A WAYSIDE INN.
It was wonderful how quickly the excitement about Alice Meynell died
down. Mademoiselle Thérèse went to call upon her former instructress,
who told her, with evident reluctance, that the girl had gone to Paris
with a friend who had appeared unexpectedly, and her father wished her
to remain there for the present.
"Of course," Mademoiselle Thérèse said, in retailing her visit, "she
will wish to keep it quiet; such things are not a good advertisement,
and they will speak of it no more. I think, indeed, that Mademoiselle
Eugénie will call here no more. She suspects that we helped to make
the child discontented. I am thankful that _we_ have no such
unpleasant matters in _our_ establishment. We have always had an
excellent reputation!" and the sisters congratulated each other for
some time on the successful way in which they had always arranged
matters for _their_ boarders.
It was while her sister was still in this pleasant mood of
self-satisfaction that Mademoiselle Loiré proposed to go to St. Sauveur
(a little town about twelve miles away), and collect the rent from one
or two houses they owned there. As Mademoiselle Thérèse talked English
best, and had the care of the English visitors, she had most of the
pleasant excursions, so that Barbara was quite glad to think the elder
sister was now to have a turn. Marie always went to St. Sauveur with
her aunt, as she had a cousin living in the town, with whom they
usually dined in the evening; and an invitation was graciously given to
Barbara to accompany them both.
The girl often thought, in making these excursions here and there, how
nice it would have been could she have shared them with her mother and
the children; and then she used to make up her mind more firmly than
ever that she would begin teaching French directly she got home, so
that some day she could help to give the pleasure to Frances that her
aunt was giving to her.
Donald had written on one occasion, that in view of so many excursions
he wondered when the work came in; to which she had replied that it was
_all_ work, as she had to talk French hard the whole time! And,
indeed, a day never passed without her getting in her lesson and some
grammatical work, though it sometimes had to come before breakfast or
after supper.
On this occasion they were to start very early, as Mademoiselle Loiré
explained that they would stop for a little while at a wayside inn,
where an old nurse of theirs had settled down. It was therefore
arranged to drive so far, and take the train the rest of the way, and
Barbara, who had heard a great deal about "the carriage," pictured to
herself a little pony and trap, and was looking forward to the drive
immensely. What was her astonishment, therefore, when she saw drawn up
before the door next day, a little spring cart with a brown donkey in
it.
"The carriage!" she gasped, and hastily climbed into the cart lest
Mademoiselle Loiré should see her face. They all three sat close
together on the one backless seat, and drove off gaily, Mademoiselle
Loiré "handling the ribbons," and all the little boys in the street
shouting encouragement in the rear.
The donkey went along at an excellent, though somewhat erratic, pace,
for every now and then he sprang forward with a lurch that was somewhat
disconcerting to the occupants of the cart. The first time, indeed,
that he did so, Barbara was quite unprepared, and, after clutching
wildly at the side of the cart and missing it, she subsided into the
straw at the back, from which she was extricated by her companions,
amid much laughter.
"Would you prefer to sit between us?" Mademoiselle Loiré asked her,
when she was once more reinstated in her position. "You would perhaps
feel firmer?"
"Oh, no, thank you," said Barbara hastily. "I will hold on to the side
now, and be prepared."
"He does have rather a queer motion," Mademoiselle Loiré; remarked
complacently; "but he's swift, and that is a great matter, and you soon
get used to his leaps. I should think," she went on, looking at the
donkey's long gray ears critically, "he would make a good jumper."
"I should think he might," replied Barbara, subduing her merriment. "I
don't think our English donkeys jump much, as a rule; but the Brittany
ones seem much more accomplished."
"Undoubtedly," her companion continued calmly. "My sister says when
_she_ was in England she tried to drive a donkey, and it backed the
carriage into the ditch. They must be an inferior breed." To which
remark Barbara was powerless to reply for the time being.
The drive was a very pretty one, and the donkey certainly deserved his
driver's praises, for he brought them to the inn in good time. It was
a quaint little place, standing close to the roadside, but, in spite of
that fact, looking as if it were not greatly frequented. As they drove
up, they saw an old woman sitting outside under a tree, reading a
newspaper; but, on hearing the sound of wheels, she jumped up and ran
to the gate. As soon as Mademoiselle Loiré had descended she flung
herself upon her; and Barbara wondered how the latter, who was spare
and thin, supported the substantial form of her nurse.
She had time to look about her, for her three companions were making a
great hubbub, and, as they all spoke together, at the top of their
voices, it took some minutes to understand what each was saying. Then
Barbara was remembered and introduced, and for a moment she thought the
nurse was going to embrace her too, and wondered if it would be worse
than a rush at hockey; but, fortunately, she was spared the shock, and
instead, was led with the others into a musty parlour.
