Then through the doorway there came a tall, finely featured brunette.  She made her way through the yelling crowd as a duchess might cleave a path through a rabble.  She was at the side of the cart in an instant.  She gave us a bow and smile that were both a welcome and an act of appropriation.  She held out a firm, soft, brown hand.  When it closed on our own, we knew it to be the grasp of a friend, and the clasp of one who knew how to hold her world.  But when she spoke the words were all of velvet, and her voice had the cadence of a caress.

“I have been watching you, ’cheres dames’—­crossing the ‘greve,’ but how wet and weary you must be!  Come in by the fire, it is ablaze now—­I have been feeding it for you!”

And once more the beautifully curved lips parted over the fine teeth, and the exceeding brightness of the dark eyes smiled and glittered in our own.  The caressing voice still led us forward, into the great gay kitchen; the touch of skilful, discreet fingers undid wet cloaks and wraps; the soft charm of a lovely and gracious woman made even the penetrating warmth of the huge fire-logs a secondary feature of our welcome.

To those who have never crossed a “greve;” who have had no jolting in a Normandy “char-a-banc;” who, for hours, have not known the mixed pleasures and discomfort of being a part of sea-rivers; and who have not been met at the threshold of an Inn on a Rock by the smiling welcome of Madame Poulard[A]—­all such have yet a pleasant page to read in the book of traveled experience....

[Footnote A:  An innkeeper of international fame.  She is now dead, but her name and her omelet still survive at Mont St. Michel.]

Altho her people were waiting below, and the dinner was on its way to the cloth, Madame Poulard had plenty of time to give to the beauty about her.  How fine was the outlook from the top of the ramparts!  What a fresh sensation, this of standing-on a terrace in mid-air and looking down on the sea and across to the level shores.  The rose vines—­we found them sweet—­“Ah”—­one of the branches had fallen—­she had full time to re-adjust the loosened support.  And “Marianne, give these ladies their hot water, and see to their bags”—­even this order was given with courtesy.  It was only when the supple, agile figure had left us to fly down the steep rock-cut steps; when it shot over the top of the gateway and slid with the grace of a lizard into the street far below us, that we were made sensible of there having been any special need of madame’s being in haste ...

The Mont proved by its appearance its history in adventure; it had the grim, grave, battered look that comes only to features—­whether of rock or of more plastic human mold—­that have been carved by the rough handling of experience.