“I am very sorry,” he replied, “but, gentlemen, I am quite full.  There is not a vacant room in the hotel from roof to basement.”

“Put us anywhere,” we persisted, for it would never do to be beaten at last:  “the coal-cellar; a couple of cupboards; anything; but don’t send us away.”

The landlord looked puzzled.  He had a tall, fine presence and a handsome face; not in the least like a Frenchman.  “I assure you that I have neither hole nor corner nor cupboard at your disposal,” he declared.  “I have sent away a dozen people in the last hour who arrived by the last train.  Why did you not send me word you were coming?”

“We are only two, not a dozen,” we urged.  “And we knew nothing of this terrible Fair, or we should not have come at all.  But as we are here, here we must remain.”

With that we left the omnibus and went into the hall, enjoying the landlord’s perplexed attitude.  But when did a case of this sort ever fail to yield to persuasion?  The last resource has very seldom been reached, however much we may think it; and an emergency begets its own remedy.  The remedy in this instance was the landlady.  Out she came at the moment from her bureau, all gestures and possibilities; we felt saved.

“Mon cher,” she exclaimed—­not to H.C., but to her spouse—­“don’t send the gentlemen away at this time of night, and consign them to you know not what fate.  Something can be managed. Tenez!” with uplifted hands and an inspiration, “ma bouchere!  Mon cher, ma bouchere!” (Voice, exclamation, gesture, general inspiration, the whole essence would evaporate if translated.) “Ma bouchere has two charming rooms that she will be delighted to give me.  It is only a cat’s jump from here,” she added, turning to us; “you will be perfectly comfortable, and can take your meals in the hotel.  To-morrow I shall have rooms for you.”

So the luggage was brought down; the landlord went through a passage at arms with the driver, who demanded double fare, and finally went off with nothing but a promise of punishment.  We had triumphed, and thought our troubles were over:  they had only begun.

Our remaining earthly desire was for strong tea, followed by repose.  We had had very little sleep the previous night on board the boat, and the day had been long and tiring.

“The tea immediately; but you will have to wait a little for the rooms,” said Madame.  “My bouchere is at the theatre to-night; we must all have a little distraction sometimes; it will be over a short quarter of an hour, and then I will send to her.”

Madame was evidently a woman of capacity.  The short quarter of an hour might be profitably spent in consuming the tea:  after that—­a delicious prospect of rest, for which we longed as the Peri longed for Paradise.

“Meanwhile, perhaps messieurs will walk into the cafe of the hotel, awaiting their rooms,” said the landlord.

“Where tea shall be served,” concluded Madame, giving directions to a waiter who stood by, a perfect Image of Misery, his face tied up after the fashion of the French nation suffering from toothache and a fluxion.