VOLUME IX.

TOINE

He was known for thirty miles round was father Toine—­fat Toine, Toine-my-extra, Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy—­the innkeeper of Tournevent.

It was he who had made famous this hamlet buried in a niche in the valley that led down to the sea, a poor little peasants’ hamlet consisting of ten Norman cottages surrounded by ditches and trees.

The houses were hidden behind a curve which had given the place the name of Tournevent.  It seemed to have sought shelter in this ravine overgrown with grass and rushes, from the keen, salt sea wind—­the ocean wind that devours and burns like fire, that drys up and withers like the sharpest frost of winter, just as birds seek shelter in the furrows of the fields in time of storm.

But the whole hamlet seemed to be the property of Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy, who was called also Toine, or Toine-My-Extra-Special, the latter in consequence of a phrase current in his mouth: 

“My Extra-Special is the best in France:” 

His “Extra-Special” was, of course, his cognac.

For the last twenty years he had served the whole countryside with his Extra-Special and his “Burnt-Brandy,” for whenever he was asked:  “What shall I drink, Toine?” he invariably answered:  “A burnt-brandy, my son-in-law; that warms the inside and clears the head—­there’s nothing better for your body.”

He called everyone his son-in-law, though he had no daughter, either married or to be married.

Well known indeed was Toine Burnt-Brandy, the stoutest man in all Normandy.  His little house seemed ridiculously small, far too small and too low to hold him; and when people saw him standing at his door, as he did all day long, they asked one another how he could possibly get through the door.  But he went in whenever a customer appeared, for it was only right that Toine should be invited to take his thimbleful of whatever was drunk in his wine shop.

His inn bore the sign:  “The Friends’ Meeting-Place”—­and old Toine was, indeed, the friend of all.  His customers came from Fecamp and Montvilliers, just for the fun of seeing him and hearing him talk; for fat Toine would have made a tombstone laugh.  He had a way of chaffing people without offending them, or of winking to express what he didn’t say, of slapping his thighs when he was merry in such a way as to make you hold your sides, laughing.  And then, merely to see him drink was a curiosity.  He drank everything that was offered him, his roguish eyes twinkling, both with the enjoyment of drinking and at the thought of the money he was taking in.  His was a double pleasure:  first, that of drinking; and second, that of piling up the cash.

You should have heard him quarrelling with his wife!  It was worth paying for to see them together.  They had wrangled all the thirty years they had been married; but Toine was good-humored, while his better-half grew angry.  She was a tall peasant woman, who walked with long steps like a stork, and had a head resembling that of an angry screech-owl.  She spent her time rearing chickens in a little poultry-yard behind the inn, and she was noted for her success in fattening them for the table.