“Carry me to the house of Monsieur Emile Perrier, the avocat,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly.

The words, simple as they were, seemed to awaken considerable excitement.  The landlady threw up her hands, with an expression of astonishment, and the driver recommenced his harangue.  Was it possible that I could have made a mistake in so short and easy a sentence?  I said it over again to myself, and felt sure I was right.  With renewed confidence I repeated it aloud, with a slight variation.

“I wish to go to the house of Monsieur Emile Perrier, the avocat,” I said.

But while they still clustered round Minima and me, giving no sign of compliance with my request, two persons thrust themselves through the circle.  The one was a man, in a threadbare brown greatcoat, with a large woollen comforter wound several times about his neck; and the other a woman, in an equally shabby dress, who spoke to me in broken English.

“Mees, I am Madame Perrier, and this my husband,” she said; “come on.  The letter was here only an hour ago; but all is ready.  Come on; come on.”

She put her hand through my arm, and took hold of Minima’s hand, as if claiming both of us.  A dead silence had fallen upon the little crowd, as if they were trying to catch the meaning of the English words.  But as she pushed on, with us both in her hands, a titter for the first time ran from lip to lip.  I glanced back, and saw Monsieur Perrier, the avocat, hurriedly putting our luggage on a wheelbarrow, and preparing to follow us with it along the dark streets.

I was too bewildered yet to feel any astonishment.  We were in France, in a remote part of France, and I did not know what Frenchmen would or would not do.  Madame Perrier, exhausted with her effort at speaking English, had ceased speaking to me, and contented herself with guiding us along the strange streets.  We stopped at last opposite the large, handsome house, which stood in the front of the photograph I had seen in London.  I could just recognize it in the darkness; and behind lay the garden and the second range of building.  Not a glimmer of light shone in any of the windows.

“It is midnight nearly,” said Madame Perrier, as we came to a stand-still and waited for her husband, the avocat.

Even when he came up with the luggage there seemed some difficulty in effecting an entrance.  He passed through the garden-gate, and disappeared round the corner of the house, walking softly, as if careful not to disturb the household.  How long the waiting seemed!  For we were hungry, sleepy, and cold—­strangers in a very strange land.  I heard Minima sigh weariedly.

At last he reappeared round the corner, carrying a candle, which flickered in the wind.  Not a word was spoken by him or his wife as the latter conducted us toward him.  We were to enter by the back-door, that was evident.  But I did not care what door we entered by, so that we might soon find rest and food.  She led us into a dimly-lighted room, where I could just make out what appeared to be a carpenter’s bench, with a heap of wood-shavings lying under it.  But I was too weary to be certain about any thing.