Recommended by M. Pauche to the Hôtel de la Poste, at Pont du Beauvoisin, we made our way thither through crooked streets innumerable. All the front rooms were already taken. I warn you against the No. 1 on the ground floor, at the end of a long passage, with one small barred window, looking into the narrow yard where the post horses are cleaned, for it fell to our lot. Having been told that the landlady was exorbitant in her demands, I rang for her, specified what we wanted, and asked her charges. No answer, but a promenade round me with candle in hand, as it was dark when we arrived. I repeated the question when I thought the inspection over.
“You have had no disputes on the road, have you,” said Madame, taking hold of the skirt of my habit and shaking it, to ascertain its weight.
“None.”
“Very well, then you won’t dispute with me; where are you going?”
“To Chambéry.”
“Is your husband your age?” This time raising her flambeau under the rim of my hat, so as to blind me.
“He is some years older.”
“How many?” asked the indefatigable landlady.
“I can’t tell exactly at this moment,” I said, getting tired, as I never before saw so much curiosity lodged in one fat human being.
“Not tell; you must know his age; is he thirty, thirty-five, thirty-eight; where is he?”