The probability is that, if you arrive by train and see first the Restaurant of the Station, you will stay at Zwinger’s; if you come into the town by road, crossing the bridge that spans the harbour, and see first the Restaurant of Zwinger, you will put up at the Restaurant of the Station.

Assuming that you stay at Zwinger’s, this is what happens. The carrier of your bag (who looks like a fisherman, and walks as a fisherman, but is not a fisherman) throws it down outside the restaurant, and, sinking on one of the green iron chairs, groans aloud a protest against the scheme by which one has to work ere one can gain five pence; he rolls a cigarette of black tobacco, and strikes a match which makes other customers choke and cough. Then comes, leisurely, one of the Misses Zwinger, accepting salutations with the austere air of a lady bored by deference. Miss Zwinger, without asking the desires or wishes of the new arrival, engages in swift and shrill altercation with a dog, hitherto inoffensive, and occupied with the duties of explorer at the kerb; the dog goes, but, at a safe distance, expresses an opinion by four sharp barks, that bring from every corner of the triangular market-place, and especially from the Town Hall at the base, several dogs, to whom he explains the grievance.

“You require?”

Miss Zwinger calls her sister from the sanded floor interior to help with the task of fending off an insurgent boarder. The restaurant is full; you may be able to engage a furnished room opposite; why not go to the hotel out in the forest? It is preferred, at this season, to take only those who wish to stay for a month; would a double-bedded room suit? Finally, having finished the duet, they leave, with a twirl of skirts, giving the centre of the stage, so to speak, to a short, grim, black-capped man who, hands deep in trousers pockets, talks as one giving an imitation of distant thunder. Outside clients rise from their chairs, inside customers put down ribald journals with pictures intended to be amusing, and stroll out to enjoy themselves. Here comes the final test of the novice.

I have seen young couples, husbands and wives, or brothers and sisters, come from the narrow lane and, recognising Zwinger’s, say instantly:“Oh, my goodness! This will never do!”

Others (and these especially when ladies have been of the party) retire after the contest with the Misses Zwinger. Some, enduring this encounter, turn and run, trembling and affrighted, on being faced by the uncompromising host himself. A few (mostly artists) survive all of the dangers, and are grudgingly permitted to carry their bags up a narrow wooden staircase, and find a room, the number of which has been screamed at them: in the room they discover a milk jug nearly half-full of water, and a small damp piece of linen riding on the clothes-horse. Apart from these defects, I will say that Zwinger’s, once conquered, gives in, so far as bedroom and meals are concerned, with a fairly good grace.

Dinner in the large room at the back (entrance gained by way of the kitchen) is a good, sufficient meal, to which it is only necessary to bring the appetite to be gained by wandering in the woods, or a brisk ride in tramcars from the sea. Framed paintings on the wall, and paintings on the wall with no frames, some a trifle obscured by age, and possessing the signatures of men no longer youthful. Four tables up and down the room; the table on the right reserved for a set of young women who, at the beginning of the evening meal, talk so persistently of the contributions they have made during the day to the art of England and America, that one’s French neighbour, with serviette tucked in at throat, can, I fear, scarcely hear himself eat his soup.

“Most awfully pleased with what I’ve done to-day. If the light hadn’t begun to go off—”

“I’m like that, too. Sometimes I simply can’t do anything, and then, another time—”

“My dear, the model was too comic for words. Talking all the time. If I’d only understood what he was saying, I could write a book about him, and that’s a fact!”

“Absolutely in love with the place. Could stay here for a whole week, only I must be getting along.”

The serving of the meal has a touch of over-emphasis that sometimes startles those who possess nerves; after a while, one becomes accustomed to the method of banging each dish on the table with a clatter. It is no exaggeration, but the mere truth to say that, a request being made for more bread, a chunk is cut from the yard-long loaves and thrown at the diner; with practice, a certain dexterity can be gained, especially by those expert in the cricket-field. Five courses to the meal, and now and again between two, a considerable interval, whilst the Zwinger family and its dependents have a row in the kitchen, the guests sitting back patiently until the last word is uttered. The nice question of allotting this last word is not easy to decide, for when the rumbling bass of Zwinger has fired what appears to be a parting shot, and the girls return to the dining-room with plates, and guests pull chairs forward, one of the young women may think of another argument, and the two go back to the kitchen, where the dispute recommences. The quarrel finally at an end, the Zwinger ladies come in, scarlet as a result of animated discussion, and they serve the next course with more than usual truculence. Boarders go outside to take their coffee and to smoke, eyed narrowly, as they pass through, by Zwinger, to be joined at tables on the pavement by wonderful youths in corduroy suits, which suggest that they are either artists with a definite aim in life, or porters belonging to the railway of the North.

