The Topeka state journal. [volume] (Topeka, Kansas) 1892-1980, 1895-08-29
THE TWO INNS.

noon in July. The heat was terrible. As
far as the eye could see the white burning
road wound its way between gardens of
olive trees and dwarf oaks under a great,
fat, silver sun which filed all the sky.
There was not a spot of shade, not a
breath of air. There was nothing but the
vibrating heat and the shrin cry of the
grasshoppers-a foolish. deafe.ain@ music
to quick time which seemed the expression
of the great luminous vibration. had
been walking in this open desert two hours
when a cluster Of white houses arose sud
denly out of the dusty road before me.
1t was what is called the relay Of St.
Vincent. There were five or six houses
with long, low, red rooted barns, an empty
watering trough in clump of struggling
fig trees. and at the end of the place stood
two large inns looking at each other from
opposite sides of the road.
There was something striking about
these inns.
One was large new building, full Of
life and noise. All the doors were open.
The diligence was standing in front, from
which they were unhitching the steaming
horses. The passengers were climbing
down to get a hasty drink in the short
shadow thrown by the walls. The court
was filed with mules, loaded carts and the
drivers lying under the sheds awaiting
fresh relays.
From the inside could be heard cries,
oaths, the pounding of fists on the tables,
the exploding corks of lemonade bottles,
the blinking of glasses, the noise of billiards
and dominating all this tumult joyous,
ringing voice singing in a manner caleu-
lated to make the glasses tremble.
The inn opposite, on the contrary, was
as silent as if abandoned. Weeds grew
about the entrance; the blinds were bro
ken; upon the door a small branch of with
cred holly hung like an old plume; the
doorsteps were propped up with stone from
the road. All was so poor, so pitiful, that
it seemed a real charity to stop there for
glass of something.
I entered. There was a long, deserted,
mournful room, which the dazzling light
from three great curtainless windows made
more deserted and mournful still.
Some limping tables, on which were
scattered a few dusty glasses; a yellow
sofa, an old counter, broken down bill
lard table, slept there in a heavy, deathly
heat.
And flies, fliesi Never had I seen SO
many-on the ceiling, in the glasses, in
punches. When 1 opened the door, there
was a buzzing and agitation of wings as
if 1 had entered beehive.
At the end Of the room, in a window, a
woman stood with her face against the
twice.
"Ho, hostess -
She turned slowly and let me see poor
PEASANTS face, wrinkled, hollow, of the
color of dirt, framed in a scarf of red lace,
such as old women wear in villages with
u.s. Nevertheless she was not an old
woman. Tears had faded her.
s'What do you want?'' she asked, wiping
her eyes.
81 want to sit down moment and have
something to drink
| She looked at me very much astonished,
| without moving, as if she had not under
| stood
''This is not an inn, then?''
The woman sighed.
eyes, it is an inn if YOU nke-but why
have you not gone opposite, like the otherss
| It is much gayer"-
cit is too gay for me. prefer to stay
| at your house"
And without waiting her resi- onse I
seated myself before table.
When she vas very sure was speaking
seriously, she began to go and come with a
| busting air, opening drawers, moving
bottles, wiping glasses, disturbing the
! hies-one felt that to wait upon this trav-
eler was an event.
Now and then the unhappy woman
would clasp her hands to her head as
though she despaired of keeping on her
feet.
Then she went into an adjoining room.
1 could hear her there rattling great keys,
turning the locks fumbling in the bread
box, gasping, busting, washing glasses.
From time to time there was a great
sigh, half choked sob.
After quarter of an hour of house
keeping I had before me a plate of dried
grapes, an old loaf of bread, hard as slate
and 10 of VIyTT7
"YOu are served, - said the strange crea-
ture, and she turned quickly to take her
place at the window. While drinking ]
tried to make her talk.
''People do not come here often, do they,
my good wolnanf'
ooh, no, monsieur. Never any one.
When we had the only inn here, it was
quite different. We had the stagecoach,
game dinners in the wild duck season and
teamsters all the year. But since our
neighbors have come and established
themselves we have lost every body. People
would rather go on the opposite side. They
find it too dull here. The fact is the house
is not pleasant. am not beautiful
have had fevers, and my two little ones are
dead. Over there, on the contrary, they
laugh all the time 1t is an Arle' sieune
who keeps the inn, a handsome woman
who wears lace and three strands of gold
chain about her neck. The driver of the
diligence is her lover. With that there are
several cajoling chambermaids. And the1
she has good, steady patronagei She ha,
all the young people of Becomes, of Re
dessan, of Jonquieres. Teamsters make
detour to pass her door. II stay here al
day without a customer"
She said this with preoccupied, indif
ferent voice, continuing to support he
forehead against the window glass. Their
was evidently something in the Opposite
inn which absorbed her.
All at once there was great excitemen
the other side of the road. The diligence
moved away in the dust. One could hea
the cracks of the whip and the footing o
the postihon's horn, the girls standing a
the door crying:
'Adiousiasi Adiousiasr' And all owe
the same formidable voice singing again