"How she lags! what an idiot of a child!" fumed Mere Mouchard as she
peered down into the round blackness about which the curving staircase
closed like an embrace. "One must have patience, it appears, with
people made like that. _Ah, tiens,_ here she comes. How could you keep
_ces dames_ waiting like this? It is shameful, shameful!" cried the
woman, as she half shook the panting girl, in anger. "If _ces dames_
will enter,"--her voice changing at once to a caressing falsetto, as the
door flew open, opened by Augustine's trembling fingers--"they will
find their rooms in readiness."

The rooms were as bare as a soldier's barrack, but they were spotlessly
clean. There was the pale flicker of a sickly candle to illumine the
shadowy recesses of the curtained beds and the dark little
dressing-rooms.

A few moments later we wound our way downward, spirally, to find
ourselves seated at a round table in a cosy, compact dining-room.
Directly opposite, across the corridor, was the kitchen, from which
issued a delightful combination of vinous, aromatic odors. The light of
a strong, bright lamp made it as brilliant as a ball-room; it was a
ball-room which for decoration had rows of shining brass and copper
kettles--each as burnished as a jewel--a mass of sunny porcelain, and
for carpet the satin of a wooden floor. There was much bustling
to and fro. Shapes were constantly passing and repassing across the
lighted interior. The Mere's broad-hipped figure was an omniscient
presence: it hovered at one instant over a steaming saucepan, and the
next was lifting a full milk-jug or opening a wine-bottle. Above the
clatter of the dishes and the stirring of spoons arose the thick
Normandy voices, deep alto tones, speaking in strange jargon of
speech--a world of patois removed from our duller comprehension. It was