_ What continually impressed Sophia as strange, in the behaviour not
only of Gerald but of Chirac and other people with whom she came
into contact, was its quality of casualness. She had all her life
been accustomed to see enterprises, even minor ones, well pondered
and then carefully schemed beforehand. In St. Luke's Square there
was always, in every head, a sort of time-table of existence
prepared at least one week in advance. But in Gerald's world
nothing was prearranged. Elaborate affairs were decided in a
moment and undertaken with extraordinary lightness. Thus the
excursion to Auxerre! During lunch scarcely a word was said as to
it; the conversation, in English for Sophia's advantage, turning,
as usual under such circumstances, upon the difficulty of
languages and the differences between countries. Nobody would have
guessed that any member of the party had any preoccupation
whatever for the rest of the day. The meal was delightful to
Sophia; not merely did she find Chirac comfortingly kind and
sincere, but Gerald was restored to the perfection of his charm
and his good humour. Then suddenly, in the midst of coffee, the
question of trains loomed up like a swift crisis. In five minutes
Chirac had departed--whether to his office or his home Sophia did
not understand, and within a quarter of an hour she and Gerald
were driving rapidly to the Gare de Lyon, Gerald stuffing into his
pocket a large envelope full of papers which he had received by
registered post. They caught the train by about a minute, and
Chirac by a few seconds. Yet neither he nor Gerald seemed to
envisage the risk of inconvenience and annoyance which they had
incurred and escaped. Chirac chattered through the window with
another journalist in the next compartment. When she had leisure
to examine him, Sophia saw that he must have called at his home to
put on old clothes. Everybody except herself and Gerald seemed to
travel in his oldest clothes.
The train was hot, noisy, and dusty. But, one after another, all
three of them fell asleep and slept heavily, calmly, like healthy
and exhausted young animals. Nothing could disturb them for more
than a moment. To Sophia it appeared to be by simple chance that
Chirac aroused himself and them at Laroche and sleepily seized her
valise and got them all out on the platform, where they yawned and
smiled, full of the deep, half-realized satisfaction of repose.
They drank nectar from a wheeled buffet, drank it eagerly, in
thirsty gulps, and sighed with pleasure and relief, and Gerald
threw down a coin, refusing change with a lord's gesture. The
local train to Auxerre was full, and with a varied and sinister
cargo. At length they were in the zone of the waiting guillotine.
The rumour ran that the executioner was on the train. No one had
seen him; no one was sure of recognizing him, but everyone hugged
the belief that he was on the train. Although the sun was sinking
the heat seemed not to abate. Attitudes grew more limp, more
abandoned. Soot and prickly dust flew in unceasingly at the open
windows. The train stopped at Bonnard, Chemilly, and Moneteau,
each time before a waiting crowd that invaded it. And at last, in
the great station at Auxerre, it poured out an incredible mass of
befouled humanity that spread over everything like an inundation.
Sophia was frightened. Gerald left the initiative to Chirac, and
Chirac took her arm and led her forward, looking behind him to see
that Gerald followed with the valise. Frenzy seemed to reign in
Auxerre.
The driver of a cab demanded ten francs for transporting them to
the Hotel de l'Epee.
"Bah!" scornfully exclaimed Chirac, in his quality of experienced
Parisian who is not to be exploited by heavy-witted provincials.
But the driver of the next cab demanded twelve francs.
"Jump in," said Gerald to Sophia. Chirac lifted his eyebrows.
At the same moment a tall, stout man with the hard face of a
flourishing scoundrel, and a young, pallid girl on his arm, pushed
aside both Gerald and Chirac and got into the cab with his
companion.
Chirac protested, telling him that the cab was already engaged.
The usurper scowled and swore, and the young girl laughed boldly.
Sophia, shrinking, expected her escort to execute justice heroic
and final; but she was disappointed.
"Brute!" murmured Chirac, and shrugged his shoulders, as the
carriage drove off, leaving them foolish on the kerb.
By this time all the other cabs had been seized. They walked to
the Hotel de l'Epee, jostled by the crowd, Sophia and Chirac in
front, and Gerald following with the valise, whose weight caused
him to lean over to the right and his left arm to rise. The avenue
was long, straight, and misty with a floating dust. Sophia had a
vivid sense of the romantic. They saw towers and spires, and
Chirac talked to her slowly and carefully of the cathedral and the
famous churches. He said that the stained glass was marvellous,
and with much care he catalogued for her all the things she must
visit. They crossed a river. She felt as though she was stepping
into the middle age. At intervals Gerald changed the valise from
hand to hand; obstinately, he would not let Chirac touch it. They
struggled upwards, through narrow curving streets.
"Voila!" said Chirac.
They were in front of the Hotel de l'Epee. Across the street was a
cafe crammed with people. Several carriages stood in front. The
Hotel de l'Epee had a reassuring air of mellow respectability,
such as Chirac had claimed for it. He had suggested this hotel for
Madame Scales because it was not near the place of execution.
Gerald had said, "Of course! Of course!" Chirac, who did not mean
to go to bed, required no room for himself.
The Hotel de l'Epee had one room to offer, at the price of twenty-
five francs.
Gerald revolted at the attempted imposition. "A nice thing!" he
grumbled, "that ordinary travellers can't get a decent room at a
decent price just because some one's going to be guillotined to-
morrow! We'll try elsewhere!"
His features expressed disgust, but Sophia fancied that he was
secretly pleased.
They swaggered out of the busy stir of the hotel, as those must
who, having declined to be swindled, wish to preserve their
importance in the face of the world. In the street a cabman
solicited them, and filled them with hope by saying that he knew
of a hotel that might suit them and would drive them there for
five francs. He furiously lashed his horse. The mere fact of being
in a swiftly moving carriage which wayfarers had to avoid nimbly,
maintained their spirits. They had a near glimpse of the
cathedral. The cab halted with a bump, in a small square, in front
of a repellent building which bore the sign, 'Hotel de Vezelay.'
The horse was bleeding. Gerald instructed Sophia to remain where
she was, and he and Chirac went up four stone steps into the
hotel. Sophia, stared at by loose crowds that were promenading,
gazed about her, and saw that all the windows of the square were
open and most of them occupied by people who laughed and
chattered. Then there was a shout: Gerald's voice. He had appeared
at a window on the second floor of the hotel with Chirac and a
very fat woman. Chirac saluted, and Gerald laughed carelessly, and
nodded.
"It's all right," said Gerald, having descended.
"How much do they ask?" Sophia inquired indiscreetly.
Gerald hesitated, and looked self-conscious. "Thirty-five francs,"
he said. "But I've had enough of driving about. It seems we're
lucky to get it even at that."
And Chirac shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate that the
situation and the price ought to be accepted philosophically.
Gerald gave the driver five francs. He examined the piece and
demanded a pourboire.
"Oh! Damn!" said Gerald, and, because he had no smaller change,
parted with another two francs.
"Is any one coming out for this damned valise?" Gerald demanded,
like a tyrant whose wrath would presently fall if the populace did
not instantly set about minding their p's and q's.
But nobody emerged, and he was compelled to carry the bag himself.
The hotel was dark and malodorous, and every room seemed to be
crowded with giggling groups of drinkers.
"We can't both sleep in this bed, surely," said Sophia when,
Chirac having remained downstairs, she faced Gerald in a small,
mean bedroom.
"You don't suppose I shall go to bed, do you?" said Gerald, rather
brusquely. "It's for you. We're going to eat now. Look sharp." _