“What does he mean? What vows?”
“Perhaps they are pious people and are going to enter the convent,” Félise suggested.
“I can see your father—anti-clerical that he is—interesting himself in little nuns and monks.”
“Yet he and Monsieur le Curé are good friends.”
“That is because Monsieur le Curé has much wisdom and no fear. He would have tried to convert Voltaire himself. … Let us continue——”
“As they are poor and doing this out of obedience——”
“Saprelotte!” he laughed, “they seem to have taken the three vows already!”
He read on:“—— they do not desire the royal suite in your Excelsior Palace. Corinna Hastings has lived under the roofs in Paris, Martin Overshaw over a baker’s shop in a vague quarter of London. All the luxury they ask is to be allowed to wash themselves all over in cold water once a day.”
“I was sure you had not written to my father about the bathroom,” said Félise.
She was right. But the omission was odd. For Bigourdin took inordinate pride in the newly installed bathroom and all the touring clubs of Europe and Editors of Guide Books had heard of it and he had offered it to the admiring inspection of half Brantôme. Monsieur le Maire himself had visited it, and if he had only arrived girt with his tricolour sash, Bigourdin would have jumped in and demanded an inaugural ceremony.
“I must have forgotten,” said Bigourdin. “But no matter. They can have plenty of cold water. But if I am to feed them and lodge them and wash them for the derisory price your father stipulates, they must learn that six o’clock is the hour of table d’hôte at the Hôtel des Grottes. It is only people in automobiles who can turn the place upside down, and then they have to pay four francs for their dinner.”
He rose mountainously, and, standing, displayed the figure of a vigorous, huge proportioned, upright man. On his face, large and ruddy, a small black moustache struck a startling note. His eyes were brown and kindly, his mouth too small and his chin had a deep cleft, which on a creature of lesser scale would have been a pleasing dimple.
“Allons dîner,” said he.
In the patriarchal fashion, now unfortunately becoming obsolete, Monsieur Bigourdin dined with his guests. The salle-à-manger—off the loggia—was furnished with the long central table sacred to commercial travellers, and with a few side tables for other visitors. At one of these, in the corner between the service door and the dining-room door, sat Monsieur Bigourdin and his niece. As they entered the room five bagmen, with anticipatory napkins stuck cornerwise in their collars, half rose from their chairs and bowed.
“Bon soir, messieurs,” said Bigourdin, and he passed with Félise to his table.
Euphémie, the cook, fat and damp, entered with the soup tureen, followed by a desperate-looking, crop-headed villain bearing plates. The latter, who viewed half a mile off through a telescope might have passed for an orthodox waiter, appeared, at close quarters, to be raimented in grease and grime. He served the soup; first to the five commercial travellers—and then to Bigourdin and Félise. On Félise’s plate he left a great thumb-mark. She looked at it with an expression of disgust.
“Regarde, mon oncle.”
Bigourdin alluding to him as a sacred animal, asked what she could expect. He was from Bourdeilles, a place of rocks some five miles distant, condemned by Brantôme, chef-lieu du Canton. He summoned him.
“Polydore.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“You have made a mistake. You are no longer in the hands of the police.”
“Monsieur veut dire——?”
“I am not the Commissaire who desires to photograph your finger-prints.”
“Ah, pardon,” said Polydore, and with a soiled napkin he erased the offending stain.
“Sacré animal!” repeated Bigourdin, attacking his soup. “I wonder why I keep him.”
“I too,” said Félise.
“If his grandmother and my grandmother had not been foster-sisters——” said Bigourdin, waving an indignant spoon.
“You would have kept him just because he is ugly,” smiled Félise. “You would have found a reason.”
“One of these days I’ll throw him into the river,” Bigourdin declared. “I am patient. I am slow to anger. But when I am roused I am like a lion. Polydore,” said he serenely, as the dilapidated menial removed the plates, “if you can’t keep your hands clean I’ll make you wear gloves.”
“People would laugh at me,” said Polydore.
“So much the better,” said Bigourdin.
The meal was nearly over when the expected guests were announced. Uncle and niece slipped from the dining room into the little vestibule to welcome them. An elderly man in a blouse, name Baptiste, was already busying himself with their luggage—the knapsacks fastened to the back of the bicycles.
“Mademoiselle, Monsieur,” said Bigourdin, “it is a great pleasure to me to meet friends of my excellent brother-in-law. Allow me to present Mademoiselle Félise Fortinbras” (he gave the French pronunciation), “my niece. As dinner is not yet over and as you must be hungry, will you give yourselves the trouble to enter the salle-à-manger.”
“I should like to have a wash first,” said Corinna.
Bigourdin glanced at Félise. They were beginning early.
“There is a bathroom upstairs fitted with every modern luxury.”
Corinna laughed. “I only want to tidy up a bit.”
“I will show you to your room,” said Félise, and conducted her up the staircase beside the bureau.
“And monsieur?”
Martin went over to the little lavabo against the wall beside which hung the usual damp towel.
“This will do quite well,” said he.
Bigourdin breathed again. The new arrivals were quite human; and they spoke French perfectly. The men conversed a while until the two girls descended. Bigourdin led his guests into the salle-à-manger and installed them at a table by one of the windows looking on the loggia.
“Like this,” said he, “you will be cool and also enjoy the view.”
“I think,” said Corinna, looking up at him, “you have the most delicious little town I have seen in France.”
Bigourdin’s eyes beamed with gratification. He bowed and went back to his unfinished meal.
“Behold over there,” said he to Félise, “a young girl of extraordinary good sense. She is also extremely pretty; a combination which is rare in women.”
“Yes, uncle,” said Félise demurely.
The five commercial travellers rose, and, bowing as they passed their host, went out in search, after the manner of their kind, of coffee and backgammon at the Café de l’Univers in the Rue de Périgueux. It is only foreigners who linger over coffee, liqueurs and tobacco in the little inns of France. Presently Félise went off to the bureau to make up the day’s accounts, and Bigourdin, having smoked a thoughtful cigarette, crossed over to Martin and Corinna. After the good hotel-keeper’s enquiry as to their gastronomic