She was a philosopher, on a matter-of-fact basis; she had been having lodgers for forty years, and all that she asked of them was that they should pay their bills, make use of the door-mat, and fold their napkins.She cared very little for their secrets."J'en ai vus de toutes les couleurs," she said to me.She had quite ceased to care for individuals; she cared only for types, for categories.Her large observation had made her acquainted with a great number, and her mind was a complete collection of "heads." She flattered herself that she knew at a glance where to pigeon-hole a new-comer, and if she made any mistakes her deportment never betrayed them.I think that, as regards individuals, she had neither likes nor dislikes; but she was capable of expressing esteem or contempt for a species.She had her own ways, I suppose, of manifesting her approval, but her manner of indicating the reverse was simple and unvarying."Je trouve que c'est deplace"--this exhausted her view of the matter.If one of her inmates had put arsenic into the pot-au-feu, I believe Madame Beaurepas would have contented herself with remarking that the proceeding was out of place.The line of misconduct to which she most objected was an undue assumption of gentility; she had no patience with boarders who gave themselves airs."When people come chez moi, it is not to cut a figure in the world; I have never had that illusion," I remember hearing her say; "and when you pay seven francs a day, tout compris, it comprises everything but the right to look down upon the others.But there are people who, the less they pay, the more they take themselves au serieux.My most difficult boarders have always been those who have had the little rooms."Madame Beaurepas had a niece, a young woman of some forty odd years;and the two ladies, with the assistance of a couple of thick-waisted, red-armed peasant women, kept the house going.If on your exits and entrances you peeped into the kitchen, it made very little difference; for Celestine, the cook, had no pretension to be an invisible functionary or to deal in occult methods.She was always at your service, with a grateful grin she blacked your boots; she trudged off to fetch a cab; she would have carried your baggage, if you had allowed her, on her broad little back.She was always tramping in and out, between her kitchen and the fountain in the place, where it often seemed to me that a large part of the preparation for our dinner went forward--the wringing out of towels and table-cloths, the washing of potatoes and cabbages, the scouring of saucepans and cleansing of water--bottles.You enjoyed, from the doorstep, a perpetual back-view of Celestine and of her large, loose, woollen ankles, as she craned, from the waist, over into the fountain and dabbled in her various utensils.This sounds as if life went on in a very make-shift fashion at the Pension Beaurepas--as if the tone of the establishment were sordid.But such was not at all the case.
We were simply very bourgeois; we practised the good old Genevese principle of not sacrificing to appearances.This is an excellent principle--when you have the reality.We had the reality at the Pension Beaurepas: we had it in the shape of soft short beds, equipped with fluffy duvets; of admirable coffee, served to us in the morning by Celestine in person, as we lay recumbent on these downy couches; of copious, wholesome, succulent dinners, conformable to the best provincial traditions.For myself, I thought the Pension Beaurepas picturesque, and this, with me, at that time was a great word.I was young and ingenuous: I had just come from America.Iwished to perfect myself in the French tongue, and I innocently believed that it flourished by Lake Leman.I used to go to lectures at the Academy, and come home with a violent appetite.I always enjoyed my morning walk across the long bridge (there was only one, just there, in those days) which spans the deep blue out-gush of the lake, and up the dark steep streets of the old Calvinistic city.The garden faced this way, toward the lake and the old town; and this was the pleasantest approach to the house.There was a high wall, with a double gate in the middle, flanked by a couple of ancient massive posts; the big rusty grille contained some old-fashioned iron-work.
The garden was rather mouldy and weedy, tangled and untended; but it contained a little thin--flowing fountain, several green benches, a rickety little table of the same complexion, and three orange-trees, in tubs, which were deposited as effectively as possible in front of the windows of the salon.