You can always tell at Zwinger’s a new arrival by the circumstance that, after taking some thought in regard to the arrangement and wording of the phrase, he advances to the counter, where Zwinger scowls in a manner that excuses the acidity of contents of some of the bottles ranged there.

“It makes good weather,” remarks the new arrival, cheerily.

Zwinger replies with an ejaculated grunt.

“Many of the world here?”

Zwinger—a most difficult speaker to report with accuracy—says something like “S-s-t!”“If you will have the kindness to give me a good cigar.”

Zwinger pushes a box forward, and the perplexed new arrival, tempted, I am sure, to fall back on Ollendorf, and to ask for the new inkstand of his great-uncle, refrains from further speech, and tempts the fates by making selection from the compartment marked 15 c. Outside he, on explaining his grievance, ascertains that there is no need to feel specially dishonoured by the gruffness accorded to him. Zwinger must not be considered with the eye that one gives to, say, the manager of the Carlton away in London. Zwinger (declare the hopeful) may be right enough once you get to know him. Zwinger (admit the candid) is certainly trying, but you have to put up with something in coming to a quiet place of this kind. The tramcars clang, and hoot, and screw across the market-place, and provide a more pleasing subject for conversation.

Disappearance of the curfew bell might have been coincident with the entry of Zwinger into public life. At a quarter past ten, he shows signs of restlessness, jerking commands to the long man-servant, keeping at the doorway a keen eye on the round tables. As each becomes free, Zwinger orders it, with its chairs, to be taken inside, and, although he permits himself to exhibit no signs of gratification, I am certain he feels secretly pleased when small parties of young men come across, and, finding no place, give up their original intention. If they endeavour to pass through the doorway, Zwinger, taking no notice of them, remains there so stolidly that they are compelled to take notice of him. I have seen him snatch newspapers from the hands of those who appeared disinclined to observe the face of the clock: I have observed him give a hint to an occupied chair by kicking it. He turns down the lights, one by one. In desperate cases, where a couple of young Englishmen, with the conventional ideas of the licence enjoyed at restaurants abroad, fill a fresh pipe, I have seen him take a broom, and, with a few resolute strokes, send them choking and half-blinded from the restaurant. When a late-stayer, with an idea of making a good and amiable exit, says, in departing, “Good-night to the company!” Zwinger responds with one of those grunts not to be found in any French or English dictionary. Every one gone, he takes a black cigar from the case, orders the girls to go to bed, and, at the doorway, stands a good half-hour in order to enjoy the satisfaction of saying, when any one arrives, “Closed!”

Bad luck for any resident who returns so late that Zwinger has retired to rest. For him, the restaurant presents no light, and, if he cares to be well-advised, he will give up the attempt at once and spend the hours on the bridge, smelling the tide, and watching the flashlight that sweeps round from a point on the coast. Should he prove obstinate, and persist in knocking, he is engaged on a lengthy sport; the worst thing that can happen is that Zwinger himself, and not the long man-servant, should come down presently to give admission. Cheerful blades have, ere this, on the door being opened, tried to meet Zwinger with a pleasantry, affecting to have brought the milk, or giving an imitation of the crowing of a cock, but a look from Zwinger arrests. Others, less daring and more diplomatic, rush past, snatch their candlestick from the counter, and vanish with the celerity easy to those possessed by sudden fear; the next morning they go out by the side door, take a roundabout route to gain the other side of the market-place, cross the bridge, and hide in the forest. There is a report (which some credit, but I do not) of one young man, leaving after a stay of six weeks, during which time the proprietor exchanged no word with him; in going, he suddenly dropped his kit bag, seized Zwinger by the hand, wrung the hand with enthusiasm for the space of nearly a minute, thanking the astonished Zwinger the while for great amiability and kindness, and genial behaviour; expressing a fervent hope that Zwinger, when visiting Chelsea, would not fail to call at the Art Club in Church Street. The statement is that this was done for a bet. Those who assume it to be true are forced to admit that France, with all its stirring history, has rarely seen a braver act.

Yet I, who write these words, have seen the proprietor for one whole day change his outlook, reverse his manner, alter his deportment. The day came rather late in the season, and nearly every one had left, but corroborative evidence can be called if necessary. The night before, a hint, broad without being deep, was given by the Misses Zwinger to the effect that no guarantee existed that meals would be provided on the day: they pointed out the example which would be adopted by some other boarders, of catching the 10.23 in the morning to a neighbouring town, returning in the evening by the 9.48. Throughout the night, from half-past ten until an hour I am unable to fix, the noise of sawing, the thud of hammer and nails, went on in the restaurant, with all the usual arguments that arise when carpentry has to be done. Clatter and contention, bustle and loud voices; Zwinger, himself, growling now and again to express dissatisfaction with everything. I remember that, by the device of making sympathetic inquiries after rheumatism, it was possible in the morning to get from cook a roll and a cup of coffee, and to escape from the din, which had recommenced, through the convenient side door, and jump on the last carriage of a tram-train that went out to the sea. At one o’clock, the return.

