“What’s the matter?” he cried.

“Matter enough,” replied Andre taking up the parable.  “Madame never sent to the bouchere, and the bouchere has no room.  And I think”—­despair giving him courage—­“it was too bad to give us a wild goose chase at this time of night.”

“And now you must do your best and put us where you can,” I concluded.  “We are too tired to stir another step.”

“I haven’t where to lodge a cat,” returned the perplexed landlord.  “I cannot do impossibilities.  What on earth are we to manufacture?”

“You have a salon?”

“Comme de juste!”

“Is it occupied?”

“No; but there are no beds there.  It stands to reason.”

“Then put down two mattresses on the floor, and we will make the best of them for to-night.  And the sooner you allow us to repose our weary heads, the more grateful we shall be.  It is nearly one o’clock.”

Monsieur seemed convinced, and gave the word of command which sent two or three waiters flying.  Poor Andre was one of them; but we soon discovered that he was the most willing and obliging man in the world.

Even now everything was mismanaged and had to be done over again; a wordy war ensued between landlord, waiters and chambermaids, each one having an original idea for our comfort and wanting their own way.  The small Bedlam that went on would have been diverting at any other time.  It was very nearly two o’clock before we closed the door upon the world, and felt that something like peace and repose lay before us.

The room was not uncomfortable.  It had all the stiff luxuriance of a French salon, and a gilt clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly and rang out the hours—­too many of which, alas, we heard.  On the table were the remains of a dessert, evidently hastily brought in from the table d’hote room, which communicated with this by folding doors:  dishes of biscuits, raisins and luscious grapes.

“At least we can refresh ourselves,” sighed H.C., taking up a fine bunch and offering me another, “Nectar in its primitive state; the drink of the gods.”

“And of Poets,” I added.

“Talk not of poetry,” he cried.  “I feel that my vein has evaporated, and after to-night will never return.”

Very soon, you may be sure, the room was in darkness and repose.

“The inequalities of the earth’s surface are nothing to my bed,” groaned H.C. as he laid himself down.  “It is all hills and valleys.  I think they must have put the mattress upon all the brooms and brushes of the hotel, crossed by all the fire-irons.  And that wretched clock ticks on my brain like a sledge-hammer.  I shall not be alive by morning.”

“Have you made your will?”

“Yes,” he replied; “and left you my museum, my shooting-box, all my unpublished MSS. and the care of my aesthetic aunt, Lady Maria.  You will not find her troublesome; she lives on crystallised violets and barley water.”