Exactly at eight o’clock every evening a loud
bell was sounded in the hotel of the Lion d’Or
at Granpere, and all within the house sat down together
to supper. The supper was spread on a long table
in the saloon up-stairs, and the room was lighted
with camphine lamps,- -for as yet gas had not found
its way to Granpere. At this meal assembled
not only the guests in the house and the members of
the family of the landlord,—but also many
persons living in the village whom it suited to take,
at a certain price per month, the chief meal of the
day, at the house of the innkeeper, instead of eating
in their own houses a more costly, a less dainty,
and probably a lonely supper. Therefore when
the bell was heard there came together some dozen
residents of Granpere, mostly young men engaged in
the linen trade, from their different lodgings, and
each took his accustomed seat down the sides of the
long board, at which, tied in a knot, was placed his
own napkin. At the top of the table was the place
of Madame Voss, which she never failed to fill exactly
three minutes after the bell had been rung.
At her right hand was the chair of the master of the
house,—never occupied by any one else;—but
it would often happen that some business would keep
him away. Since George had left him he had taken
the timber into his own hands, and was accustomed
to think and sometimes to say that the necessity was
cruel on him. Below his chair and on the other
side of Madame Voss there would generally be two or
three places kept for guests who might be specially
looked upon as the intimate friends of the mistress
of the house; and at the farther end of the table,
close to the window, was the space allotted to travellers.
Here the napkins were not tied in knots, but were
always clean. And, though the little plates
of radishes, cakes, and dried fruits were continued
from one of the tables to the other, the long-necked
thin bottles of common wine came to an end before
they reached the strangers’ portion of the board;
for it had been found that strangers would take at
that hour either tea or a better kind of wine than
that which Michel Voss gave to his accustomed guests
without any special charge. When, however, the
stranger should please to take the common wine, he
was by no means thereby prejudiced in the eyes of
Madame Voss or her husband. Michel Voss liked
a profit, but he liked the habits of his country almost
as well.
One evening in September, about twelve months after
the departure of George, Madame Voss took her seat
at the table, and the young men of the place who had
been waiting round the door of the hotel for a few
minutes, followed her into the room. And there
was M.
Goudin, the Cure, with another young clergyman,
his friend. On Sundays the Cure always dined
at the hotel at half-past twelve o’clock, as
the friend of the family; but for his supper he paid,
as did the other guests. I rather fancy that
