Sure enough, old Marie was on the job.  Not desiring to be unkind or unduly critical I shall merely state that as a cook old Marie was what we who have been in France and speak the language fluently would call la limite!  The omelet she turned out for us was a thing that was very firm and durable, containing, I think, leather findings, with a sprinkling of chopped henbane on the top.  The coffee was as feeble a counterfeit as chicory usually is when it is masquerading as coffee, and the vin ordinaire had less of the vin to it and more of the ordinaire than any we sampled elsewhere.

Right here let me say this for the much-vaunted vin ordinaire of Europe:  In the end it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder—­not like the ordinary Egyptian adder, but like a patent adder in the office of a loan shark, which is the worst stinger of the whole adder family.  If consumed with any degree of freedom it puts a downy coat on your tongue next morning that causes you to think you inadvertently swallowed the pillow in your sleep.  Good domestic wine costs as much in Europe as good domestic wine costs in America—­possibly more than as much.

The souffle potatoes of old Marie were not bad to look on, but I did not test them otherwise.  Even in my own country I do not care to partake of souffle potatoes unless I know personally the person who blew them up.  So at the conclusion of the repast we nibbled tentatively at the dessert, which was a pancake with jelly, done in the image of a medicated bandage but not so tasty as one.  And then I paid the check, which was of august proportions, and we came sadly away, realizing that another happy dream of youth had been shattered to bits.  Only the tablecloth had been as advertised.  It was coarse, but white like snow—­like snow three days old in Pittsburgh.

Yet I was given to understand that was a typical rural French inn and fully up to the standards of such places; but if the manager of a roadhouse within half a day’s ride of New York or Boston or Philadelphia served such food to his patrons, at such prices, the sheriff would have him inside of two months; and everybody would be glad of it too—­except the sheriff.  Also, no humane man in this country would ask a self-respecting cow to camp overnight in such outbuildings as abutted on the kitchen of this particular inn.

I am not denying that we have in America some pretty bad country hotels, where good food is most barbarously mistreated and good beds are rare to find, but we admit our shortcomings in this regard and we deplore them—­we do not shellac them over with a glamour of bogus romance, with intent to deceive the foreign visitor to our shores.  We warn him in advance of what he may expect and urge him to carry his rations with him.