Two Summers in Guyenne | Page 5

country.
At the first auberge where I applied for a night's lodging, an elderly

woman with a mournful face declined to take me in, and gave no
reason. When I had left, she came after me and said, with her eyes full
of tears:
'I have a great trouble in the house, that is why I sent you away.'
I understood what she meant; somebody dear to her was dying. A man
who was listening said his brother-in-law, the baker, was also an
innkeeper, and he offered to take me to the auberge. I gladly consented,
for I was fearful of being obliged to tramp on to some other place.
Presently I was in a large, low room, which was both kitchen and
baker's shop. On shelves were great wheel-shaped loaves (they are
called miches in the provinces), some about two feet in diameter, made
chiefly of rye with a little wheaten flour. Filled sacks were ranged
along the wall. In a deep recess were the kneading-trough, and the oven,
now cold. The broad rural hearth, with its wood-fire and sooty chimney,
the great pot for the family soup hanging to a chain, took up a large
share of the remaining space. I sat upon a rickety chair beside a long
table that had seen much service, but was capable of seeing a great deal
more, for it had been made so as to outlast generations of men.
Bare-footed children ran about upon the black floor, and a thin, gaunt
young woman, who wore very short petticoats, which revealed legs not
unlike those of the table, busied herself with the fire and the pot. She
was the sister of the children, and had been left in charge of the house
while her father and mother were on a journey. She accepted me as a
lodger, but for awhile she was painfully taciturn. This, however, her
scanty knowledge of French, and the fact that a stranger even of the
class of small commercial travellers was a rare bird in the village, fully
accounted for. The place was not cheerful, but as I listened to the
crickets about the hearth, and watched the flames leap up and lick the
black pot, my spirits rose. Presently the church bell sounded, dong,
dong, dong.
'Why are they tolling the bell?' I asked.
'Because,' replied the gaunt young woman, 'a man has died in the
village.'
By pressing her to speak, she explained that while a corpse lay
unburied the bell was tolled three times in the day--early in the morning,
at mid-day, and at nightfall. The conversation was in darkness, save
such light as the fire gave. It was not until the soup was ready that the

lamp was lighted. Then the young woman, addressing me abruptly,
said:
'Cut up your bread for your soup.'
I did as I was told, for I always try to accommodate myself to local
customs, and never resent the rough manners of well-intentioned
people. The bread was not quite black, but it was very dark from the
amount of rye that was in it. The soup was water flavoured with a
suggestion of fat bacon, whatever vegetables happened to be in the way,
and salt. This fluid, poured over bread--when the latter is not boiled
with it--is the chief sustenance of the French peasant. It was all that the
family now had for their evening meal, and in five minutes everyone
had finished. They drank no wine; it was too expensive for them, the
nearest vineyard being far away. A bottle, however, was placed before
me, but the quality was such that I soon left it. To get some meat for me
the village had to be scoured, and the result was a veal cutlet.
I was not encouraged to sit up late. As the eldest daughter of the inn
showed me my night quarters, she said:
'Your room is not beautiful, but the bed is clean.'
This was quite true. The room, in accordance with a very frequent
arrangement in these rural auberges, was not used exclusively for
sleeping purposes, but also for the entertainment of guests, especially
on fair and market days, when space is precious. There was a table with
a bench for the use of drinkers. There were, moreover, three beds, but I
was careful to ascertain that none would be occupied except by myself.
I would sooner have slept on a bundle of hay in the loft than have had
an unknown person snoring in the same room with me. One has always
some prejudice to overcome. The bed was not soft, and the hempen
sheets were as coarse as canvas, but these trifles did not trouble me. I
listened to the song of the crickets on the hearth downstairs until
drowsiness beckoned sleep and