“Ah, monsieur, je regrette beaucoup, mais il n’y a rien.” The patronne’s face reflected satisfaction in refusing something to somebody who wanted it so badly.
“Rien du tout?”
“Rien du tout,” she said firmly.
He did not really expect a different answer, though it was possible that the answer would be different. Once he had been refused, nothing was at stake, and he used the rest of the conversation to practice speaking French. Within the narrow limits of this situation, he was becoming almost fluent. He even tried to do something about his accent.
“Mais la prochaine semaine, peut-être?”
“La semaine prochaine non plus, monsieur.”
“C’est bien dommage.”
He glanced around the lobby and at the empty dining room and at the glass roof over their heads. Then he considered the patronne herself—the interesting hair-do, the flinty eyes, the tight mouth, the gold fleur-de-lys pin that had no doubt belonged to her mother, the incorruptible self-approval. She was as well worth studying as any historical monument, and seemed to be made of roughly the same material.
“C’est un très joli hôtel,” he said, and smiled experimentally, to see whether just this once the conversation could be put on a personal or even a sexual basis. All such confusions are, of course, purely Anglo-Saxon; the patronne was not susceptible. He might as well have tried to charm one of her half-dozen telephone directories.
“Nous aurions été très contents ici,” he said, with a certain pride in the fact that he was using the conditional past tense.
“Ah, monsieur, je regrette infiniment qu’il n’y a rien. L’O.N.U., vous savez.”
“Oui, oui, l’O.N.U.” He raised his hat politely. “Merci, madame.”
“De rien, monsieur.” The voice was almost kind.
“Nothing?” Barbara asked, when he got outside. She was standing in front of a shop window.
“Nothing. This one would have been perfect.” Then he studied the shop window. “That chair,” he said.
“I was looking at it too.”
“It would probably cost too much to ship it home, but we could ask, anyway.” He put his hand to the door latch. The door was locked.
They started on down the street, looking for the word “hôtel.” The weather was sunny and warm. Paris was beautiful.
In the middle of the morning, they sat down at a table under an awning on a busy street, ordered café filtre, and stretched their aching legs. Barbara opened her purse and took out the mail that they had picked up at the bank but not taken the time to read. They divided the letters between them. It was not a very good place to read. The noise was nerve-racking. Every time a big truck passed, the chairs and tables and their two coffee cups shook.
“Here’s a letter from the Robertsons,” she said.
“Are they still here?” he asked, looking up from his letter with interest.
Among the American tourists whom the Austrian government had billeted at a country inn outside Salzburg because the hotels in town were full of military personnel there was an American couple of the same age as Harold and Barbara and so much like them that at first the two couples carefully avoided each other. But when day after day they ate lunch at the same table and swam in the same lake and took the same crowded bus into Salzburg, it became more and more difficult and finally absurd not to compare notes on what they had heard or were going to hear. The Robertsons had no hotel reservations in Venice, and so Harold told them where he and Barbara were staying. And when they got to Venice they were welcomed in the hotel lobby by the Robertsons, who had already been there two days and showed them the way to the Piazza San Marco. With the mail that was handed to Harold at the American Express in Rome there was a note from Steve Robertson: he and Nancy were so sorry to miss them, and they must be sure and go to the Etruscan Museum and the outdoor opera at the Baths of Caracalla. The note that Barbara now passed across the table contained the name and telephone number of the Robertsons’ hotel in Paris.
He finished reading the mail that was scattered over the table and then said suddenly: “I don’t think we are going to find anything.”
“What will we do?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He signaled to the waiter that he was ready to pay the check. “Close our suitcases and go home, I guess.”
After lunch they started out again. There was only one small hotel in the neighborhood of the Place Redouté and it was full. Rien, monsieur. Je regrette beaucoup. They tried the Hôtel Bourgogne et Montana, the Hôtel Florida, the Hôtel Continental. They tried the Hôtel Scribe, and the Hôtel Métropolitain, and the Hôtel Madison. The Hôtel Louvre, the Hôtel Oxford et Cambridge, the Hôtel France et Choiseul … Rien, monsieur. Je n’ai rien … rien du tout … pas une seule chambre pour deux personnes avec salle de bains, pas de grand lit … Absolument rien … And all the while in his wallet there was that calling card, which he had saved as a souvenir. Used properly, the card of M. Carrère would have got them into any hotel in Paris, no matter how crowded. He never once thought of it.
From their room in the Hôtel Vouillemont, Harold called the Robertsons’ hotel. The voice that answered said: “Ne quittez pas,” and then after several minutes he heard another voice that was like an American flag waving in the breeze. “Dusty? How wonderful! You must come right over! It’s our last night in Paris, we’re taking the boat train in the morning, and what could be more perfect?”
The Robertsons’ hotel was on the other side of the river, in the rue de l’Université, and as Harold and Barbara walked up the street from the bus stop, they saw Steve coming to meet them. He was smiling, and he embraced them both and said: “Paris is marvelous!”
“If you have a place to lay your head,” Harold said.
They told him about the trouble they had been having, and he said: “Let’s go talk to the proprietor of our hotel. We’re leaving in the morning. I’m sure you can have our room. You’ll love it there, and it’s dirt cheap.” The proprietor said that he would be happy to let them have the Robertsons’ room, but for one night only. So they went on upstairs.
“Oh, it’s just marvelous!” Nancy said as she kissed them. “We’ve had the most marvelous two weeks. I know it’s a terrible thing to say but neither of us want to go home. We’re both heartsick at the thought of leaving Paris. Wasn’t Rome wonderful!”
The Robertsons had friends who were living here and spoke perfect French and had initiated them into the pleasures of the Left Bank. They took Barbara and Harold off to have dinner at a place they knew about, where the proprietor gave the women he admired a little green metal souvenir frog, sometimes with a lewd compliment. He was considered a character. The restaurant was full of students, and Harold and Barbara felt they were on the other side of the moon from the Place Redouté, where they belonged.
Saturday morning, Harold came down in the elevator alone, and, avoiding the reproachful look of the concierge as he passed through the lobby on his way to the street door, went to the Cunard Line office to see if their return passage could be changed to an earlier date, and was told that they were fortunate to be leaving as soon as the middle of October; the earliest open sailing was December first.
“I think it’s a sign,” Barbara said.
“We might as well take what we have,” he said. “While we have it.”
They got into a taxi and went back to the Left Bank and fanned out through the neighborhood of St. Germain-des-Prés—the rue Jacob, the rue de l’Université, the rue des Saints Pères, the rue des B eaux-Arts … The story was always the same. Their feet ached, their eyes saw nothing but the swinging hotel sign far up the street. Harold had tried to get Barbara to stay in their room while he walked the streets, but she insisted on keeping him company.