The Mystery of the Yellow Room HTML version

Chapter 10
We Shall Have to Eat Red Meat--Now
The Donjon Inn was of no imposing appearance; but I like these buildings with their
rafters blackened with age and the smoke of their hearths--these inns of the coaching-
days, crumbling erections that will soon exist in the memory only. They belong to the
bygone days, they are linked with history. They make us think of the Road, of those days
when highwaymen rode.
I saw at once that the Donjon Inn was at least two centuries old --perhaps older. Under its
sign-board, over the threshold, a man with a crabbed-looking face was standing,
seemingly plunged in unpleasant thought, if the wrinkles on his forehead and the knitting
of his brows were any indication.
When we were close to him, he deigned to see us and asked us, in a tone anything but
engaging, whether we wanted anything. He was, no doubt, the not very amiable landlord
of this charming dwelling-place. As we expressed a hope that he would be good enough
to furnish us with a breakfast, he assured us that he had no provisions, regarding us, as he
said this, with a look that was unmistakably suspicious.
"You may take us in," Rouletabille said to him, "we are not policemen."
"I'm not afraid of the police--I'm not afraid of anyone!" replied the man.
I had made my friend understand by a sign that we should do better not to insist; but,
being determined to enter the inn, he slipped by the man on the doorstep and was in the
common room.
"Come on," he said, "it is very comfortable here."
A good fire was blazing in the chimney, and we held our hands to the warmth it sent out;
it was a morning in which the approach of winter was unmistakable. The room was a
tolerably large one, furnished with two heavy tables, some stools, a counter decorated
with rows of bottles of syrup and alcohol. Three windows looked out on to the road. A
coloured advertisement lauded the many merits of a new vermouth. On the mantelpiece
was arrayed the innkeeper's collection of figured earthenware pots and stone jugs.
"That's a fine fire for roasting a chicken," said Rouletabille. "We have no chicken--not
even a wretched rabbit," said the landlord.
"I know," said my friend slowly; "I know--We shall have to eat red meat--now."
I confess I did not in the least understand what Rouletabille meant by what he had said;
but the landlord, as soon as he heard the words, uttered an oath, which he at once stifled,