That night as Hodendouche, the once Sergeant of cavalry, joined his plump little mate in the bed that took up the greater part of that small room in the gateway, on the ground floor where concierges have their habitation, he blew out the candle. “That is you!” said the stout little woman sleepily. The old fellow chuckled: “Thou didst not dream it was the President of the Republic, my Marie?” said he, and cackled again. “If so, I like not thy complacency.” She turned to the wall. “Marie,” said he--“the _Petit Journal_ lies. The English are not _canaille_.... He gave me five hundred francs.... Our little Aloysius shall go on with his studies.... The _Petit Journal_ lies.” “Tsh! Hodendouche! Thou art grown garrulous. Get thee into thy nightcap and to sleep. Thou fool! he loves the woman.” There was a long silence. “Mon Dieu!” said the old man--“yes, indeed. My eyesight is not what it was.” CHAPTER XLVII _Which introduces us to the First Lady of France_ A paddle-steamer cleared the long wooden jetties, and made Boulogne Harbour, hooting the announcement of her coming to the echoing wharves that flung back the chuckling hoot in answering welcome rollickingly; and, churning with fussy thrashings of her paddle-wheels the waters of the narrow sea-way as she settled to her moorings, she lurched against the quay and was still. To Betty and Noll, standing on deck with eyes bent on the swinging prospect before them, there came the fragrance of a new world. The tender greys, gentle blues, and silvery colours of France held out a welcome to their ready senses, and from the many-windowed houses with their hundred wooden shutters there drifted the pleasant odour of wood fires. So Betty, her happy eyes glancing at the shifting scenes that passed by the wayside, and lolling in the grey carriage of her wedding journey, was whirled through the pleasant garden of France. Noll came and sat beside her. “You’re very happy, my Betty,” said he. She nodded--and her eyes filled with tears. She put out her hand shyly to him, and he held it in his. He sat and watched her. It was stupid to speak.... They swung past great sand-dunes by the sea--along the pleasant plains with poplars all of a row--thundered over bridges that spanned the shining river--clanked past villages--passing now and then a picturesque château on a hilltop that stood sentry over the plains--and always there was the sense of grey-green trees and white buildings and tender blue skies that are the colour of France. Delicacy and tenderness and graciousness and gentleness are written over the face of the land, the subtle land of Corot. And all the world was a-singing.... In the twilight the train dashed past St. Denis and the foundries of Paris, swept under the lea of the hill where the scaffolding a-top showed the building of the great church of Montmartre, and thundered into the resounding grey gateway of the city that stands open to the north--the Gare du Nord.