The Path to Rome By Hilaire Belloc


































































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She was of a very different sort from that good tribe of the Moselle
valley beyond the hill; yet she - Page 44
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She Was Of A Very Different Sort From That Good Tribe Of The Moselle Valley Beyond The Hill; Yet She Also Was Catholic - (She Had A Little Tree Set Up Before Her Door For The Corpus Christi:

See what religion is, that makes people of utterly different races understand each other; for when I saw that tree I knew precisely where I stood.

So once all we Europeans understood each other, but now we are divided by the worst malignancies of nations and classes, and a man does not so much love his own nation as hate his neighbours, and even the twilight of chivalry is mixed up with a detestable patronage of the poor. But as I was saying - ) she also was a Catholic, and I knew myself to be with friends. She was moreover not exactly of - what shall I say? the words Celtic and Latin mean nothing - not of those who delight in a delicate manner; and her good heart prompted her to say, very loudly -

'What do you want?'

'I want a bed,' I said, and I pulled out a silver coin. 'I must lie down at once.'

Then I added, 'Can you make omelettes?'

Now it is a curious thing, and one I will not dwell on -

LECTOR. You do nothing but dwell.

AUCTOR. It is the essence of lonely travel; and if you have come to this book for literature you have come to the wrong booth and counter. As I was saying: it is a curious thing that some people (or races) jump from one subject to another naturally, as some animals (I mean the noble deer) go by bounds. While there are other races (or individuals - heaven forgive me, I am no ethnologist) who think you a criminal or a lunatic unless you carefully plod along from step to step like a hippopotamus out of water. When, therefore, I asked this family-drilling, house-managing, mountain-living woman whether she could make omelettes, she shook her head at me slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on mine, and said in what was the corpse of French with a German ghost in it, 'The bed is a franc.'

'Motherkin,' I answered, 'what I mean is that I would sleep until I wake, for I have come a prodigious distance and have last slept in the woods. But when I wake I shall need food, for which,' I added, pulling out yet another coin, 'I will pay whatever your charge may be; for a more delightful house I have rarely met with. I know most people do not sleep before sunset, but I am particularly tired and broken.'

She showed me my bed then much more kindly, and when I woke, which was long after dusk, she gave me in the living room of the hut eggs beaten up with ham, and I ate brown bread and said grace.

Then (my wine was not yet finished, but it is an abominable thing to drink your own wine in another person's house) I asked whether I could have something to drink.

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