We were within half a mile of that town. The convent gleamed white in the moonlight about three hundred yards to the left. The duchess took her little bag, jumped lightly down, kissed her hand to me, and walked off.
Jean had made no comment at all—the duchess’ household was hard to surprise. I could make none. And we drove in silence into Avranches.
When there before with Gustave, I had put up at a small inn at the foot of the hill. Now I drove up to the summit and stopped before the principal hotel. A waiter ran out, cast a curious glance at my conveyance, and lifted my luggage down.
“Let me know if you get into any trouble for being late,” said I to Jean, giving him another five francs.
He nodded and drove off, still chewing the stump of his cheroot.
“Can I have a room?” I asked, turning to the waiter.
“Certainly, sir,” said he, catching up my bag in his hand.
“I am just come,” said I, “from Mont St. Michel.”
A curious expression spread over the waiter’s face. I fancy he knew old Jean and the cart by sight; but he spread out his hands and smiled.
“Monsieur,” said he with the incomparable courtesy of the French nation, “has come from wherever monsieur pleases.”
“That,” said I, giving him a trifle, “is an excellent understanding.”
