If I tripped
sometimes on the roughly paved street I could console myself with the
knowledge that these cobbles, like the odd, jutting houses rising on
both sides of them, were at least three hundred years old. Green woods,
clear against a background of rosy sunset, ran up to the very borders of
the town. I passed a little, gray old church. I crossed a quaint bridge
built over a winding stream lined with dwellings and broken by mossy
washing-stones. It was all very peaceful, very simple, and very rustic.
Without second sight I could not possibly have visioned the grim little
drama for which it was to serve as setting.
A blue sign with gilded letters beckoned me, and I paused to read it.
The Touring Club of France recommended to the passing stranger the Hotel
of the Three Kings. Here I was, then. From the street a dark, arched,
stone passage of distinctly _moyen-age_ flavor led me into a courtyard
paved with great square cobbles, round the four sides of which were
built the walls of the inn. Winding, somewhat crazy-looking, stone
staircases ran up to the galleries from which the bedroom doors
informally opened; vines, as yet leafless, wreathed the gray walls and
framed the shuttered windows; before me I glimpsed a kitchen with a
magnificent oaken ceiling and a medieval fireplace in which a fire
roared redly; and at my right yawned what had doubtless been a stable
once upon a time, but with the advent of the motor, had become a
primitive garage.
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