Chapter 65: The Innkeeper: I
The south through France had a shabby little inn halfway between two small towns. A rusty tin sign creaked in the wind outside, painted with a crude picture of an old stone bridge. The inn sat beside the main road, with the river flowing behind it.
What passed for a garden was really just a patch of dying plants, a few struggling olive trees, withered fig trees, and some scraggly vegetables that looked like they were losing a battle against the scorching sun. A lone pine tree stood in one corner like a forgotten guard, its branches cracked and dried by the relentless heat.
The surrounding landscape looked more like a desert than farmland. A few pathetic wheat stalks dotted the dusty ground, each one serving as a perch for grasshoppers that filled the air with their endless, annoying chirping.
For about eight years, the inn had been run by a man and his wife, along with two servants, a maid named Trinette and a stable hand called Pecaud. The small staff was more than enough, since a new canal had put most of the road traffic out of business. Boats had replaced carriages, and the inn was slowly dying as a result.
The innkeeper himself was somewhere between forty and fifty-five, tall and lean with the weathered look of someone from the south. He had dark, piercing eyes, a hooked nose, and white teeth that seemed too sharp. His thick, curly hair was just starting to show threads of silver, and his already dark skin had turned even browner from standing outside his door all day, every day, hopefully scanning the empty road for customers who rarely came. He wore a red bandana around his head for protection from the sun, this was Gaspard Caderousse.
His wife couldn’t have been more different. Madeleine had once been beautiful, she was from a region famous for its lovely women, but years of living in the marshlands had worn her down. She’d caught some kind of slow fever that left her pale, thin, and constantly sick. She spent most of her time upstairs in their bedroom, either shivering in her chair or lying weakly on the bed.
Meanwhile, Gaspard kept his daily watch at the door. He didn’t mind the duty too much, since it meant he didn’t have to listen to his wife’s constant complaints about their terrible luck. When she did corner him with her bitter words about fate, he would always respond the same way, "Quiet, Carconte. This is God’s will."
The nickname "Carconte" came from the village where Madeleine had been born. It was a local custom to give people distinctive names, and Gaspard’s rough speech probably couldn’t handle her real name anyway.
But don’t think Gaspard had truly accepted his fate. He was tormented by watching the hated canal steal away his customers and profits, and by his wife’s endless whining.
Like most southerners, he was normally a modest man who didn’t drink much and didn’t ask for a lot. But he loved showing off. Back in their prosperous days, he and his wife had attended every local festival and celebration, dressed in the colorful traditional costumes of their region, he in the style worn by Spanish and Catalan men, she in the flowing fashion borrowed from Greek and Arabian traditions.
But gradually, everything had disappeared. The jewelry, the embroidered vests, the elegant stockings, the silver shoe buckles. Gaspard couldn’t bear to appear in public in his diminished state, so he and his wife had given up their social life entirely. The sound of distant music and laughter from festivals only reminded him of what they’d lost.
On this particular day, Caderousse was at his usual post by the door, his eyes drifting between some chickens pecking uselessly at the ground and the empty road that stretched north and south. When his wife’s shrill voice called him from upstairs, he grumbled and went to see what she wanted, making sure to leave the front door wide open in case any travelers happened by.
The moment Caderousse left his watch, the road lay empty and silent as a desert at noon. It stretched endlessly into the distance, bordered by tall, scraggly trees that made the whole scene look so uninviting that no sensible person would choose to travel it during the heat of the day.
But if Caderousse had stayed just a few minutes longer, he might have seen a distant figure approaching from the direction of one of the towns. As it came closer, he would have made out a man on horseback. The horse was a fine Hungarian breed, moving at an easy pace. The rider was a priest dressed in black robes and a three-cornered hat. Despite the blazing noon sun, they were making good time.
When they reached the inn, the horse stopped, whether from his own desire or his rider’s was hard to say. The priest dismounted and led his horse by the bridle, looking for somewhere to tie him up. He found a handle sticking out of a broken door and secured the animal there. Then he pulled out a red cotton handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead before approaching the inn’s entrance.
He knocked three times with his iron-tipped walking stick.
The unusual sound sent a huge black dog rushing out, snarling and showing his sharp white teeth with clear hostile intent. The dog was obviously not used to visitors. At that moment, heavy footsteps could be heard coming down the wooden stairs from the upper floor, and Gaspard Caderousse appeared, bowing and smiling as he welcomed his unexpected guest.
"Welcome, sir, most welcome!" Caderousse said, clearly amazed to have a customer. "Margotin!" he called to the dog. "Be quiet! Don’t mind him, sir, he only barks, never bites. I’m sure a glass of good wine would be refreshing on such a hot day."
Then Caderousse noticed his visitor’s clerical clothing and quickly changed his tone.
"A thousand pardons! I didn’t realize I had the honor of receiving a priest under my humble roof. What would you like? What refreshment can I offer? Everything I have is at your service."