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Updated: May 6, 2025
They had been obliged to take the secretary of the hotel into their confidence, in the process of paying their bill. He put on his high hat and came out to see them off. The portier was already there, standing at the step of the lordly two-spanner which they had ordered for the long drive to the station.
Their principal merit consisted much more in the beauty of the designs, in the finish of the work, than in the lubricity of the positions. I found amongst them the prints of the Portier des Chartreux, published in England; the engravings of Meursius, of Aloysia Sigea Toletana, and others, all very beautifully done.
Occasionally one of them skipped irreverently over the carpet and took up a position on the other side. This always visibly annoyed the PORTIER. Now came a waiting interval.
The portier also wrote down each day's journey and the nightly hotel on a piece of paper, and made our course so plain that we should never be able to get lost without high-priced outside help. I put the courier in the care of a gentleman who was going to Lausanne, and then we went to bed, after laying out the walking-costumes and putting them into condition for instant occupation in the morning.
The crusty portier and the crusty clerks gave us the surly reception which their kind deal out in prosperous times, but by mollifying them with an extra display of obsequiousness and servility we finally got them to show us to the room which our boy had engaged for us.
At the hotel the portier gave them four letters. "I do believe we could stay all winter, just as well as not," said Mrs. March, proudly. "What does 'Burnamy say?" "How do you know it's from him?" "Because you've been keeping your hand on it! Give it here." "When I've read it." The letter was dated at Ansbach, in Germany, and dealt, except for some messages of affection to Mrs.
It was really an added pang to go, on their account, but the carriage was waiting at the door; the 'domestique' had already carried our baggage to the steam-tram station; the kindly menial train formed around us for an ultimate 'douceur', and we were off, after the 'portier' had shut us into our vehicle and touched his oft-touched cap for the last time, while the hotel facade dissembled its grief by architecturally smiling in the soft Dutch sun.
"Don't quarrel, you children," cried Anna, beating eggs vigorously. "Harmony is always friendly, too friendly. The Portier loves her." "I'm sure I said good-evening to you." "You usually say, 'Good-evening, Peter." "And I did not?" "You did not." "Then Good-evening, Peter." "Thank you." His steady eyes met hers. In them there was a renewal of his yesterday's promise, abasement, regret.
When they drew near one side of the evergreen, the two were together. When The Rat swung out on the other side of it, he was alone! No one noticed that anything had happened; no one looked back. So The Rat swung down the walks and round the flower-beds and passed into the street. And the portier looked at the sky and made his remark about the "crashes" and "cataracts."
On the evening of March 25, 1874, I went to this same old theatre of the Ambigu to see him play Feuillantin in Le Portier du Numero 15. The part is that of an old man, and the actor played it "in his habit as he lived," without artificial make-up or wig.
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