sovereign. He greeted each of his own decisions with a very loud "Bien!"
as if startled by the brilliancy of my selections, and, the menu being
concluded, exploded a whole volley of "Biens" and set off violently to
instruct old Gaston, the cook.

That is Amedee's way; he always starts violently for anywhere he means
to go. He is a little lame and his progress more or less sidelong, but
if you call him, or new guests arrive at the inn, or he receives an
order from Madame Brossard, he gives the effect of running by a sudden
movement of the whole body like that of a man ABOUT to run, and moves
off using the gestures of a man who IS running; after which he proceeds
to his destination at an exquisite leisure. Remembering this old habit
of his, it was with joy that I noted his headlong departure. Some ten
feet of his progress accomplished, he halted (for no purpose but to
scratch his head the more luxuriously); next, strayed from the path to
contemplate a rose-bush, and, selecting a leaf with careful
deliberation, placed it in his mouth and continued meditatively upon his
way to the kitchen.

I chuckled within me; it was good to be back at Madame Brossard's.

The courtyard was more a garden; bright with rows of flowers in formal
little beds and blossoming up from big green tubs, from red jars, and
also from two brightly painted wheel-barrows. A long arbour offered a
shelter of vines for those who might choose to dine, breakfast, or
lounge beneath, and, here and there among the shrubberies, you might
come upon a latticed bower, thatched with straw. My own pavilion (half
bedroom, half studio) was set in the midst of all and had a small porch
of its own with a rich curtain of climbing honeysuckle for a screen from
the rest of the courtyard.