A crowd outside Zwinger’s. A crowd made up of frock-coated men, with red ribbon in buttonhole; men in full evening dress, silk hats (some of which appeared, from their shapes, to be the results of investments in the ’eighties), a few bowler hats coming well down to the ears; boots, in certain instances, shining and pointed, in others more substantial, with dust collected from high-roads. Much lifting of these silk hats and these bowlers, with extraordinary deference on the part of many, beaming condescension on the part of the rest; an evident desire with the prosperous to set the remainder at their ease. Inside the restaurant, long tables set on trestles, that accounted for the turbulent proceedings which had broken the night, flowers in every spare mug, vase, or glass: flags dependent from the ceiling; the Misses Zwinger, costumed as though about to run on in musical comedy. Through the kitchen came, pulling his white tie, and pushing in one side of a shirt-front that immediately bulged out on the other side, Zwinger himself. A new Zwinger, a Zwinger I had never seen before, a smile in every crease of his features, saluting me with a light, friendly touch on the shoulder.

“What magnificent weather! Ah, how fortunate we are! Monsieur will do us the honour to sit down with us? But yes. I count upon you! Marie, Jeannette!”

He gave sprightly orders to his girls, and passed out to be received with something that resembled long-continued cheers. All came in ten minutes later, Zwinger leading the way, and escorting a prosperous man with the figure of an American desk, who, in acknowledging my bow, gave to himself a third chin. Zwinger, having placed him at the top of one of the long tables, bustled around, urging the rest to take their seats, giving a shout of welcome to late comers, and presently taking a chair at the lower end of the second long table with myself on his right, a Mr. HonorÉ on his left.

“Much flattered!” said Mr. HonorÉ, accepting the introduction.

“Seated,” declared Zwinger of himself, jovially, “seated between two good friends.”

Red wine stood on the white-clothed tables, and this gave me a moment of depression, until Zwinger, on soup being cleared, whispered to me a reassuring word, and I found that, despite similarity of labels, the contents of the bottles had no resemblance or likeness to the beverage usually supplied. Talk up and down the tables was mainly of births, marriages, and deaths, with, now and again, a description of recent illness. Also, the state of trade and the condition of agriculture, and a few references to politics, so guarded that I knew it could not be a lunch given in the interests of any political party. I asked a question.

“Wait!” said Zwinger, mysteriously.

I give you my word of honour that he winked.

At the end of the meal—a good meal, well-cooked, and served in a way that had nothing of the slap-dash-bang to which one was accustomed in the dining-room—Zwinger went around with cigars, pressing the best and longest upon the acceptance of the company, detained frequently in the course of his tour by affectionate greetings, by honest congratulations on the meal. He spoke in the ear of the Chairman—a Sub-Prefect, so Mr. HonorÉ assured me, nothing less—and scuttled back to his seat just in time to assume an attitude of listening as the Chairman rose.

We were assembled, said the Chairman, to honour and acclaim once more the day of September, that was ever in our hearts. (Very good.) We were assembled to do honour to those who fought with us on that great day, and fell beside us for the honour and glory of France. (Very good, very good.) We were here— The Chairman called gesture to the aid of eloquence, swinging his left arm with a backward movement; guests leaned forward to miss nothing, their faces becoming flushed as he proceeded, eyes filling as he recited the names of those who had gone from this world since the last meeting. His rapidity of utterance increased: the guests panted as they followed eagerly: one man rose in his excitement, and neighbours pulled him down. At the door of the kitchen, the two girls, bearing trays of coffee, waited, trembling with excitement so that the cups rattled. A perfect cascade of phrases; glory, country, honour, comrades, revenge, every word rushing past the others, and then Zwinger sprang to his feet, echoed the toast wildly, and, holding his glass, clinked it with mine, clinked it with Mr. HonorÉ’s, saluted the company, drank, and sat down.

The carpenters were early at work the following morning, joining thus to their duties the functions of an alarum clock. As I went out for a stroll at eight, intending to go so far as the fringe of the woods and back, I saw Zwinger walking up and down outside the restaurant, his hands deep in jacket pockets.

“My felicitations,” I said, cheerily, “on the enormous success of—”

Zwinger gave one of his monosyllables that express disinclination for speech, disinclination to listen to speech from other people. Turning, he slippered away.