In and Out of Three Normandy Inns | Page 9

resist the dashes made by
Friponne's sharply-trimmed nails. It was for this, to don a silk gown in
full sight of her neighbors; to set up as companion a dog of the highest
fashion, the very purest of caniches, that twenty years of patient
nursing a paralytic husband--who died all too slowly--had been counted
as nothing!
Once we were summoned to our outlook by the vigorous beating of a
drum. Madame Mouchard and Augustine were already at their own
post of observation--the open inn door. The rest of the village was in
full attendance, for it was not every day in the week that the "tambour,"
the town-crier, had business enough to render his appearance, in his
official capacity, necessary; as a mere townsman he was to be seen any
hour of the day, as drunk as a lord, at the sign of "L'Ami Fidèle." His
voice, as it rolled out the words of his cry, was as staccato in pitch as
any organ can be whose practice is largely confined to unceasing calls
for potations. To the listening crowd, the thick voice was shouting:

"_Madame Tricot--à la messe--dimanche--a--perdu une broche--or et
perles--avec cheveux--Madame Merle a perdu--sur la plage--un panier
avec--un chat noir--_"
We ourselves, to our astonishment, were drummed the very next
morning. Augustine had made the discovery of a missing shoulder-cape;
she had taken it upon herself to call in the drummer. So great was the
attendance of villagers, even the abstractors of the lost garment must,
we were certain, be among the crowd assembled to hear our names
shouted out on the still air. We were greatly affected by the publicity of
the occasion; but the village heard the announcement, both of our
names and of our loss, with the phlegm of indifference. "Vingt francs
pour avoir tambouriné mademoiselle!" This was an item which a week
later, in madame's little bill, was not confronted with indifference.
"It gives one the feeling of having had relations with a wandering
circus," remarked the young philosopher at my side.
"But it is really a great convenience, that system," she continued; "I'm
always mislaying things--and through the drummer there's a whole
village as aid to find a lost article. I shall, doubtless, always have that,
now, in my bills!" And Charm, with an air of serene confidence in the
village, adjusted her restored shoulder-cape.
Down below, in our neighbor's garden--the one adjoining our own and
facing the sea--a new and old world of fashion in capes and other
garments were a-flutter in the breeze, morning after morning. Who and
what was this neighbor, that he should have so curious and eccentric a
taste in clothes? No woman was to be seen in the garden-paths; a man,
in a butler's apron and a silk skullcap, came and went, his arms piled
high with gowns and scarves, and all manner of strange odds and ends.
Each morning some new assortment of garments met our wondering
eyes. Sometimes it was a collection of Empire embroidered costumes
that were hung out on the line; faded fleur-de-lis, sprigs of dainty lilies
and roses, gold-embossed Empire coats, strewn thick with seed-pearls
on satins softened by time into melting shades. When next we looked
the court of Napoleon had vanished, and the Bourbon period was,
literally, in full swing. A frou-frou of laces, coats with deep skirts, and

beribboned trousers would be fluttering airily in the soft May air. Once,
in fine contrast to these courtly splendors, was a wondrous assortment
of flannel petticoats. They were of every hue--red, yellow, brown, pink,
patched, darned, wide-skirted, plaited, ruffled--they appeared to
represent the taste and requirement of every climate and country, if one
could judge by the thickness of some and the gossamer tissues of others;
but even the smartest were obviously, unmistakably, effrontedly,
flannel petticoats.
It was a mystery that greatly intrigued us. One morning the mystery
was solved. A whiff of tobacco from an upper window came along with
a puff of wind. It was a heated whiff, in spite of the cooling breeze. It
was from a pipe, a short, black pipe, owned by some one in the
Mansard window next door. There was the round disk of a dark-blue
beret drooping over the pipe. "Good--" I said to myself--"I shall see
now--at last--this maniac with a taste for darned petticoats!"
The pipe smoked peacefully, steadily on. The beret was motionless.
Between the pipe and the cap was a man's profile; it was too much in
shadow to be clearly defined.
The next instant the man's face was in full sunlight. The face turned
toward me--with the quick instinct of knowing itself watched--and
then--
"Pas--possible!"
"You--here!"
"Been here a year--but you, when did you arrive? What luck! What
luck!"
It was John Renard, the artist; after the first salutations