We never tried a _pension_ again. We chose a delightful hotel in the
Rue de Castiglione off the Rue de Rivoli, and remained there as fixtures
until we were reckoned the oldest inhabitants. But we never deserted the
dear old Boeuf a la Mode, which we lived to see one of the most flourishing
and popular places in Paris.
II
In the old days there was a little hotel on the Rue Dannou, midway between
the Rue de la Paix and what later along became the Avenue de l'Opera,
called the Hotel d'Orient. It was conducted by a certain Madame Hougenin,
whose family had held the lease for more than a hundred years, and was
typical of what the comfort-seeking visitor, somewhat initiate, might find
before the modern tourist onrush overflowed all bounds and effaced the
ancient landmarks--or should I say townmarks?--making a resort instead of a
home of the gay French capital. The d'Orient was delightfully comfortable
and fabulously cheap.
The wayfarer entered a darksome passage that led to an inner court. There
were on the four sides of this seven or eight stories pierced by many
windows. There was never a lift, or what we Americans call an elevator. If
you wanted to go up you walked up; and after dark your single illuminant
was candlelight. The service could hardly be recommended, but cleanliness
herself could find no fault with the beds and bedding; nor any queer people
about; changeless; as still and stationary as a nook in the Rockies.
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