I

by Robert W. Chambers

The street wasn’t trendy, but it wasn’t run-down either. It was a bit of an outcast—a street without a neighborhood. Most people agreed it lay outside the upscale Avenue de l’Observatoire. The students from Montparnasse thought it was pretentious and avoided it entirely. The Latin Quarter, starting from the Luxembourg, looked down on its respectability and frowned upon the neatly dressed students who frequented it. Few outsiders ventured in. Occasionally, though, Latin Quarter students would use it as a shortcut between rue de Rennes and the Bullier, but aside from that and the weekly afternoon visits from parents to the Convent near rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of the Fields was as quiet as a boulevard in Passy.

The most respectable part seemed to be between rue de la Grande Chaumière and rue Vavin, at least that was the conclusion reached by Reverend Joel Byram as he strolled through it with Hastings. To Hastings, the street looked inviting in the bright June sunshine, and he began to hope it would be chosen when Reverend Byram suddenly recoiled at the sight of the cross on the Convent across the street.

“Jesuits,” he muttered.

“Well,” Hastings replied wearily, “I doubt we’ll find anything better. You’ve said that vice is rampant in Paris, and it seems like every street has Jesuits or something worse.”

After a moment, he added, “Or something worse, which I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t warned me.”

Dr. Byram pursed his lips and surveyed the area. He was struck by the evident respectability of the surroundings. Frowning at the Convent, he took Hastings’ arm and shuffled across the street to an iron gate marked with the number 201 _bis_ in white on a blue background. Below it was a notice printed in English:

1. For Porter, please press once.

2. For Servant, please press twice.

3. For Parlor, please press three times.

Hastings pressed the button three times, and they were welcomed through the garden and into the parlor by a neat maid. The dining room door was open, and Hastings caught a glimpse of a stout woman hurrying toward them, along with a young man with a large head and several older gentlemen at breakfast, before the door closed behind the stout woman, who brought with her the rich aroma of coffee and a black poodle.

“It’s a pleasure to receive you!” she exclaimed. “Monsieur is English? No? American? Of course! My pension is for Americans, especially. Here, everyone speaks English, that is to say, the staff; the servants speak, more or less, a little. I’m happy to have you as guests—”

“Madame,” Dr. Byram began, but she interrupted him.

“Ah, yes, I know! Oh my God! You don’t speak French, but you’ve come to learn! My husband speaks French with the guests. Right now, we have an American family learning French from my husband—”

At this point, the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and was quickly scolded by its owner.

“Behave!” she exclaimed, giving the dog a light slap. “Oh, you naughty thing!”

“But, madame,” Hastings said with a smile, “he doesn’t look very fierce.”

The poodle ran away, and its owner said, “Ah, what a charming accent! He already speaks French like a young Parisian gentleman!”

Finally, Dr. Byram managed to get a word in and gathered some information about prices.

“It’s a serious pension; my clientele is the best, indeed a family pension where one feels at home.”

Then they went upstairs to check out Hastings’ future room, test the bed springs, and arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. Byram seemed satisfied.

Madame Marotte accompanied them to the door and rang for the maid, but as Hastings stepped out onto the gravel path, his guide paused and fixed Madame with his watery gaze.

“You understand,” he said, “that he is a young man of the utmost respectability, and his character and morals are without blemish. He is young and has never traveled, never even seen a big city, and his parents have asked me, as an old family friend living in Paris, to ensure he is placed under good influences. He is here to study art, but his parents would never want him to live in the Latin Quarter if they knew about the immorality that exists there.”

A sound like a latch clicking interrupted him, and he looked up, but not in time to see the maid slap the big-headed young man behind the parlor door.

Madame coughed, shot a sharp glance behind her, and then smiled at Dr. Byram.

“It’s good that he’s come here. There’s no more serious pension than this one!” she declared with conviction.

With nothing more to add, Dr. Byram joined Hastings at the gate.

“I trust,” he said, eyeing the Convent, “that you won’t make any acquaintances among the Jesuits!”

Hastings gazed at the Convent until a beautiful girl walked past the gray building, drawing his attention to her. A young man carrying a paintbox and canvas approached, stopping in front of her. They exchanged a few words during a brief but lively handshake that made them both laugh. As he walked away, he called back, “See you tomorrow, Valentine!” and she echoed, “See you tomorrow!”

“Valentine,” Hastings mused, “what a charming name.” With that thought, he turned to follow the Reverend Joel Byram, who was shuffling toward the nearest tram station.