in her room. She screamed a great deal, and they all laughed very much,
and all talked at once, so I suppose that was why I could not
understand quite everything they were saying. At last the Baronne
rushed into my room to discover what the noise was. She looks perfectly
_odd_ when going to bed; a good deal seemed to have come off; she is as
thin as a lath; and on the dressing table was such a sweet lace
nightcap, with lovely baby curls sewed to its edge, and when she put
that on she did look sweet. It isn't that she has no hair herself, it's
thick and brown; but she explained that having to wear a nightcap
because of ear-ache, she found it more becoming with the curls. I
suppose it is on account of the waiters coming in with the breakfast
that they have to be so particular in France how they look in bed.

But to go on about the door. We sent the Baronne's maid and Agnès to
try and find the landlord; but, after exploring untold depths below and
above, they only succeeded in unearthing Hippolyte. He came up from his
bed looking just like that very clever Missing Link that was at
Barnum's, do you remember?--the one that sometimes was an Irishwoman,
and could do housework in a cage by itself. I don't know exactly what
Hippolyte had on, but it ended up with a petticoat of red and black
plaid, and a pair of grey linen trousers over his shoulders; his
whiskers and hair were standing straight on end, and his shaved bits
were bluer than ever at night. He said a good deal of the French
equivalent of, "Here's a pretty kettle of fish," and shrugged so that I
was afraid the petticoat would slip off; and finally, when all the
pushing and pulling had no effect on the door, he said people must
resign themselves to the accidents of travel, and as there were four
beds, he did not see that they had too much to complain of.

[Sidenote: _"Not Much to Complain of"_]