A carriage-gate led into the yard and to the stables, cart-drivers being the principal habitues of the place; another entrance, the one which was crowned with the fantastic sign, was flanked by two stone seats and opened directly into the kitchen, which also served as parlor for the guests.  A fireplace with an enormous mantel, under which a whole family might warm themselves, occupied the middle of one side of the room.  There was a large oven in one corner which opened its huge mouth, the door partly hiding the shovels and tongs employed in its service.  Two or three thoroughly smoked hams, suspended from the beams, announced that there was no fear of a famine before the gastronomic massacres of Middlemas.  Opposite the window, a large, polished oak dresser displayed an array of large flowered plates and little octagon-shaped glasses.  A huge kitchen kettle and some wooden chairs completed the furniture of the room.

From the kitchen one passed into another room, where a permanent table surrounded by benches occupied its entire length.  The wall paper, once green, was now a dirty gray; it was embellished by half a dozen black frames representing the story of Prince Poniatowski, who shares the honor of decorating village inns with Paul and Virginia and Wilhelm Tell.  On the upper floor-for this aristocratic dwelling had a second story—­several sleeping-rooms opened upon a long corridor, at the end of which was a room with two beds in it.  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.  Before the fire, and upon the range, three or four stew-pans were bubbling.  A plump chicken was turning on the spit, or, rather, the spit and its victim were turned by a bright-looking boy of about a dozen years, who with one hand turned the handle and with the other, armed with a large cooking-ladle, basted the roast.