with the soup. See then, my cherished. The English man, he is not a dangerous fool, only a beast of the good God; he has the atelier and the room at the end of the corridor.
"You see her, ma belle et bonne," chuckled the old woman. "It is me, Madame Chevillon. You will rooms, is it not? You are artist? All who come to the Hotel are artist. Rooms? Marie shall show you the rooms, at the instant even. All the rooms except one that is the room of the English Artist all that there is of most amiable, but quite mad. He wears no hat, and his brain boils in the sun.
I have told nothing. Only to despatch the letter. Behold all!" "I will give myself the pleasure of offering you a little present next week," said Lady St. Craye; "it is only that you should say nothing nothing and send no more letters. And the address?" "Madame knows it by what she says." "Yes, but I want to know if the address you have is the same that I have. Hotel Chevillon, Grez sur Loing.
The Hotel Chevillon is a white-faced house, with little unintelligent eyes of windows, burnt blind, it seems, in the sun neat with the neatness of Provincial France. Out shuffled an old peasant woman in short skirt, heavy shoes and big apron, her arms bared to the elbow, a saucepan in one hand, a ladle in the other. She beamed at Betty. "I wish to see Madame Chevillon."
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