The Wonderful Year. William John Locke

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       William John Locke

      The Wonderful Year

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664110930

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      THERE is a letter for you, monsieur,” said the concierge of the Hôtel du Soleil et de l’Ecosse.

      He was a shabby concierge sharing in the tarnish of the shabby hotel which (for the information of those fortunate ones who only know of the Ritz, and the Meurice and other such-like palaces) is situated in the unaristocratic neighbourhood of the Halles Centrales.

      “As it bears the Paris postmark, it must be the one which monsieur was expecting,” said he, detaching it from the clip on the keyboard.

      “You are perfectly right,” said Martin Overshaw. “I recognise the handwriting.”

      The young Englishman sat on the worn cane seat in the little vestibule and read his letter. It ran:

      Dear Martin,

      I’ve been away. Otherwise I should have answered your note sooner. I’m delighted you’re in this God-forsaken city, but what brought you here in August, Heaven only knows. We must meet at once. I can’t ask you to my abode, because I’ve only one room, one chair and a bed, and you would be shocked to sit on the chair while I sat on the bed, or to sit on the bed while I sat on the chair. And I couldn’t offer you anything but a cigarette (caporal, à quatre sous le paquet) and the fag end of a bottle of grenadine syrup and water. So let us dine together at the place where I take such meals as I can afford. Au Petit Cornichon, or as the snob of a proprietor yearns to call it, The “Restaurant Dufour.” It’s a beast of a hole in the Rue Baret off the Rue Bonaparte; but I don’t think either of us could run to the Café de Paris or Paillard’s and we’ll have it all to ourselves. Meet me there at seven.

      Yours sincerely,

      Corinna Hastings.

      Martin Overshaw rose and addressed the concierge.

      “Where is the Rue Bonaparte?”

      The concierge informed him.

      “I am going to dine with a lady at a restaurant called the Petit Cornichon. Do you think I had better wear evening dress?”

      The concierge was perplexed. The majority of the British frequenters of the hotel, when they did not dine in gangs at the table d’hôte, went out to dinner in flannels or knickerbockers, and wore cloth caps, and looked upon the language of the country as an incomprehensible joke. But here was a young Englishman of a puzzling type who spoke perfect French with a strange purity of accent, in spite of his abysmal ignorance of Paris, and talked about dressing for dinner.

      “I will ask Monsieur Bocardon,” said he.

      Monsieur Bocardon, the manager, a fat, greasy Provençal, who sat over a ledger in the cramped bureau, leaned back in his chair and threw out his hands.

      “Evening dress in a little restaurant of the quartier. Mais non! They would look at you through the windows. There would be a crowd. It would be an affair of the police.”

      Martin Overshaw smiled. “Merci, monsieur,” said he. “But as you may have already guessed, I am new to Paris and Paris ways.”

      “That doesn’t matter,” replied Monsieur Bocardon graciously. “Paris isn’t France. We of the south—I am from Nîmes—care that for Paris——” he snapped his fingers. “Monsieur knows the Midi?”

      “It is my first visit to France,” said Martin.

      “Mais comment donc? You speak French like a Frenchman.”

      “My mother was a Swiss,” replied Martin ingenuously. “And I lived all my boyhood in Switzerland—in the Canton de Vaud. French is my mother tongue, and I have been teaching it in England ever since.”

      “Aha! Monsieur is professeur?” Monsieur Bocardon asked politely.

      “Yes, professeur,” said Martin, conscious for the first time in his life of the absurd dignity of the French title. It appealed to a latent sense of humour and he smiled wryly. Yes. He was a Professor—had been for the last ten years, at Margett’s Universal College, Hickney Heath; a professor engaged in cramming large classes of tradesmen’s children,