and is in its yellow leaf. Travellers who desire
to see the statue which a grateful city has erected
to the memory of its most illustrious citizen, General
Rapp, are not sufficient in number to keep a first-class
hotel in the glories of fresh paint and smart waiters;
and when you have done with General Rapp, there is
not much to interest you in Colmar. But there
is the hotel; and poor fat, unwieldy Madame Faragon,
though she grumbles much, and declares that there
is not a sou to be made, still keeps it up, and bears
with as much bravery as she can the buffets of a world
which seems to her to be becoming less prosperous and
less comfortable and more exacting every day.
In her younger years, a posting-house in such a town
was a posting-house; and when M. Faragon married her,
the heiress of the then owner of the business, he
was supposed to have done uncommonly well for himself.
Madame Faragon is now a childless widow, and sometimes
declares that she will shut the house up and have
done with it. Why maintain a business without
a profit, simply that there may be an Hotel de la
Poste at Colmar? But there are old servants whom
she has not the heart to send away; and she has at
any rate a roof of her own over her head; and though
she herself is unconscious that it is so, she has
many ties to the old business; and now, since her young
cousin George Voss has been with her, things go a
little better. She is not robbed so much, and
the people of the town, finding that they can get
a fair bottle of wine and a good supper, come to the
inn; and at length an omnibus has been established,
and there is a little glimmer of returning prosperity.
It is a large old rambling house, built round an irregularly-shaped
court, with another court behind it; and in both courts
the stables and coach-houses seem to be so mixed with
the kitchens and entrances, that one hardly knows
what part of the building is equine and what part
human. Judging from the smell which pervades
the lower quarters, and, alas, also too frequently
the upper rooms, one would be inclined to say that
the horses had the best of it. The defect had
been pointed out to Madame Faragon more than once;
but that lady, though in most of the affairs of life
her temper is gentle and kindly, cannot hear with
equanimity an insinuation that any portion of her
house is either dirty or unsweet. Complaints
have reached her that the beds were—well,
inhabited—but no servant now dares to hint
at anything wrong in this particular. If this
traveller or that says a word to her personally in
complaint, she looks as sour as death, and declines
to open her mouth in reply; but when that traveller’s
back is turned, the things that Madame Faragon can
say about the upstart coxcombry of the wretch, and
as to the want of all real comforts which she is sure
prevails in the home quarters of that ill-starred
complaining traveller, are proof to those who hear
them that the old landlady has not as yet lost all
her energy. It need not be doubted that she herself
religiously believes that no foul perfume has ever
pervaded the sanctity of her chambers, and that no
living thing has ever been seen inside the sheets
of her beds, except those guests whom she has allocated
to the different rooms.