# The Chink in the Armour/Chapter 8
### CHAPTER VIII

They had been driving a considerable time, and at last the coachman, turning round on his seat, asked where they wished to go next.
"I ask you to come and 'ave tea with me," said Madame Wachner turning to Sylvia. "We are not very far from the Châlet des Muguets, and I 'ave some excellent tea there. We will 'ave a rest, and tell the man to come back for us in one hour. What do you think of that, Madame?"
"It is very kind of you," said Sylvia gratefully; and, indeed, she did think it very kind. It would be pleasant to rest a while in the Wachner's villa and have tea there.
Sylvia was in the mood to enjoy every new experience, however trifling, and she had never been in a French private house.
"Au Châlet des Muguets," called out Madame Wachner to the driver.
He nodded and turned his horse round.
Soon they were making their way along newly-made roads, cut through what had evidently been, not so very long before, a great stretch of forest land.
"The good people of Lacville are in a hurry to make money," observed Madame Wachner in French. "I am told that land here has nearly trebled in value the last few years, though houses are still cheap."
"It seems a pity they should destroy such beautiful ​woods," said Sylvia regretfully, remembering what the Comte de Virieu had said only that morning.
The other shrugged her shoulders, "I do not care for scenery—no, not at all!" she exclaimed complacently.
The carriage drew up with a jerk before a small white gate set in low, rough, wood palings. Behind the palings lay a large, straggling, and untidy garden, relieved from absolute ugliness by some high forest trees which had been allowed to remain when the house in the centre of the plot of ground was built.
Madame Wachner stepped heavily out of the carriage, and Sylvia followed her, feeling amused and interested. She wondered very much what the inside of the funny little villa she saw before her would be like. In any case, the outside of the Châlet des Muguets was almost ludicrously unlike the English houses to which she was accustomed.
Very strange, quaint, and fantastic looked the one-storey building, standing far higher than any bungalow Sylvia had ever seen, in a lawn of high, rank grass.
The walls of the Châlet des Muguets were painted bright pink, picked out with sham brown beams, which in their turn were broken at intervals by large blue china lozenges, on which were painted the giant branches of lilies-of-the-valley which gave the villa its inappropriate name!
The chocolate-coloured row of shutters were now closed to shut out the heat, for the sun beat down pitilessly on the little house, and the whole place had a curiously deserted, unlived-in appearance.
Sylvia secretly wondered how the Wachners could bear to leave the garden, which might have been made ​so pretty with a little care, in such a state of neglect and untidiness. Even the path leading up to the side of the house, where jutted out a mean-looking door, was covered with weeds.
But Madame Wachner was evidently very pleased with her temporary home, and quite satisfied with its surroundings.
"It is a pretty 'ouse, is it not?" she asked in English, and smiling broadly. "And only one thousand francs, furnished, for the 'ole season!"
Sylvia quickly made a mental calculation. Forty pounds? Yes, she supposed that was very cheap—for Lacville.
"We come in May, and we may stay till October," said Madame Wachner, still speaking in a satisfied tone. "I made a bargain with a woman from the town. She comes each morning, cooks what I want, and does the 'ousework. Often we 'ave our déjeuner out and dine at 'ome, or we dine close to the Casino—just as we choose. Food is so dear in France, it makes little difference whether we stay at 'ome or not for meals."
They were now close to the chocolate-coloured door of the Châlet, and Madame Wachner, to Sylvia Bailey's surprise and amusement, lifted a corner of the shabby outside mat, and took from under it a key. With it she opened the door. "Walk in," she said familiarly, "and welcome, Madame, to my 'ome!"
Sylvia found herself in a bare little hall, so bare indeed that there was not even a hat and umbrella stand there.
Her hostess walked past her and opened a door which gave into a darkened room.
​"This is our dining-room," she said proudly. "Walk in, Madame. It is 'ere we had better 'ave tea, perhaps."
Sylvia followed her. How dark, and how very hot it was in here! She could see absolutely nothing for some moments, for she was blinded by the sudden change from the bright light of the hall to the dim twilight of the closely-shuttered room.
Then gradually she began to see everything—or rather the little there was to be seen—and she felt surprised, and a little disappointed.
The dining-room was more than plainly furnished; it was positively ugly.
The furniture consisted of a round table standing on an unpolished parquet floor, of six cane chairs set against the wall, and of a walnut-wood buffet, on the shelves of which stood no plates, or ornaments of any description. The walls were distempered a reddish-pink colour, and here and there the colour had run in streaky patches.
"Is it not charming?" exclaimed Madame Wachner. "And now I will show you our pretty little salon!"
Sylvia followed her out into the hall, and so to the left into the short passage which ran down the centre of the tiny house.
The drawing-room of the Châlet des Muguets was a little larger than the dining-room, but it was equally bare of anything pretty or even convenient. There was a small sofa, covered with cheap tapestry, and four uncomfortable-looking chairs to match; on the sham marble mantelpiece stood a gilt and glass clock and two chandeliers. There was not a book, not a paper, not a flower.
Both rooms gave Sylvia a strange impression that they ​were very little lived in. But then, of course, the Wachners were very little at home.
"And now I will get tea," said Madame Wachner triumphantly.
"Will you not let me help you?" asked Sylvia, timidly. "I love making tea—every Englishwoman loves making tea." She had no wish to be left in this dull, ugly little drawing-room by herself.
