In and Out of Three Normandy Inns | Page 9

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 question followed question.
"Are you alone?--"
"No."
"Is she--young?"
"Yes."
"Pretty?"
"Judge for yourself--that is she--in the garden yonder."
The beret dipped itself perilously out into the sky--to take a full view.
"Hem--I'll come in at once."
It was as a trio that the conversation was continued later, in the garden. But Renard was still chief questioner.
"Have you been out on the mussel-beds?"
"Not yet."
"We'll go this afternoon--Have you been to Honfleur? Not yet?--We'll go to-morrow. The tide will be in to-day about four--I'll call for you--wear heavy boots and old clothes. It's jolly dirty. Where do you breakfast?"
The breakfast was eaten, as a trio, at our inn, an hour later. It was so warm a day, it was served under one of the arbors. Augustine was feeding and caressing the doves as we entered the inn garden. At sight of Renard she dropped a quiet courtesy, smiles and