The spirit and beauty
of the past are dead and buried.
"We are almost there," said Andre, with a sigh that would have been
profound if he had had strength to make it so. "A few more yards and we
arrive."
We too sighed with relief, though the midnight walk amidst these wonders
of a bygone age had proved refreshing and awakening. But we sympathised
with our guide, who was only kept up by necessity.
We passed out of the market place again into a narrow street, dark,
silent and gloomy. At the third or fourth house, Andre exclaimed "Nous
voila!" and down went the baggage like a dead-weight in front of a
closed doorway.
The house was in darkness: no sight or sound could be seen or heard;
everyone seemed wrapped in slumber; a strange condition of things if we
were expected. The man rang the bell: a loud, long peal. No response; no
light, no movement; profound silence.
"C'est drole!" he murmured. "The theatre" (that everlasting theatre!)
"has been long over and Madame must have returned. Where can she be?"
"Probably in bed," replied H.C. "We have little chance of following her
excellent example if this is to go on. There must be some mistake, and
we are not expected."
"Impossible," returned Andre. "La Patrone never forgets anything and
must have arranged it all." He, too, had unlimited confidence in Madame,
but for once it was misplaced.
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