Produced by Suzanne Shell, David Kline, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
The End of Her Honeymoon
By
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes
Author of "The Uttermost Farthing," "The Chink in the Armour," etc., etc.
1913
"Cocher? l'Hôtel Saint Ange, Rue Saint Ange!"
The voice of John Dampier, Nancy's three-weeks bridegroom, rang outstrongly, joyously, on this the last evening of their honeymoon. And beforethe lightly hung open carriage had time to move, Dampier added somethingquickly, at which both he and the driver laughed in unison.
Nancy crept nearer to her husband. It was tiresome that she knew so little
French.
"I'm telling the man we're not in any hurry, and that he can take us roundby the Boulevards. I won't have you seeing Paris from an ugly angle thefirst time—darling!"
"But Jack? It's nearly midnight! Surely there'll be nothing to see on the
Boulevards now?"
"Won't there? You wait and see—Paris never goes to sleep!"
And then—Nancy remembered it long, long afterwards—something very odd anddisconcerting happened in the big station yard of the Gare de Lyon. Thehorse stopped—stopped dead. If it hadn't been that the bridegroom's armenclosed her slender, rounded waist, the bride might have been thrown out.
The cabman stood up in his seat and gave his horse a vicious blow acrossthe back.
"Oh, Jack!" Nancy shrank and hid her face in her husband's arm. "Don't lethim do that! I can't bear it!"
Dampier shouted out something roughly, angrily, and the man jumped off thebox, and taking hold of the rein gave it a sharp pull. He led his unwillinghorse through the big iron gates, and then the little open carriage rolledon smoothly.
How enchanting to be driving under the stars in the city which hails inevery artist—Jack Dampier was an artist—a beloved son!
In the clear June atmosphere, under the great arc-lamps which seemedsuspended in the mild lambent air, the branches of the trees lining theBoulevards showed brightly, delicately green; and the tints of the dressesworn by the women walking up and down outside the cafés and stillbrilliantly lighted shops mingled luminously, as on a magic palette.
Nancy withdrew herself gently from her husband's arm. It seemed to her thatevery one in that merry, slowly moving crowd on either side must see thathe was holding her to him. She was a shy, sensitive little creature, thisthree-weeks-old bride, whose honeymoon was now about to merge into happyevery-day life.
Dampier divined something of what she was feeling. He put out his hand andclasped hers. "Silly sweetheart," he whispered. "All these merry,chattering people are far too full of themselves to be thinking of us!"
As she made no answer, bewildered, a little oppressed by the brilliance,the strangeness of everything about them, he added a little anxiously,"Darling, are you tired? Would you rather go straight to the hotel?"
But pressing closer to him, Nancy shook her head. "No, no, Jack! I'm not abit tired. It was you who were tired to-day, not I!"
"I didn't feel well in the train, 'tis true. But now that I'm in Paris Icould stay out all night! I suppose you've never read George Moore'sdescription of this very drive we're taking, little girl?"
And again Nancy shook her head, and smiled in the darkness. In t