The inn itself is gray with age, the roof sagging pleasantly here and there; and an old wooden gallery runs the length of each wing, the guest-chambers of the upper story opening upon it like the deck-rooms of a steamer, with boxes of tulips and hyacinths along the gallery railings and window ledges for the gayest of border-lines.

Beyond the great open archway, which gives entrance to the courtyard, lies the quiet country road; passing this, my eyes followed the wide sweep of poppy-sprinkled fields to a line of low green hills; and there was the edge of the forest sheltering those woodland interiors which I had long ago tried to paint, and where I should be at work to-morrow.

In the course of time, and well within the bright twilight, Amedee spread the crisp white cloth and served me at a table on my pavilion porch.  He feigned anxiety lest I should find certain dishes (those which he knew were most delectable) not to my taste, but was obviously so distended with fatuous pride over the whole meal that it became a temptation to denounce at least some trifling sauce or garnishment; nevertheless, so much mendacity proved beyond me and I spared him and my own conscience.  This puffed-uppedness of his was to be observed only in his expression of manner, for during the consumption of food it was his worthy custom to practise a ceremonious, nay, a reverential, hush, and he never offered (or approved) conversation until he had prepared the salad.  That accomplished, however, and the water bubbling in the coffee machine, he readily favoured me with a discourse on the decline in glory of Les Trois Pigeons.

“Monsieur, it is the automobiles; they have done it.  Formerly, as when monsieur was here, the painters came from Paris.  They would come in the spring and would stay until the autumn rains.  What busy times and what drolleries!  Ah, it was gay in those days!  Monsieur remembers well.  Ha, Ha!  But now, I think, the automobiles have frightened away the painters; at least they do not come any more.  And the automobiles themselves; they come sometimes for lunch, a few, but they love better the seashore, and we are just close enough to be too far away.  Those automobiles, they love the big new hotels and the casinos with roulette.  They eat hastily, gulp down a liqueur, and pouf! off they rush for Trouville, for Houlgate—­for heaven knows where!  And even the automobiles do not come so frequently as they did.  Our road used to be the best from Lisieux to Beuzeval, but now the maps recommend another.  They pass us by, and yet yonder—­only a few kilometres—­is the coast with its thousands.  We are near the world but out of it, monsieur.”

He poured my coffee; dropped a lump of sugar from the tongs with a benevolent gesture—­“One lump:  always the same.  Monsieur sees that I remember well, ha?”—­and the twilight having fallen, he lit two orange-shaded candles and my cigar with the same match.  The night was so quiet that the candle-lights burned as steadily as flames in a globe, yet the air was spiced with a cool fragrance, and through the honeysuckle leaves above me I saw, as I leaned back in my wicker chair, a glimmer of kindly stars.