Pictures From Italy | Page 5

beds in it: through a dark
passage, up two steps, down four, past a pump, across a balcony, and
next door to the stable. The other sleeping apartments are large and
lofty; each with two small bedsteads, tastefully hung, like the windows,
with red and white drapery. The sitting-room is famous. Dinner is
already laid in it for three; and the napkins are folded in cocked-hat
fashion. The floors are of red tile. There are no carpets, and not much
furniture to speak of; but there is abundance of looking-glass, and there
are large vases under glass shades, filled with artificial flowers; and
there are plenty of clocks. The whole party are in motion. The brave
Courier, in particular, is everywhere: looking after the beds, having
wine poured down his throat by his dear brother the landlord, and
picking up green cucumbers--always cucumbers; Heaven knows where
he gets them--with which he walks about, one in each hand, like
truncheons.
Dinner is announced. There is very thin soup; there are very large
loaves--one apiece; a fish; four dishes afterwards; some poultry
afterwards; a dessert afterwards; and no lack of wine. There is not
much in the dishes; but they are very good, and always ready instantly.
When it is nearly dark, the brave Courier, having eaten the two
cucumbers, sliced up in the contents of a pretty large decanter of oil,
and another of vinegar, emerges from his retreat below, and proposes a
visit to the Cathedral, whose massive tower frowns down upon the
court-yard of the inn. Off we go; and very solemn and grand it is, in the
dim light: so dim at last, that the polite, old, lanthorn-jawed Sacristan
has a feeble little bit of candle in his hand, to grope among the tombs
with--and looks among the grim columns, very like a lost ghost who is
searching for his own.
Underneath the balcony, when we return, the inferior servants of the
inn are supping in the open air, at a great table; the dish, a stew of meat
and vegetables, smoking hot, and served in the iron cauldron it was
boiled in. They have a pitcher of thin wine, and are very merry; merrier
than the gentleman with the red beard, who is playing billiards in the
light room on the left of the yard, where shadows, with cues in their

hands, and cigars in their mouths, cross and recross the window,
constantly. Still the thin Cure walks up and down alone, with his book
and umbrella. And there he walks, and there the billiard-balls rattle,
long after we are fast asleep.
We are astir at six next morning. It is a delightful day, shaming
yesterday's mud upon the carriage, if anything could shame a carriage,
in a land where carriages are never cleaned. Everybody is brisk; and as
we finish breakfast, the horses come jingling into the yard from the
Post-house. Everything taken out of the carriage is put back again. The
brave Courier announces that all is ready, after walking into every
room, and looking all round it, to be certain that nothing is left behind.
Everybody gets in. Everybody connected with the Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is
again enchanted. The brave Courier runs into the house for a parcel
containing cold fowl, sliced ham, bread, and biscuits, for lunch; hands
it into the coach; and runs back again.
What has he got in his hand now? More cucumbers? No. A long strip
of paper. It's the bill.
The brave Courier has two belts on, this morning: one supporting the
purse: another, a mighty good sort of leathern bottle, filled to the throat
with the best light Bordeaux wine in the house. He never pays the bill
till this bottle is full. Then he disputes it.
He disputes it now, violently. He is still the landlord's brother, but by
another father or mother. He is not so nearly related to him as he was
last night. The landlord scratches his head. The brave Courier points to
certain figures in the bill, and intimates that if they remain there, the
Hotel de l'Ecu d'Or is thenceforth and for ever an hotel de l'Ecu de
cuivre. The landlord goes into a little counting-house. The brave
Courier follows, forces the bill and a pen into his hand, and talks more
rapidly than ever. The landlord takes the pen. The Courier smiles. The
landlord makes an alteration. The Courier cuts a joke. The landlord is
affectionate, but not weakly so. He bears it like a man. He shakes hands
with his brave brother, but he don't hug him. Still, he loves his brother;
for he knows that he will be returning that way, one of these fine days,
with another family, and he foresees that his heart will yearn towards

him