Lizzie herself, though not as exuberantly overcome, was nonetheless impressed by the size of the room and the luxurious furnishings in it. They had arranged — in order to be relieved of having to figure their daily cost at so much for the room, so much for breakfast, so much for luncheon and dinner, so much for service and the use of electricity — to pay an all-inclusive (even as concerned wine) tariff of fifteen francs per day, which came to exactly three dollars a person and which, considering the generous size and fine appointments of the room and the reputed excellence of the hotel’s table and cellar, was really an uncommonly low rate.
She might have preferred two beds in the room, as had been the case in London, but only because she herself was a restless sleeper (though she’d slept like the very dead in that city) and had been told by girl friends with whom she’d shared beds on her trips to Boston or New York or nearby Marion that sleeping with her was akin to sleeping with a squirrel, so jerky and continuous were her nocturnal fidgets. But the bed seemed spacious enough for even her reputed acrobatics, and she had been assured by Rebecca that Felicity definitely did not snore, a hazard that might have contributed to even more fitful sleep. The danger now, in fact, seemed to be that her lunatic friend might giggle the night away.
Monsieur Foubrier — the proprietor of the hotel and a gentleman of decidedly courteous and pleasant manners, who having lived in England for twenty years was as perfectly at home in English as he was in his native French — had informed them that “the five o’clock” (as he referred to the British custom of late afternoon tea) would be served shortly, if perhaps the ladies should care to freshen themselves first. Lizzie herself was famished and would have gone down without bothering to bathe or change first, but Felicity leaped suddenly off the bed, declared that she could not live another moment without a hot tub, dashed into the bathroom even as she was unlacing her corset and shouted over the roar of the running water, “Lizzie, could you possibly lay out a change of clothing for me? I’m totally encrusted with filth!”
“What did you plan on wearing?” Lizzie shouted.
“What?” Felicity shouted back.
“What did you...”
Felicity opened the bathroom door and said, “The water’s scalding hot, what did you say?”
“What do you want to wear?” Lizzie asked.
“You’re such a dear,” Felicity said, squirming out of her chemise and petticoat. “Just the things I set aside in the overnight case — oh, my Lord, we’re about to have a flood!” She dashed back into the bathroom, giggling, turned off the faucets, undressed herself completely and climbed into the tub. Splashing water, she began singing at the top of her lungs — “Oh, les enfants de la pa-tree-ee-yuh, dah-dah-dee-dah, da-da-dee-dum,” over and over again, “Oh, les enfants de la pa-tree-ee-yuh...”
The telephone rang.
“If it’s Napoleon,” Felicity shouted, “tell him I’m indisposed at the moment! Oh, les enfants de la...”
“Hello?” Lizzie said into the mouthpiece.
“Lizzie, is that you?” Alison said. “How lovely to hear your voice!”
“... pa-tree-ee-yuh,” Felicity bawled, “dah-dah-dee-dah, dah-dah...”
“What on earth is that horrendous squawling?” Alison asked.
“Felicity, I can’t hear a word!” Lizzie shouted, and in the bathroom Felicity fell comparatively silent, humming softly to herself now as she soaped and splashed about.
“Has someone been beheaded in your room?” Alison asked. “I shouldn’t put it past the French.”
“It’s Felicity in the tub,” Lizzie said.
“Advise her not to seek an operatic career, won’t you?” Alison said. “My dear, how are you? Did my great lummox of a brother treat you grandly in my absence? If not, say the word and I’ll have him shot at dawn.”
“He was most attentive,” Lizzie said. “And gentlemanly. And thoroughly charming. You didn’t tell me you were twins. I was so surprised when he...”
“Ah, didn’t I? An oversight. He likes to think he’s by far the prettiest of us, and so I tend to downplay the unfortunate fact that we were once wombmates.”
Despite herself, Lizzie found she was smiling.
“That’s a pun, dear,” Alison said.
“Yes, I know,” Lizzie said.
“And your roommate, has she drowned?” Alison asked. “I can’t hear her delightful aria any longer, thank God.”
“She’s still bathing,” Lizzie said.
“Have you bathed as well? Are you ready to come do the town?”
“Why, no, I...”
“Well, surely! Your first night in Paris? Or have you made other plans?”
“None. Except to go down for tea in a bit.”
“Nonsense,” Alison said. “You won’t enjoy tea at all here in France. Zee fife o’clock,” she said, falling into a broad French accent, “is so much plein, n’est-ce pas, of zee cream poofs, and zee marrons glacés, and zee Madeleines, it is to throw up, ma chérie, non, non, non. And besides,” she said in her normal voice, “it will only spoil your dinner. We’ve made marvelous plans for tonight, and I’m hoping...”
“Meals are included in our hotel rate,” Lizzie said. “And, Alison, we couldn’t possibly allow you to entertain us again. I tried to argue against it in London, but Geoff...”
“As well he should have. Don’t talk drivel, my dear. And don’t even mention dining at your hotel when there are so many restaurants here.”
“I don’t know what the others...”
“Well, rescue buxom Felicity from the waters, and ask her to put on some clothes. And alert your other friends. I shall hear no more of it. Albert and I will be by to collect the lot and parcel of you at seven-thirty sharp.” She hesitated, and then said, “Well, that may be a bit too early. Shall we say seven-thirty-one?”
Suddenly reminded of Geoffrey, Lizzie said, “What’s a cat that sank?”
“A cat that sank? I have no idea. Is it a riddle? I love riddles.”
“It has something to do with the French ladies,” Lizzie said. “Geoffrey told me...”
“A cat that... oh, the scoundrel! Has he been corrupting my dear Lizzie?”
“What on earth is it?”
“I shall tell you later, I love to see you blush. Seven-thirty then, in the lobby. Ta, Lizzie, I’m so delighted you’re here!” she said, and — before Lizzie could thank her for the roses — abruptly broke the connection.
“I must tell you straight off,” Alison said, again reminding Lizzie of her brother, “that the art of cookery is in a terrible state of decadence in Paris.”
“As is everything else,” Albert added.
“But the Café Anglais is the best of the lot, or we shouldn’t have taken you here. Lizzie? Felicity? May either of us help you with these indecipherable French menus?”
They were, the four of them, sitting on a velvet-covered banquette in the brightly lighted dining room, deprived of the company of Rebecca and Anna because both of them, as they’d protested, were too exhausted to move from the hotel. Anna, especially, was still feeling queasy after the rough channel crossing that morning, a two-hour journey that had unsettled all of the women a bit. Lizzie had eaten nothing for lunch in Boulogne and, at Alison’s suggestion, had forsaken tea this afternoon. The aromas in the dining room now, the sight of steaming meals wheeling past on trolleys, of silver covers lifted by maitres d’hôtel beaming in anticipation, of carving knives flashing in waiters’ hands, made her almost giddy with hunger.