In and Out of Three Normandy Inns | Page 7

dazzling in whiteness, thrown out against the black facades, were spots
of light here and there. There was a glimpse of the village at its
supper--in low-raftered interiors a group of blouses and women in
fishermen's rig were gathered about narrow tables, the coarse-featured
faces and the seamed foreheads lit up by the feeble flame of candles
that ended in long, thin lines of smoke.
"_Ohé--Mère Mouchard!--des voyageurs!_" cried forth our coachman
into the darkness. He had drawn up before a low, brightly-lit interior. In
response to the call a figure appeared on the threshold of the open door.
The figure stood there for a long instant, rubbing its hands, as it peered
out into the dusk of the night to take a good look at us. The brown head
was cocked on one side thoughtfully; it was an attitude that expressed,
with astonishingly clear emphasis, an unmistakable professional
conception of hospitality. It was the air and manner, in a word, of one
who had long since trimmed the measurement of its graciousness to the
price paid for the article.
"Ces dames wished rooms, they desired lodgings and board--ces dames
were alone?" The voice finally asked, with reticent dignity. "From
Havre--from Trouville, _par p'tit bateau!_" called out lustily our driver,
as if to furnish us, gratis, with a passport to the landlady's not too
effusive cordiality.
What secret spell of magic may have lain hidden in our friendly
coachman's announcement we never knew. But the "p'tit bateau"
worked magically. The figure of Mère Mouchard materialized at once
into such zeal, such effusion, such a zest of welcome, that we, our bags,
and our coachman were on the instant toiling up a pair of spiral wooden
stairs. There was quite a little crowd to fill the all-too-narrow landing at
the top of the steep steps, a crowd that ended in a long line of waiters
and serving-maids, each grasping a remnant of luggage. Our hostess,
meanwhile, was fumbling at a door-lock--an obstinate door that refused
to be wrenched open.

"Augustine--run--I've taken the wrong key. _Cours, mon enfant_, it is
no farther away than the kitchen."
The long line pressed itself against the low walls. Augustine, a blond-
haired, neatly-garmented shape, sped down the rickety stairs with the
step of youth and a dancer; for only the nimble ankles of one
accomplished in waltzing could have tripped as dexterously downward
as did Augustine.
"How she lags! what an idiot of a child!" fumed Mère Mouchard as she
peered down into the round blackness about which the curving staircase
closed like an embrace. "One must have patience, it appears, with
people made like that. _Ah, tiens,_ here she comes. How could you
keep ces dames waiting like this? It is shameful, shameful!" cried the
woman, as she half shook the panting girl, in anger. "If ces dames will
enter,"--her voice changing at once to a caressing falsetto, as the door
flew open, opened by Augustine's trembling fingers--"they will find
their rooms in readiness."
The rooms were as bare as a soldier's barrack, but they were spotlessly
clean. There was the pale flicker of a sickly candle to illumine the
shadowy recesses of the curtained beds and the dark little
dressing-rooms.
A few moments later we wound our way downward, spirally, to find
ourselves seated at a round table in a cosy, compact dining-room.
Directly opposite, across the corridor, was the kitchen, from which
issued a delightful combination of vinous, aromatic odors. The light of
a strong, bright lamp made it as brilliant as a ball-room; it was a
ball-room which for decoration had rows of shining brass and copper
kettles--each as burnished as a jewel--a mass of sunny porcelain, and
for carpet the satin of a wooden floor. There was much bustling to and
fro. Shapes were constantly passing and repassing across the lighted
interior. The Mère's broad-hipped figure was an omniscient presence: it
hovered at one instant over a steaming saucepan, and the next was
lifting a full milk-jug or opening a wine-bottle. Above the clatter of the
dishes and the stirring of spoons arose the thick Normandy voices, deep
alto tones, speaking in strange jargon of speech--a world of patois

removed from our duller comprehension. It was made somewhat too
plain in this country, we reflected, that a man's stomach is of far more
importance than the rest of his body. The kitchen yonder was by far the
most comfortable, the warmest, and altogether the prettiest room in the
whole house.
Augustine crossed the narrow entry just then with a smoking pot of
soup. She was followed, later, by Mère Mouchard, who bore a sole au
vin blanc, a bottle of white Burgundy, and a super-naturally ethereal
soufflé. And an hour after, even the curtainless, carpetless bed
chambers above were powerless to affect