The street was neither fashionable nor shabby.
It was an outsider among streets—a place that belonged to no particular neighborhood.
Everyone seemed to agree that it lay just beyond the respectable world of the aristocratic Avenue de l’Observatoire.
The students of Montparnasse thought the street was too respectable and wanted nothing to do with it.
The students of the Latin Quarter, whose territory began at the Luxembourg Gardens, looked down on its quiet respectability. They even disapproved of the properly dressed students who sometimes wandered there.
Few foreigners ever came that way.
Now and then, Latin Quarter students used it simply as a shortcut between the rue de Rennes and the Bullier.
Apart from that, and the weekly afternoon visits of parents and guardians to the convent near the rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields was as quiet as any boulevard in Passy.
The most respectable stretch, at least in Reverend Joel Byram’s opinion, seemed to be the section between the rue de la Grande Chaumière and the rue Vavin.
He and Hastings had been walking through it for some time.
Hastings liked the street in the bright June sunshine.
He had almost begun to hope that this might be the place where he would stay when Reverend Byram suddenly recoiled at the sight of the cross above the convent across the street.
“Jesuits,” he muttered.
“Well,” Hastings said wearily, “I doubt we’ll find anything better.”
“You said yourself that vice is triumphant in Paris.”
“It seems to me that every street has either Jesuits or something worse.”
He paused.
“Or something worse, which naturally I would never notice without your kind warnings.”
Dr. Byram pressed his lips together and looked around.
The neighborhood was obviously respectable, and that seemed to trouble him.
He frowned at the convent, took Hastings by the arm, and shuffled across the street toward an iron gate.
The number 201 bis was painted in white on a blue plaque.
Beneath it was a notice in English:
- For Porter please press once.
- For Servant please press twice.
- For Parlour please press three times.
Hastings pressed the electric bell three times.
A neat maid opened the gate and led them through the garden into the parlor.
The dining-room door stood open.
Hastings caught a quick glimpse of a young man with an unusually large head and several elderly gentlemen with rather dusty-looking clothes sitting at breakfast.
Then the door closed.
A stout woman came waddling toward them.
The smell of coffee followed her, along with a black poodle.
“It is a pleasure to receive you!” she exclaimed.
“Are you English, monsieur? No? American? Of course!”
“My pension is especially for Americans. Here everybody speaks English—or, I should say, the staff. The servants speak a little, more or less.”
“I am so happy to have you as pensionnaires—”
“Madame,” Dr. Byram began.
She talked right over him.
“Ah, yes, I know! Mon Dieu! You do not speak French, but you have come to learn!”
“My husband speaks French with the pensionnaires. At the moment we have an American family who are learning French from my husband—”
The poodle suddenly growled at Dr. Byram.
Madame Marotte immediately slapped it.
“Veux-tu!” she cried.
“Veux-tu! Oh, the naughty thing! The naughty thing!”
Hastings smiled.
“Mais, madame, he doesn’t look very fierce.”
The poodle ran away.
Madame Marotte stared at Hastings with delight.
“Ah! Such a charming accent!”
“He already speaks French like a young Parisian gentleman!”
Dr. Byram finally managed to get a few words in.
After some effort, he obtained more or less clear information about the prices.
“It is a serious pension,” Madame Marotte assured him.
“My clients are the very best people.”
“It is truly a family home, where everyone feels at home.”
They went upstairs to look at Hastings’s prospective room.
They examined the bed.
Hastings tested the springs.
They discussed how many towels he would receive each week.
Dr. Byram seemed satisfied.
Madame Marotte accompanied them downstairs and rang for the maid.
As Hastings stepped out onto the gravel path, Dr. Byram stopped at the door.
He turned toward Madame Marotte and fixed her with his watery eyes.
“You understand,” he said, “that this young man has been brought up with the greatest care.”
“His character and morals are completely spotless.”
“He is young and has never been abroad.”
“In fact, he has never even seen a large city.”
“His parents have asked me, as an old family friend living here in Paris, to make certain that he is surrounded by good influences.”
“He is going to study art.”
“But under no circumstances would his parents want him living in the Latin Quarter if they knew how widespread immorality is there.”
A faint click, like the sound of a door latch, interrupted him.
Dr. Byram looked up.
He was too late to see the maid slap the big-headed young man who had been standing behind the parlor door.
Madame Marotte coughed.
She shot a deadly look over her shoulder.
Then she turned back to Dr. Byram with a broad smile.
“It is very good zat he come here.”
“There is no more serious pension in Paris.”
“Il n’en existe pas!”
Having said all there was to say, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the gate.
“I trust,” he said, looking suspiciously at the convent, “that you will make no acquaintances among the Jesuits!”
Hastings looked toward the convent.
He watched the gray façade for a moment.
Then a pretty girl walked past it.
His eyes followed her.
At that very moment, a young man carrying a paint box and a canvas came swinging down the street.
He stopped in front of the girl.
They shook hands vigorously and laughed as he said something to her.
Then the young artist continued on his way.
“À demain, Valentine!” he called back.
“À demain!” she answered at the same moment.
“Valentine,” Hastings thought.
“What a quaint name.”
Then he hurried after Reverend Joel Byram, who was already shuffling toward the nearest tram stop.