In and out of Three Normandy Inns

by Anna Bowman Dodd

On the arrival of the coaches Madame was at her post long before the pilgrims came up to her door. Being entirely without personal vanity—since she felt her beauty, her cleverness, her grace, and her charm to be only a part of the capital of the inn trade—a higher order of the stock in trade, as it were—she made it a point to look handsomer on the arrival of coaches than at any other time. Her cheeks were certain to be rosier; her bird's head was always carried a trifle more takingly, perched coquettishly sideways, that the caressing smile of welcome might be the more personal; and as the woman of business, lining the saint, so to speak, was also present, into the deep pockets of the blue-checked apron, the calculating fingers were thrust, that the quick counting of the incoming guests might not be made too obvious an action. After such a pose, to see a pilgrim escape! To see him pass by, unmoved by that smile, turning his feelingless back on the true shrine! It was enough to melt the stoutest heart. Madame's welcome of the captured, after such an affront, was set in the minor key; and her smile was the smile of a suffering angel.

"Cours, mon enfant, run, see if he descends or if he pushes on; tell him I am Madame Poulard!" This, a low command murmured between a hundred orders, still in the minor key, would be purred to Clémentine, a peasant in a cap, exceeding fleet of foot, and skilled in the capture of wandering sheep.

And Clémentine would follow that stray pilgrim: she would attack him in the open street; would even climb after him, if need be, up the steep rock steps, till, proved to be following strange gods, he would be brought triumphantly back to the kitchen-shrine, by Clémentine, puffing, but exultant.

"Ah, monsieur, how could you pass us by?" madame's soft voice would murmur reproachfully in the pilgrim's ear. And the pilgrim, abashed, ashamed, would quickly make answer, if he were born of the right parents: "Chère madame, how was I to believe my eyes? It is ten years since I was here, and you are younger, more beautiful than ever! I was going in search of your mother!" at which needless truism all the kitchen would laugh. Madame Poulard herself would find time for one of her choicest smiles, although this was the great moment of the working of the miracle. She was beginning to cook the omelette.

The head-cook was beating the eggs in a great yellow bowl. Madame had already taken her stand at the yawning Louis XV. fireplace; she was beginning gently to balance the huge casserole over the glowing logs. And all the pilgrims were standing about, watching the process. Now, the group circling about the great fireplace was scarcely ever the same; the pilgrims presented a different face and garb day after day—but in point of hunger they were as one man; they were each and all as unvaryingly hungry as only tourists could be, who, clamoring for food, have the smell of it in their nostrils, with the added ache of emptiness gnawing within. But besides hunger, each one of the pilgrims had brought with him a pair of eyes; and what eyes of man can be pure savage before the spectacle of a pretty woman cooking, for him, before an open fire? Therefore it was that still another miracle was wrought, that of turning a famished mob into a buzzing swarm of admirers.

"Mais si, monsieur, in this pan I can cook an omelette large enough for you all; you will see. Ah, madame, you are off already? Célestine! Madame's bill, in the desk yonder. And you, monsieur, you too leave us? Deux cognacs? Victor—deux cognacs et une demi-tasse pour monsieur!"

These and a hundred other answers and questions and orders, were uttered in a fluted voice or in a tone of sharp command, by the miracle-worker, as the pan was kept gently turning, and the eggs were poured in at just the right moment—not one of the pretty poses of head and wrist being forgotten. Madame Poulard, like all clever women who are also pretty, had two voices: one was dedicated solely to the working of her charms; this one was soft, melodious, caressing, the voice of dove when cooing; the other, used for strictly business purposes, was set in the quick, metallic staccato tones proper for such occasions.

The dove's voice was trolling its sweetness, as she went on—

"Eggs, monsieur? How many I use? Ah, it is in the season that counting the dozens becomes difficult—seventy dozen I used one day last year!"

"Seventy dozen!" the pilgrim-chorus ejaculated, their eyes growing the wider as their lips moistened. For behold, the eggs were now cooked to a turn; the long-handled pan was being lifted with the effortless skill of long practice, the omelette was rolled out at just the right instant of consistency, and was being as quickly turned into its great flat dish.