and especially the tourist by automobile, has
done more for the improved conduct of the wayside hotel, and even
those of the large towns, than whole generations of travellers of a
former day.

Once the hotel drew its income from the hiring-out of posting-horses,
and the sale of a little food and much wine. As the old saying goes:
"Four horses and four bottles of port went together in the account of
every gentleman." Travellers of those days, if comparatively few,
were presumably wealthy. To-day no one, save the vulgar few, ever
cares that the innkeeper, or the servants, should suspect him of
being wealthy.

It's a failing of the Anglo-Saxon race, however, to want to be taken
for bigger personages than they really are, and often enough they pay
for the privilege. This is only natural, seeing that even an
innkeeper is human. Charges suitable for a _milord_ or a millionaire
have been inflicted on Browns, Joneses, and Robinsons simply because
they demanded such treatment--for fear they would not be taken for
"gentlemen." Such people are not numerous among real traveling
automobilists; they are mostly found among that class who spend the
week-end at Brighton, or dine at Versailles or St. Germain or "make
the fete" at Trouville. They are known instinctively by all, and are
only tolerated by the hotel landlord for the money they spend.

The French cook's "_batterie de cuisine_" is a thing which is
fearfully and wonderfully displayed in all the splendour of polished
steel and copper; that is, it is frequently so displayed in the
rather limited acquaintance which the general public has with the
_cuisine_ of a great hotel or restaurant, whether it be in Paris,
London, or New York.

[Illustration: In French Hotels]

In provincial France it is quite another thing. The _chef-patron_ of
a small hotel in a small town may be possessed of an imposing battery
of pots and pans, but often, since he buys his _patisserie_ and
sweetmeats of the local pastry-cook, and since his guests may
frequently not number a dozen at a time, he has no immediate use for
all of his _casseroles_ and _marmites_ and _plats ronds_ and
_sauteuses_ at one time, and accordingly, instead of being
picturesquely hung about the wall in all their polished brilliancy,
they are frequently covered with a coating of dull wax or, more banal
yet, enveloped in an ancient newspaper with only their handles
protruding. It's a pity to spoil the romantically picturesque ide