"I am so pleased to see you," the landlady said, beaming upon them all,
"for few people pass this way now the trams and the railway go the
other route; and since my dear second husband died it has seemed
quieter than ever." Here she shook her head dolefully, and dabbed her
bright, black eyes, where Barbara could see no trace of tears.
"Sundays are the longest days," the woman went on, trying to make her
hopelessly plump and cheery face look pathetic, "because I am so far
away from church. But I read my little newspaper, and say my little
prayer--and mention all your names in it" (which Barbara knew was
impossible, as she had never heard hers before that morning)--"and
think of my little priest."
Mademoiselle Loiré nodded to show she was listening, and Marie hastily
stifled a yawn.
"I call him mine," the landlady explained, turning more particularly to
Barbara, "because he married me the last time, and my second husband
the first time."
Barbara thought of the guessing story about "A blind beggar had a son,"
and decided she would try to find out later exactly _whom_ the priest
had married, for the explanation was still going on.
"Of course, therefore, he took an interest in his death," and the
widow's voice grew pathetic. "So he always keeps an eye on me, and
sends me little holy newspapers, over which I always shed a tear. My
second husband always loved his newspaper so--and his coffee."
The word coffee had a magical effect, and her face becoming wreathed in
smiles again, she sprang to her feet in a wonderfully agile way,
considering her size, and ran to a cupboard in the corner, calling
loudly for a maid as she went.
"You must have thirst!" she exclaimed, "terrible thirst and hunger; but
I will give you a sip of a favourite beverage of mine that will restore
you instantly."
And she placed upon the table a black bottle, which proved to be full
of cold coffee sweetened to such a degree that it resembled syrup.
Poor Barbara! She was not very fond of hot coffee _un_sweetened, so
that this cold concoction seemed to her most sickly. But she managed
to drink the whole glassful, except a mouthful of extreme syrup at the
end, though feeling afterwards that she could not bear even to look at
coffee caramels for a very long time. They sat some time over the
refreshments provided for them, and their donkey was stabled at the inn
to await their return in the evening. Then bidding a temporary adieu
to their hostess, they went on to the town by train.
Mademoiselle Loiré went at once to get her rent, which, she explained,
always took her some time, "for the people were not good at paying,"
and left the girls to look at the church, which was a very old one.
After they were joined by mademoiselle they strolled along to Marie's
relations. The husband was a seller of cider, which, Marie explained
to Barbara, was quite a different occupation from keeping an inn, and
much more respectable. Both he and his wife were very hospitable and
kind, and especially attentive to the "English miss."
It was quite a unique experience for her, for they dined behind a
trellis-work at one end of the shop, and, during the whole of dinner,
either the father or daughter was kept jumping up to serve the
customers with cider. The son was present too, but no one would allow
him to rise to serve anybody, for he was at college in Paris, and had
taken one of the first prizes in France for literature. It was quite
touching to see how proud his parents and sister were of him, and he
seemed to Barbara to be wonderfully unspoiled, considering the
attention he received.
It seemed her fate to have strange food offered her that day, and when
the first dish that appeared proved to be stewed eels, Barbara began to
dread what the rest of the menu might reveal. Fortunately, there was
nothing worse than beans boiled in cream, though it was with some
relief that she saw the long meal draw to a close. Coffee and
sweetmeats were served in a room upstairs, in which all the young man's
prizes were kept, and which were displayed with most loving pride and
reverence by the mother and sister, while the owner of them looked on
rather bashfully from a corner.
The young man was one of the type of Frenchmen who wear their hair cut
and brushed the wrong way, like a clothes-brush. Barbara was beginning
to divide all Frenchmen into two classes according to their _frisure_:
those that wore their hair brush-fashion, and those that had it long
and oiled--sometimes curled. These latter sometimes allowed it to fall
in locks upon their foreheads, tossing it back every now and then with
an abstracted air and easy grace that fascinated Barbara. They were
usually engaged in the Fine Arts, and she could never quite decide
whether the hair had been the result of the profession, or vice versa.
After talking for some time, Barbara had her first lesson in écarté,
which she welcomed gladly, as helping to keep her awake. Then the
whole family escorted their visitors to the station, where they stood
in a row and waved hats and hands for a long time after the train had
left. It was getting rather late when they reached the little inn once
more, and Barbara was thankful that she had the excuse of a substantial
dinner to fall back upon when she was offered more of the landlady's
"pleasant beverage."
When the good-byes had been said it was growing dark, and the girl,
thinking of their last adventurous drive, wondered if Mademoiselle
Loiré was any more reliable. However, after the first mile, she cast
dignity aside, and begged to be allowed to sit down in the hay at the
back of the cart and go to sleep, either the eel or her efforts to make
herself agreeable having created an overpowering desire for slumber,
and she was still dreaming peacefully when they drove into St. Servan,
and rattled up the narrow street to their own door.