And the nearest fir-tree carrier to our carriage wheels cracked a swift
blow over the head of a vine-bearer, who being but an infant of two,
could not make time with the swift foot of its mother.

The smell of the flowers was everywhere. Fir-trees perfumed the air.
Every doorstep was a garden. The courtyards were alive with the squat
figures of capped maidens, wreathing and twisting greens and garlands.
And in the streets there was such a noise as was never before heard in
a city on a hill-top.

For Coutances was to hold its great _fete_ on the morrow.

It was a relief to turn in from the noise and hubbub to the bright
courtyard of our inn. The brightness thereof, and of the entire
establishment, indeed, appeared to find its central source in the
brilliant eyes of our hostess. Never was an inn-keeper gifted with a
vision at once so omniscient and so effulgent. Those eyes were
everywhere; on us, on our bags, our bonnets, our boots; they divined
our wants, and answered beforehand our unuttered longings. We had come
far? the eyes asked, burning a hole through our gossamer evasions; from
Paris, perhaps--a glance at our bonnets proclaimed the eyes knew all;
we were here for the _fete_, to see the bishop on the morrow; that was
well; we were going on to the Mont; and the eyes scented the shortness
of our stay by a swift glance at our luggage.

"_Numero quatre, au troisieme!_"

There was no appeal possible. The eyes had penetrated the disguise of
our courtesy; we were but travellers of a night; the top story was