"Oh, but your pretty dress! Would it not get 'urt in the kitchen?" cried Madame Wachner deprecatingly.
But she allowed Sylvia to follow her into the bright, clean little kitchen, of which the door was just opposite the drawing-room.
"What a charming little cuisine!" cried Sylvia smiling. She was glad to find something that she could honestly praise, and the kitchen was, in truth, the pleasantest place in the house, exquisitely neat, with the brass batterie de cuisine shining and bright. "Your day servant must be an exceptionally clean woman."
"Yes," said Madame Wachner, in a rather dissatisfied tone, "she is well enough. But, oh, those French people, how eager they are for money! Do you suppose that woman ever stays one minute beyond her time? No, indeed!"
Even as she spoke she was pouring water into a little kettle, and lighting a spirit lamp. Then, going to a cupboard, she took out two cups and a cracked china teapot.
Sylvia did her part by cutting some bread and butter, and, as she stood at the white table opposite the kitchen window, she saw that beyond the small piece of garden which lay at the back of the house was a dense chestnut ​wood, only separated from the Châlet des Muguets by a straggling hedge.
"Does the wood belong to you, too?" she asked.
Madame Wachner shook her head.
"Oh! no," she said, "that is for sale!"
"You must find it very lonely here at night," said Sylvia, musingly, "you do not seem to have any neighbours either to the right or left."
"There is a villa a little way down the road," said Madame Wachner quickly. "But we are not nervous people—and then we 'ave nothing it would be worth anybody's while to steal."
Sylvia reminded herself that the Wachners must surely have a good deal of money in the house if they gambled as much as Anna Wolsky said they did. Her hostess could not keep it all in the little bag which she always carried hung on her wrist.
And then, as if Madame Wachner had seen straight into her mind, the old woman said significantly. "As to our money, I will show you where we keep it. Come into my bed-room; perhaps you will take off your hat there; then we shall be what English people call 'cosy.'"
Madame Wachner led the way again into the short passage, and so into a large bed-room, which looked, like the kitchen, on to the back garden.
After the kitchen, this bed-room struck Sylvia as being the pleasantest room in the Châlet des Muguets, and that although, like the dining-room and drawing-room, it was extraordinarily bare.
There was no chest of drawers, no dressing-table, no cupboard to be seen. Madame Wachner's clothes hung ​on pegs behind the door, and there was a large brass-bound trunk in a corner of the room.
But the broad, low bed looked very comfortable, and there was a bath-room next door.
Madame Wachner showed her guest the bath-room with great pride.
"This is the 'English comfortable,'" she said, using the quaint phrase the French have invented to express the acme of domestic luxury. "My 'usband will never allow me to take a 'ouse that has no bath-room. 'E is very clean about 'imself"—she spoke as if it was a fact to be proud of, and Sylvia could not help smiling.
"I suppose there are still many French houses without a bath-room," she said.
"Yes," said Madame Wachner quickly, "the French are not a clean people,"—she shook her head scornfully.
"I suppose you keep your money in that box?" said Sylvia, looking at the brass-bound trunk.
"No, indeed! This is where I keep it!"
Madame Wachner suddenly lifted her thin alpaca skirt, and Sylvia, with astonishment, saw that hung round her capacious waist were a number of little wash-leather bags. "My money is all 'ere!" exclaimed Madame Wachner, laughing heartily. "It rests—oh, so cosily—against my petticoat."
They went back into the kitchen. The water was boiling, and Sylvia made the tea, Madame Wachner looking on with eager interest.
"La! La! it will be strong! I only put a pinch for ourselves. And now go into the dining-room, and I will bring the teapot there to you, Madame!
​"No, no," said Sylvia laughing, "why should we not drink our tea here, in this pretty kitchen?"
The other looked at her doubtfully. "Shall we?"
"Yes, of course!" cried Sylvia.
They drew up two rush-bottomed chairs to the table and sat down.
Sylvia thoroughly enjoyed this first taste of Madame Wachner's hospitality. The drive and the great heat had made her feel tired and languid, and the tea did her good.
"I will go and see if the carriage is there," said Madame Wachner at last.
While her hostess was away, Sylvia looked round her with some curiosity.
What an extraordinary mode of life these people had chosen for themselves! If the Wachners were rich enough to gamble, surely they had enough money to live more comfortably than they were now doing? It was clear that they hardly used the dining-room and drawing-room of the little villa at all. When Sylvia had been looking for the butter, she had not been able to help seeing that in the tiny larder there was only a small piece of cheese, a little cold meat, and a couple of eggs on a plate. No wonder Monsieur Wachner had heartily enjoyed the copious, if rather roughly-prepared, meal at the Pension Malfait.
"Yes, the carriage is there," said Madame Wachner bustling back. "And now we must be quick, or L'Ami Fritz will be cross! Do you know that absurd man actually still thinks 'e is master, and yet we 'ave been married—oh, I do not know 'ow many years! But he ​always loves seeing me even after we 'ave been separated but two hours or so!"
Together they went out, Madame Wachner carefully locking the door and hiding the key where she had found it, under the mat outside.
Sylvia could not help laughing.
"I really wonder you do that," she observed. "Just think how easy it would be for anyone to get into the house!"
"Yes, that is true, but there is nothing to steal. As I tell you, we always carry our money about with us," said Madame Wachner. She added in a serious tone, "and I should advise you to do so too, my dear young friend."