Two Little Waifs Part 12

Gladys jumped up joyfully.

"The promenade, Roger--we're going to hear the band play. Won't that be nice? Come let us go quick and get ready."

Madame Nestor was enchanted.

CHAPTER VII.

THE KIND-LOOKING GENTLEMAN.

"A friendly pleasant face he had, They really thought him very nice, And when adown the street he'd gone They nodded to him twice."

CHANCE ACQUAINTANCES.

They were soon ready, for though Gladys had had vague thoughts of trying to explain that she would like the big trunk unfastened to get out their "best" things, she gave up the idea when Madame Nestor got down the new ulsters which she evidently thought quite good enough, and proceeded to wrap them both up warmly. It was cold, she said, and thanks to the way she glanced out-of-doors when she made this remark, at the same time carefully covering up their throats with the white silk handkerchiefs they had had for the journey, Gladys understood her.

"We don't look very nice, do we, Roger?" said the little girl, as with her brother's hand in hers, and Francoise, who was short and stout, and wore a big frilled cap, following close behind. "If there are a lot of children where the band plays we shall seem very plain. But I daresay it doesn't matter, and these ulsters are very warm."

For it was very cold. It was one of those gray sunless days, less uncommon in Paris than some people imagine, and the Rue Verte was narrow and the houses composing it very high, so that _stray_ gleams of suns.h.i.+ne did not very easily get into it. The children s.h.i.+vered a little as they stood for a moment hesitating as to which way Francoise meant them to go, and one or two foot-pa.s.sengers pa.s.sing hurriedly, as most people do in that busy part of the town, jostled the two little people so that they shrank back frightened.

"Give me your hands, little Sir and little Miss," said the st.u.r.dy peasant girl, catching hold of them, placing one on each side of her as she spoke. It went rather against Gladys's dignity, but still in her heart she was glad of Francoise's protection, though even with that they were a good deal b.u.mped and pushed as they made their way along the narrow pavement.

"It will be nicer when we get to the Boulevards," said Francoise; "there the pavement is so much wider."

But Gladys did not understand. She thought the girl said something about _bulls_ and _large_, and she looked up half frightened, expecting to see a troop of cattle coming along the street. There was, however, nothing of the kind to be seen.

"It's not like Whitebeach," said Gladys, trying to make Roger hear across Francoise's substantial person. But it was no use. Narrow as the street was, great heavy waggons and lurries came constantly following each other over the stones, so that the noise was really deafening, and it was impossible to hear what was said. By peeping sometimes in front of Francoise and sometimes behind her, Gladys could catch sight of Roger's little figure. He was looking solemn and grave; she could tell that by the way he was walking, even when she did not see his face.

"I'm afraid he's very cold, poor little boy," thought Gladys to herself, quite forgetting her own little red nose and nipped fingers in concern for her brother.

It was a little better after a while when they got out of the narrow street into a much wider one. _Too_ wide Gladys thought it, for the rush of carts and carriages and omnibuses and cabs was really frightening.

She saw some people venturing to cross over to the other side in the midst of it all--one lady with a little boy, not much bigger than Roger, especially caught her attention. But she shut her eyes rather than watch them get across--which they did quite safely after all--so terrified was she of seeing them crushed beneath some of the monsters on wheels which seemed to the child's excited imagination to be pounding down one after the other on purpose to knock everything out of their way, like some great engines of war. And she squeezed Francoise's hand so tight that the girl turned round in a fright to see if any one was hurting Gladys, when a slight movement to one side made her fancy the little servant was intending to try to cross.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 'Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street,' Gladys exclaimed.]

"Oh don't, don't cross that dreadful street," Gladys exclaimed. And Francoise understood what she meant, thanks to her tugs the other way, and set to work a.s.suring her she had no such intention.

"Are you frightened of crossing?" said a voice close beside her--an English voice belonging to a gentleman who had heard her piteous entreaty.

"Yes, dreadfully. I'm sure we'll be killed if she takes us over,"

replied Gladys, lifting her little white face and troubled eyes to the stranger.

He turned to Francoise and explained to her that it was hardly safe to attempt to cross, especially as the little girl was so frightened. He spoke, of course, in French, which seemed to him as easy as his own language, and Francoise replied eagerly. Then again the stranger turned to Gladys:

"You need not be afraid, my dear little girl," he said, and his kind voice somehow made the tears come to her eyes, "your nurse does not wish to cross. You have not been long here, I suppose--you don't understand French?"

