could not have cost more than all that," and then she set to work to count up how much her money and Roger's added together would be. It would not come twice together to the same sum somehow, and Gladys went on counting it up over and over again confusedly till at last it all got into a confusion together, for she too, tired out with excitement and the awakening of so many strange feelings, had fallen asleep like poor little Roger.
They both slept a good while, and Mr. and Mrs. Marton congratulated themselves on having such very quiet and peaceable small fellow-travellers.
"They are no trouble at all," said young Mrs. Marton. "But on the boat we must of course have Léonie with us, in case of a bad passage."
"Yes, certainly," said her husband; "indeed I think she had better be with us from London. They will be getting tired by then."
"They are tired already, poor pets," said Mrs. Marton, who was little more than a girl herself. "They don't look very strong, do they, Phillip?"
Mr. Marton took the cigarette he had just been preparing to enjoy out of his mouth, and turned towards the children, examining them critically.
"The boy looks sturdy enough, though he's small. He's like Bertram. The girl seems delicate; she's so thin too."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Marton. "I don't mind, and no more does Léonie; but I think it was rather hard-hearted of Susan Lacy to have sent them off like that without a nurse of their own. If she had not been so worried about Mrs. Lacy's illness, I think I would have said something about it to her, even at the last. Somehow, till I saw the children, I did not think they were so tiny."
"It'll be all right once we get to Paris and we give them over to their father," said Mr. Marton, who was of a philosophical turn of mind, puffing away again at his cigarette. "It will have saved some expense, and that's a consideration too."
The children slept for some time. When they awoke they were not so very far from London. They felt less tired and better able to look about them and ask a few modest little questions. And when they got to London they enjoyed the nice hot cup of tea they had in the refreshment room, and by degrees they began to make friends with Léonie, who was very bright and merry, so that they were pleased to hear she was to be in the same carriage with them for the rest of the journey.
"Till you see your dear Papa," said Léonie, who had heard all the particulars from her young mistress.
"Yes," said Gladys quietly – by this time they were settled again in another railway carriage – "our Papa's to be at the station to meet us."
"And we're to have a new nurse," added Roger, who was in a communicative humour. "Do you think she'll be kind to us?"
"I'm sure she will," said Léonie, whose heart was already won.
"She's to teach us French," said Gladys.
"That will be very nice," said Léonie. "It is a very good thing to know many languages."
"Can you speak French?" asked Roger.
Léonie laughed, "Of course I can," she replied, "French is my tongue."
Roger sat straight up, with an appearance of great interest.
"Your tongue," he repeated. "Please let me see it," and he stared hard at Léonie's half-opened mouth. "Is it not like our tongues then?"
Léonie stared too, then she burst out laughing.
"Oh, I don't mean tongue like that," she said, "I mean talking – language. When I was little like you I could talk nothing but French, just like you now, who can talk only English."
"And can't everybody in France talk English too?" asked Gladys, opening her eyes.
"Oh dear no!" said Léonie.
Gladys and Roger looked at each other. This was quite a new and rather an alarming idea.
"It is a very good thing," Gladys remarked at last, "that Papa is to be at the station. If we got lost over there," she went on, nodding her head in the direction of an imaginary France, "it would be even worse than in London."
"But you're not going to get lost anywhere," said Léonie, smiling. "We'll take better care of you than that."
And then she went on to tell them a little story of how once, when she was a very little girl, she had got lost – not in Paris, but in a much smaller town – and how frightened she was, and how at last an old peasant woman on her way home from market had found her crying under a hedge, and had brought her home again to her mother. This thrilling adventure was listened to with the greatest interest.
"How pleased your mother must have been to see you again!" said Gladys. "Does she still live in that queer old town? Doesn't she mind you going away from her?"
"Alas!" said Léonie, and the tears twinkled in her bright eyes, "my mother is no longer of this world. She went away from me several years ago. I shall not see her again till in heaven."
"That's like us," said Gladys. "We've no Mamma. Did you know?"
"But you've a good Papa," said Léonie.
"Yes," said Gladys, rather doubtfully, for somehow the idea of a real flesh-and-blood Papa seemed to be getting more instead of less indistinct now that they were soon to see him. "But he's been away such a very long time."
"Poor darlings," said Léonie.
"And have you no Papa, no little brothers, not any one like that?" inquired Gladys.
"I have some cousins – very good people," said Léonie. "They live in Paris, where we are now going. If there had been time I should have liked to go to see them. But we shall stay no time in Paris – just run from one station to the other."
"But the luggage?" said Gladys. "Mrs. Marton has a lot of boxes. I don't see how you can run if you have them to carry. I think it would be better to take a cab, even if it does cost a little more. But perhaps there are no cabs in Paris. Is that why you talk of running to the station?"
Léonie had burst out laughing half-way through this speech, and though she knew it was not very polite, she really could not help it. The more she tried to stop, the more she laughed.
"What is the matter?" said Gladys at last, a little offended.
"I beg your pardon," said Léonie; "I know it is rude. But, Mademoiselle, the idea" – and here she began to laugh again – "of Monsieur and Madame and me all running with the boxes! It was too amusing!"
Gladys laughed herself now, and so did Roger.
"Then there are cabs in Paris," she said in a tone of relief. "I am glad of that. Papa will have one all ready for us, I suppose. What time do we get there, Léonie?"
Léonie shook her head.
"A very disagreeable time," she said, "quite, quite early in the morning, before anybody seems quite awake. And the mornings are already so cold. I am afraid you will not like Paris very much at first."
"Oh yes, they will," said Mrs. Marton, who had overheard the last part of the conversation. "Think how nice it will be to see their Papa waiting for them, and to go to a nice warm house and have breakfast; chocolate, most likely. Do you like chocolate?"
"Yes, very much," said Gladys and Roger.
"I
