This room was very neat and clean, and was destined for any distinguished guests whose unlucky star led them into this deserted country.
That evening the inn presented an unaccustomed lively appearance; the long seats, each side of the door, were occupied by rustics stripping hemp, by some village lads, and three or four cart-drivers smoking short pipes as black as coal.

They were listening to two girls who were singing in a most mournful way a song well known to all in this country: "Au chateau de Belfort Sont trois jolies filles, etc." The light from the hearth, shining through the open door, left this group in the shadow and concentrated its rays upon a few faces in the interior of the kitchen.

First, there was Madame Gobillot in person, wearing a long white apron, her head covered with an immense cap.

She went from oven to dresser, and from dresser to fireplace with a very important air.

A fat little servant disappeared frequently through the dining-room door, where she seemed to be laying the cover for a feast.
With that particular dexterity of country girls, she made three trips to carry two plates, and puffed like a porpoise at her work, while the look of frightened amazement showed upon her face that every fibre of her intelligence was under unaccustomed tension.