"Meanwhile, perhaps messieurs will walk into the cafe of the hotel,
awaiting their rooms," said the landlord.
"Where tea shall be served," concluded Madame, giving directions to a
waiter who stood by, a perfect Image of Misery, his face tied up after
the fashion of the French nation suffering from toothache and a
_fluxion_.
"But the fire is out in the kitchen," objected Misery, in the spirit of
Pierrot's friend.
"Then let it be re-lighted," commanded Madame. "At such times as these,
the fire has not the right to be out."
Monsieur marshalled us into the cafe, a large long room forming part of
the hotel; by no means the best waiting-place after a long and tiring
day. It was hot, blazing with gas, clouded with smoke--the usual French
smoke, worse than the worst of English tobacco. The room was crowded,
the noise pandemonium. Card playing occupied some tables, dominoes
others. The company was very much what might be expected at a Horse
Fair: loud, familiar, slightly inclined to be quarrelsome; no nerves.
Our host joined a card table, evidently taking up his game where our
arrival had interrupted it. He soon became absorbed and forgot our
existence; our hope was in Madame.
[Illustration: MORLAIX.]
We waited in patience; the short quarter of an hour developed into a
long half-hour, when tea arrived: small cups, small tea pot, usual
strainer, straw-coloured infusion; still, it just saved our reason.
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