'It is all settled; let us return,' said Amanda, appearing at last with an air of triumph, having appeased the old lady by eating green currants, and admiring an earwiggy arbour, commanding a fine view of a marsh where frogs were piping and cool mists rising as the sun set.

The chickens were tough at dinner, the wine bitter, the bread sour, but no one reproached Amanda as the cause of this change. And when the hostess bowed them out, next day, without a smile, they drove away, conscious only of deep grat.i.tude that they were saved from leaving their bones to moulder among the cabbages of Moulins.

'Now we return to civilisation, good clothes, and Christian food,' said Lavinia, as they surveyed their fine rooms at the Grand Hotel, Lyons.

'Likewise letters and luggage,' added Amanda, as the maid brought in a bundle of letters, and two porters came b.u.mping up with the trunks.

'Well, I've enjoyed the trip immensely, though nothing very remarkable has happened,' said Mat, diving into her private ark with satisfaction.

'I should like to wander in the wilderness for years, if I could hear from my family at intervals,' said Lavinia, briskly breaking open the plump, travel-worn letters.

'Then you consider our trip a success?' asked Amanda, pausing in the act of removing the dust from her n.o.ble countenance.

'A perfect success! We have done what we planned, had no mishaps, seen and enjoyed much, quarrelled not at all, laughed a great deal, and been altogether festive, thanks to you. I shall hang my shawl-strap on the castle wall as a trophy of the prowess of my Amanda, and the success of the last Declaration of American Independence,' replied Lavinia.

'I, also,' said Mat, opening her bundle for the one hundreth and last time.

'You do me proud; I humbly thank you,' and with a superb curtsy the commander-in-chief modestly retired behind the towel.

IV.

_SWITZERLAND._

'My children, listen to the words of wisdom ere it is too late,' began Lavinia, as the three sat about in dressing-gowns after a busy day in Geneva.

'We listen, go on, Granny,' replied the irreverent girls.

'If we stay here a week longer, we are ruined. Firstly, this Metropole is an expensive hotel; also noisy and full of fashionable people, whom I hate. Secondly, the allurements of the jewellers' shops are too much for us, and we had better flee before we spend all our money. Thirdly, if war does break out along the Rhine, as rumour now predicts, Geneva will be crammed with people whose plans, like ours, are upset; therefore we had better skip across the lake, and secure a comfortable place for ourselves at Vevey or Montreaux, for we shall probably have to winter there.'

'Hear, hear! we will do it, and if Italy doesn't get over her revolution in time for us to go to Rome, we must content ourselves with some nook in this refuge for all wanderers on the face of the continent,' said Amanda.

'But I like Geneva so much. It's such fun to watch the splendid waiters file in at dinner, looking like young gentlemen ready for a ball; the house is so gay, and the shops!--never did I dream of such richness before. Do stay another week and buy a few more things,' prayed Matilda, who spent most of her time gloating over the jewelry, and tempting her sister to buy all manner of useless gauds.

'No: we will go to-morrow. I know of several good _pensions_ at Vevey, so we are sure of getting in somewhere. Pack at once, and let us flee,'

returned Lavinia, who, having bought a watch, a ring, and a locket, felt that it was time to go.

And go they did, settling for a month at Bex, a little town up the valley of the Rhone, remarkable for its heat, its dirt, its lovely scenery, and the remarkable perfection to which its inhabitants had brought the _goitre_, nearly every one being blessed with an unsightly bunch upon the neck, which they decorated with ribbons and proudly displayed to the disgusted traveller.

Here in the rambling old Hotel des Bains, with its balconies, gardens, and little rooms, the wanderers reposed for a time. A Polish countess, with her lover, daughter, and governess, conferred distinction upon the house. An old Hungarian count, who laboured under the delusion that he descended in a direct line from Zen.o.bia, also adorned the scene. An artist with two pretty boys, named Alfred Constable Landseer Reynolds and Allston West Cuyp Vand.y.k.e, afforded Matilda much satisfaction.

English mammas with prim daughters of thirty or so still tied to their ap.r.o.n-strings were to be found, of course, for they are everywhere; also wandering French folk raving about the war one minute and tearing their hair over bad coffee the next.

Amanda read newspapers and talked politics with the old count; while Lavinia, with a paper bag of apricots under one arm and a volume of Disraeli's novels under the other, spent her shining hours wandering from balcony to garden, enjoying the heat, which gave her a short respite from her woes.

