The village upon closer inspection achieved a dignity which the distance denied it. There was a row of small shops, a brasserie and an inn, all slumbering under the shadows of a grove of trees. The road became a street. Upon their left a gate into an open-air cabaret under the trees next to a wine shop stood invitingly open, and the pilgrims entered. There were wooden tables and benches upon which sat some workmen in their white smocks drinking beer and discussing politics.
The proprietor of the place, a motherly person, took Markham's order and went indoors, presently emerging with a try which bore a pitcher of cider, a wonderful cheese and a tower of bread, all of which she deposited before them. She only glanced at Markham, for she was used to the visits of traveling craftsmen along the highway—but she studied Hermia's modish frock with a critical eye. After the first polite greetings she lingered nearby, her curiosity getting the better of her discretion.
"Monsieur and Madame are stopping at the Inn?" she asked at last.
Markham smiled. It was the curiosity of interest rather than intrusiveness.
Monsieur and Madame had not decided yet. Was the inn a good one?
Very good. Monsieur Duchanel, a cousin of hers, took great pride in receiving guests who knew good fare.
All the while she was appraising with a Norman eye the value of the feather in Hermia's hat.
"We thought of going on to Boisset," Markham went on. "Perhaps it is too far to reach by nightfall."
"Oh, mon Dieu, yes—if one is walking—ten kilometers at the least.
Did Monsieur and Madame desire a carriage?"
"No, perhaps after all we will stay here."