"No," said Gladys, gulping down a sob, "we've--we've only just come."

"Ah well, you'll soon feel more at home, and be able to explain all you mean for yourself. Good-bye," and raising his hat as perhaps an altogether Englishman would not have done to so little a girl, he smiled again, and in another moment had disappeared in the crowd.

"The nurse seems kind enough, but she's rather stupid--just a peasant.

And those children look so refined. But they don't seem happy, poor little souls. I wonder who they can be," said the young man to himself as he walked away.

"I wish he was our Papa," said Roger.

"So do I," said Gladys. And then a queer sort of regret came over her that she had not said more to him. "Perhaps he knows Papa, and could have helped us to find him," was the vague thought in her childish brain. It seemed to her that any English-speaking person in this great town of Paris must know "Papa," or something about him.

Francoise walked on; _she_ wished for nothing better than a stroll along the Boulevards, even though this was by no means the best part of them, or containing the prettiest shops. But Gladys kept wis.h.i.+ng for the "promenade" and the band. At the corner of a side-street she caught sight of a church at a little distance with some trees and green not far from it. It looked quieter and less crowded, and Gladys was seized with a wish to explore in that direction.

She tugged at Francoise.

"Mayn't we go up there?" she said, pointing in the direction of the trees. Francoise understood her. She was a good-natured girl, and turned with the children as Gladys wished, though it was against her liking to leave the noisy crowded Boulevards for the quieter side-streets.

When they got close to the trees they turned out to be in a little enclosure with railings, a very small attempt at a "square garden," for there were houses round it on all sides, and, cold as it was, a few nurses and children were walking about it and looking cheerful enough, though no doubt they wished they were not so far away from the prettier parts of Paris where the parks and walks for children are so lively and amusing. Gladys looked round with a mixture of approval and disappointment.

"It must be here that the band plays," she said to Roger; "but it isn't here to-day. And it's a very small place for a promenade; not nearly so pretty as it was at Whitebeach. But we might play here if it wasn't so cold. And there are nice benches for sitting on, you see."

"I don't like being here," said Roger, shaking his head. "I'd like to go home."

"Home"--again the word fell sadly on the little mother-sister's ear. But she said nothing to remind Roger of how homeless they were, though she could not help sighing when she thought of the only "going home" there was for them; the little dark bare cheerless bedroom, and the shop filled with sofas and chairs. Poor Madame Nestor doing her best, but understanding so little what a nice bright cosy nursery was like, and still worse, Mademoiselle Anna's sharp eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily at them across the table at meat times!

"Wouldn't you like to have a run, Roger?" said Gladys suddenly. "It would make us feel warmer, and there's a nice straight bit of path here."

Roger made no objection. He let go of Francoise's hand and took his sister's, and by signs Gladys managed to explain to the girl what they meant to do.

"One, two, three, and away," she called out with an attempt at merriment, and off they set. Roger's stumpy little legs could not go as fast as Gladys's longer and thinner ones, but she took care not to let him find that out, and she was rewarded by the colour in his cheeks, and the brighter look in his eyes when they got back to Francoise again.

"That's right," said she good-naturedly, and in her heart I think she too would have enjoyed a run, had it not been beneath her dignity to behave in so childish a manner within sight of the dignified nurses in their big cloaks and caps with streaming ribbons, who were strutting up and down the little enclosure.

But it grew colder and grayer.

"One could almost think it was going to snow," said Francoise, looking up at the sky. Gladys saw her looking up, but did not, of course, understand her words.

"I wonder if she thinks it's going to rain," she said to Roger. "Anyway it's dreadfully cold," and she gave a little s.h.i.+ver.

"We had better go home," said Francoise, for she was so accustomed to talking about everything she did that even the knowledge that she was not understood did not make her silent. And taking a hand of each child, she turned to go. Gladys and Roger did not mind; they felt tired, though they had not walked nearly so far as they often did at home, and cold, and there had been nothing in their walk to raise their poor little spirits, except perhaps the momentary glance of the bright-faced young Englishman.

"That gentleman we met looked very kind, didn't he?" said Gladys to Roger, when they had got back to the Rue Verte, and Francoise was helping them to take off their boots.

"Yes," said Roger, in his sober little voice, "I wish----"

"What?" said Gladys.

"I wish he was our Papa!" said Roger again, with a sigh.

"He couldn't be," said Gladys, "he's too young."