The Wilmington daily Republican., 1895-09-09
THE TWO INNS.

mum IN July 4hc AAuHb WAS tcrNAbtc- <A5
far as the eye could see the white burning
road wound it's way between gardens of
olive trees and dwarf oaks under a great,
fat, silver sun which filled ali the sky.
There was not q spot OF shade, not a
breath Of air. There was nothing but the
vibrating heat and the shrin cry of the
grasshoppers-a foolish, deafening 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 a clump of struggling
hg 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 n large new building, full of
life and noise. All the doors were open.
The diligence was standing in front, from
which they were unhitohing the steaming
horses The passengers were climbing
down to get hasty drink in the short
shadow thrown by the wnlls 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 clinking of glasses the noise of billiards
and dominating all this tumult a joyous,
ringing voice singing In a manner oalcu-
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
md a .NatN 4f1.I l.s.A
1t seemed a real charity to stop there for q
glass of something
entered. There was a long, deserted,
mournful room, which the dazzling light
from three great ourtainless windows made
moro deserted aI:i mournful still.
Some limping tables, on which were
scattered a few dusty glasses; n yellow
sofa, an old counter, broken down bill
lizard table, slept there in a heavy, deatbly
heat.
And flies, fiiesl Never had I seen so
many-on the ceiling, in the glasses, in
punches. When opened the door, there
was n buzzing and agitation of wings as
If had entered a beehive.
At the end of the room In a window, n
woman stood with her face against the
glass, looking intently outside. called
twice:
"Ho, hostess.''
She turned slowly and let me see a 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
us. Nevertheless she was not an old
woman. Tears had faded her.
"What do you wantf" she asked, wiping
her eyes.
ST want to sit down a moment and have
something to drink
She looked at me very much astonished,
without moving as IL she had not under
stood.
"This is not an inn, thenf'
The woman sighed.
Eyes, it is an inn If you like-but why
have you not gone opposite. like the othersf
1t is much gayer'-
sit is too gay for me. prefer to stay
at your house,
And without waiting her response L
seated myself before a table.
Whom she was very sure 1 was speaking
bustling 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
could hear her there rattling great keys.
turning the locks, fumbling in the bread
box, gasping, dusting, washing glasses.
From time to time there was n great
sigh, a half ohoked sob.
After a quarter of an hour of house,
keeping had before me n plato of dried
grapes, an old loaf of bread, hard as slate,
and n bottle of wine.
"You are served" " said the strange crea-
ture, and she turned quickly to take her
place at the window. While drinking I
tried TO make her talk.
People do not come here often, do they,
my good womanp"
"Oh, no, monsieur. Never any one
hon hnh fhn 1xy fE,fa hArf,
quite different. We had the stagecoach
game dinners in tho wild duck season and
teamsters all the year. But since our
neighbors have come and established
themselves we have lost everybody. People
would rather go on the opposite side. They
find it too dull here. The fact is the house
is not pleasant. 1 am not beautiful. L
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, n handsome woman
who wears lace and three strands of gold
chain about her neck. The driver of the
diligence is her lover With that thero are
several cajoling gchambermaids. And then
she has good, steady patronagei She has
all tho young people of Becomes, of Re-
dessan, of Jonquieres. Teamsters make a
detour to pass her door. II stay hero all
day without customer
She said this with preoccupied, indif-
ferent voice, continuing to support her
1orenead against the WINDOW glass; Ihere
was evidently something in the opposite
inn which absorbed her.
All Mt once there was great excitement
the other side of the road. The diligence
moved away in the dust. Ono could hear
the cracks of the whip and the footing of
the Positions horn, the girls standing at
the door crying:
"Adiousiasl Adiousiasr' And all over
the same formidable voice singing again
La belle Margoton.
On hearing this voice the hostess shook
from head to foot, and turning to me said +:
do you hear that2' and then quite
low: "That is my husband. Doesn't he
sing wcll?''
looked at her, stupcAed.
what? Your husbandi He goes over
there, he toof'
Then with heartbroken, but gentle soft
ness:
"What would you have, monsieurf Men
are made like that. They do not like to
see crying, and cry constantly since the
death of my little ones. Then, it is SO sad,
this great barracks where no one ever
comes. Then, when he is too much bored
my poor Jose goes opposite, and, as he has
n fine voice, the Arle'sicune makes him
sing. There he is singing againr-Al-
phonso Daudat.
Artificial Perfume.