The abbé was giving the chauffeur instructions.
"You will leave Rouen by the new route.... You will draw up at an hotel which you will find on the right, named, if my memory does not play me false, The Flowery Crossways."
"A pretty name!" remarked Fandor.
"A stupid name," replied the abbé. "The house does not stand at any cross-roads, and the place is as flowerless as it is possible to be!" There was a pause. "That matters little, however, Corporal: the quarters are good—the table sufficient. You shall judge for yourself now: here is the inn!"
Under the skillful guidance of the chauffeur, the car turned sharply, and passed under a little arch which served as a courtyard entrance. The car came to a stand-still in a great yard, crowded with unharnessed carts, stablemen, and Normandy peasants in their Sunday best.
A stout man came forward. His head was as hairless as a billiard ball. This was the hotel-keeper. To every question put by the little abbé he replied with a broad grin which displayed his toothless gums. His voice was as odd as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering.
"You can give us dinner?"
"Why, certainly, Monsieur le Curé."
"You have a coach-house where the car can be put up?"
With a comprehensive sweep of his arm, mine host of The Flowery Crossways indicated the courtyard. The carts of his regular clients were left there in his charge: he could not see why the motor-car of these strangers could not pass the night there also.