While here Matilda, in company with a kindred soul, made the ascent of Mount St. Bernard with the pleasing accompaniments of wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. But the irrepressible Americans went on in spite of warnings from more prudent travellers who stopped half-way. With one mule and a guide for escort, the two enthusiasts waded swollen streams with ice-cold water up to their knees, climbed slippery roads, faced what seemed a whirlwind at that height, and, undaunted by the uproar of the elements, pressed on to the Hospice, to the great admiration of Moritz, the guide, who told them he had seldom taken men up in such a storm, never ladies.

At the Hospice the dripping la.s.ses found a hospitable welcome from the handsome monk who does the honours there. Being provided with dry garments, and having much fun over the tall Matilda draped in skirts of many colours in the attempt to get any long enough, they were fed and warmed by the engaging monk, who entertained them as they sat about a roaring fire while the storm raged without, with thrilling tales of the travellers they had saved, the wild adventures they had known in the dreadful winter time, and the gifts bestowed upon them by grateful travellers or generous guests.

The Prince of Wales had sent them a piano, and many fine pictures ornamented the walls from famous persons. An old English lady who spends her summers up there seemed much amused at the prank of the girls, and evidently wondered what their guardians were about.

A merry and memorable evening; and when, on going to their cells, they found the beds nicely warmed, Matilda exclaimed,--

'This is the most delightful of the romantic and the comfortable I ever saw. Alps and warming-pans taken "jintly" are delicious!'

At five next morning they were wakened by the chanting of the invisible brotherhood, and went down to the chapel for ma.s.s. On going out for a clamber on the rocks, seven or eight great dogs came baying and leaping about them, licking their hands and smelling their garments to see if they were hurt. Looking into their bright, benevolent eyes, one could well believe the wonderful tales told of their courage and sagacity.

Though so powerful and large they were gentle as kittens, and the dog-loving girls were proud to receive and return the caresses of these four-footed heroes.

Leaving a grateful _souvenir_ in the box intended to receive whatever guests choose to leave, the girls descended in the morning sunshine, finding it a very different experience from the ascent. All was clear and calm now,--beautiful and grand; and only pausing at M. to send back a fine engraving to the comely priest, who had made a deep impression on their romantic hearts, the _enfants_ returned to their anxious friends, mildewed, rumpled, and weary, but full of enthusiastic delight over their successful ascent of St. Bernard.

War broke out, and Alexandre, the all-accomplished head-waiter, dropped his napkin, shouldered his gun, and marched away, leaving the Hotel des Bains desolate. Being pretty thoroughly baked, and very weary of the little town, our trio departed to Vevey, and settled down in the best _pension_ that ever received the weary traveller.

Standing in its own pretty grounds, and looking out upon the lake, Pension Paradis deserves its name. Clean and cosy within, a good table, a kindly hostess, and the jolliest old host ever seen! what more could the human heart desire?

Vevey was swarming with refugees. Don Carlos, or the Duke de Madrid, as he was called, was there with his d.u.c.h.ess and court, plotting heaven knows what up at his villa, with the grave, shabby men who haunted the town.

Queen Isabella reigned at one hotel, and Spanish grandees pervaded the place. There were several at Pension Paradis, and no one guessed what great creatures they were till a _fete_ day arrived, and the grim, gray men blossomed out into counts, marquises, and generals covered with orders, stars, and crosses splendid to behold.

One particularly silent, shabby little man with a shaven head and fine black eyes, who was never seen to smile, became an object of interest on that occasion by appearing in a gorgeous uniform with a great gilt gra.s.shopper hanging down his back from a broad green ribbon. Who was he?

What did the gra.s.shopper mean? Where did he go to in a fine carriage, and what was he plotting with the other Carlists, who dodged in and out of his room at all hours?

No one ever knew, and all the artful questions put to the young Spaniard, who played croquet with the girls, were unavailing. Nothing was discovered, except that little Mirandola had a t.i.tle, and might be sent back to Spain any day to lose his life or liberty in some rash plot, which circ.u.mstance made the black-eyed boy doubly interesting to the free-born Americans. Lavinia bewailed his hard lot, Amanda taught him whist and told his fortune, and Matilda put him in her sketch-book done in the blackest India-ink. It is also to be recorded that the doomed little Don was never seen to laugh but once, and that was when the girls taught him the cla.s.sical game of Muggins. The name struck him; he went about saying it to himself, and on the first occasion of his being 'mugginsed,' he was so tickled that he indulged in a hearty boy's laugh; but immediately recovered himself, and never smiled again, as if in penance for so forgetting his dignity.

A bashful Russian, who wore remarkably fine broadcloth and had perfect manners, was likewise received into the good graces of the ladies, who taught him English, called him 'the Baron' in private, and covered him with confusion in public by making him talk at table.

But the most amusing of all the family was Madame A., a handsome widow from Lyons, with two ugly children and a stout old mamma, who wore orange stockings and a curious edifice of black lace encircled with large purple asters. The widow had married an Italian artist, who was mortally jealous of his wife, whose blonde beauty attracted much attention at Rome. In some quarrel with a model the husband was stabbed, and the handsome widow left in peace.

A tall, fair lady, with a profile like Marie Antoinette; she dressed in white with violet ribbons, and wore much ancient jewelry. A loud-voiced, energetic woman, who bewailed the sack of her house at Lyons, scolded her children, and cursed the Germans with equal volubility and spirit.

When silent she was the picture of a patrician beauty; but, alas! her voice destroyed the charm, and her manners--great heavens, what things that woman did! Picking her pearly teeth with a hair-pin, and knocking her darlings into their chairs with one sweep of her elbow when they annoyed her at table, were the least of the horrors she perpetrated.

But she talked well, devoted herself to her family, and took misfortune bravely; so much may be pardoned her.

Her infants were only remarkable for their ugliness and curious costumes. The little girl usually wore soiled silk gowns, and had her hair tied up with bits of twine. The boy appeared in a suit of yellow calico spotted with black, looking very much like a canary bird who had fallen into an inkstand. On festival occasions he wore white cloth raiment, with red ribbons stuck here and there, and high red boots.

But, on the whole, the old mamma was the queerest of the set; for she spent most of her time lumbering up and down stairs, which amus.e.m.e.nt kept the orange hose constantly before the public. When not disporting herself in this way, she dozed in the _salon_, or consumed much food at table with a devotion that caused her to suck her fingers, on every one of which shone an antique ring of price. Her head-gear was a perpetual puzzle to the observing Lavinia, who could never discover whether it was a cap, a bonnet, or a natural production, for it was never off. Madame walked out in it, wore it all day, and very likely slept in it. At least Lavinia firmly believed so, and often beguiled the watches of the night, imagining the old soul placidly slumbering with the perennial asters encircling her aged brow like a halo.

One other party there was who much amused the rest of the household. An American lady with a sickly daughter, who would have been pretty but for her affectation and sentimentality. The girl was engaged to a fierce, dissipated little Russian, who presented her with a big bouquet every morning, followed her about all day like a dog, and glared wrathfully at any man who cast an eye upon the languishing damsel in white muslin and flowing curls 'bedropt with pearls,' as a romantic lady expressed it.

It was evident that the Russian without any vowels in his name was going to marry Mademoiselle for her money, and the weak Mamma was full of satisfaction at the prospect. To others it seemed a doubtful bargain, and much pity was felt for the feeble girl doomed to go to Russia with a husband who had 'tyrant' written in every line of his bad, _blase_ little face and figure. French polish could not hide the brute, nor any quant.i.ty of flowers conceal the chain by which he was leading his new serf away to bondage in St. Petersburg.

Into the midst of this select society came a countryman of our three,--a jocund youth fresh from Algiers, with relics, adventures, and tales that utterly eclipsed the 'Arabian Nights.' Festive times followed, for the 'Peri' (the pet name of aforesaid youth) gave them the fruits of his long wanderings, sung whole operas heard in Paris, danced ballets seen in Berlin, recounted perils among the Moors, served up gossip from the four corners of the globe, and conversed with each member of the household in his or her own language.

A cheerful comrade was the 'Peri,' and a great addition to the party, who now spent most of their time sitting about the town, eating grapes, and listening to the pranks of this sprightly M.D., who seemed to be studying his profession by wandering over Europe with a guitar _a la troubadour_.

Sounding the lungs of a veiled princess in Morocco was the least of his adventures, and the treasures he had collected supplied Lavinia with materials for unlimited romances: cuff-b.u.t.tons made from bits of marble picked up among the ruins of Carthage; diamond crescents and ear-rings bought in Toledo, so antique and splendid that relic-loving Amanda raved about them; photographs of the _belles_ of Constantinople, Moorish coins and pipes, bits of curious Indian embroidery; and, best of all, the power of telling how each thing was found in so graphic a manner that Eastern bazaars, ruins, and palaces seemed to rise before the listeners as in the time of the magic story-tellers. But all too soon he packed his knapsack, and promising to bring each of his friends the nose or ear of one of the shattered saints from the great cathedral at Strasbourg, the 'Peri' vanished from Paradis, and left them all lamenting.