PEROUGES : 273 miles down the Rhone River Valley from Paris, not far from Lyon, lies this medieval village with narrow cobbled streets and fielstone buildings that have been carefully restored. A 13th-Century auberge provides a warm welcome to weary travelers.

Eda was incredulous. “Perouges?” she asked. “Never heard of it.”

Eda is a well-traveled American who moved to France more than 20 years ago, married Gilles, a French investment banker, and raised a family.

Eda knows everything and everybody. She works for a Paris-based journalist who writes for one of America’s top newspapers. She didn’t know of Perouges. We were apprehensive.

We had carefully planned our winter vacation in France, assiduously pouring over Michelin, Chateau & Relais, Relais de Silence guidebooks and road maps.

Gilles returned from the chasse about two hours later, after he and his friends had bagged about 60 ducks. He stood in front of the enormous, no-nonsense fireplace of their country house outside of Grandchamps, his arm on the mantle, a significant Huguenot in brown corduroy knickers and argyle knee socks.

“Perouges?” he posed, politely replacing our hard “g” with a soft “g.” “Where is it?”

We had arrived in Paris two days earlier. Roland and Catherine, two well-traveled French friends, had asked the same question about Perouges. Apparently, in our tight little universe, whether in California or in France, we seemed to be the only two people who had ever heard of Perouges.

Our plan was to drive from Paris to Provence, taking our time, staying in country inns and chateaux, seeing France out of season, free of the tourist crush.

We sought a comfortable driving break from our visit at Grandchamps two hours south of Paris, with Eda and Gilles. And we wanted accommodations in the midst of the dining mecca of the world around Lyon.

But Vonnas was closed over Christmas. Pic was too far south. The red Michelin gave the Ostellerie de Vieux Perouges, 273 miles down the Rhone Valley from Paris, three red turrets for the hotel and one star for the restaurant. The great Michelin said that it was an old town reminiscent of Perugia in Italy, which we knew and loved. How bad could it be?

It was dark when we got to Perouges. The winter day was short, and the light was gone by 5:30. A small sign on the side of the road pointed to “Perouges--Ancienne Cite” and to a narrow country road.

A few hundred yards down the road a floodlit, medieval village loomed above us. Awesome, we thought, but only another national monument. There were no signs of a hotel or of any commerce. Nevertheless, we entered through the formidable gates with a massive watchtower on either side.

The dark streets that penetrated rows of tall, flat-faced, fieldstone buildings were narrow, cobbled and certainly not meant for automobiles. Wooden shutters were closed tight everywhere, as is the custom in France after dark, and a cold wind slapped the rain against the windshield of our small French car.

Our headlights picked up a sliver of an arrow painted with the word Ostellerie. We followed it to the central square whose dominant feature was an enormous (it had been growing since the year 1792) winter linden, under whose naked limbs were parked three cars.

Here was Perouges, indeed. We had made it. The uncertain adventure had ended and a wonderful experience was about to begin.

An inviting, soft light emanated from the old auberge , just as it must have for travelers on horseback in the 13th Century who sought an overnight stay and food.

Georges Thibaut, the proprietor, welcomed us to Perouges, using the hard “g” of ancient Perouges. (We wondered if we should call Eda and Gilles.) His sinewy hunting dog was toasting himself on polished hardwood in front of a roaring fire and didn’t budge.

There was no check-in. Instead, Thibaut showed us his collection of old pewter and earthenware. A woman appeared to help us with our bags, but let us carry most of them ourselves, as she showed us to the Manoir. Guests are lodged apart from the main building of the Ostellerie, which was the original inn and is now taken up by the restaurant and its kitchen.

Around the corner, we entered a small courtyard through a wooden door set in formidable stone originally designed to protect the newer, 15th-Century manor house from feudal warlords. Inside the Manoir we maneuvered ourselves and suitcases up a narrow (everything in those defensive days was narrow) spiral stone staircase.

Our room on that cold winter night was as warm as Thibaut’s welcome. Deep mahogany wood paneling commingled with richly patterned wall coverings and the fabric of the curtained four-poster bed. The ceiling still had the original wooden beams.

The piece de resistance was a 15th-Century Gothic pulpit that hid a white push-button telephone--our link to the outside world--behind an intricately carved wooden door.

Later we discovered that all the rooms had telephones hidden in equally unusual old pieces of furniture. One was slipped under the lid of a portable 17th-Century bidet, another inside a 15th-Century commode. There were no hidden TVs.

Modern in Marble

Our ceiling-high wooden armoire typically didn’t hang a dress for anyone over five feet tall, but the huge, salmon-colored marble bathroom was strictly 20th Century, equipped with all the amenities of a grand luxe hotel--shampoo, designer soap, bubble bath and large fluffy towels.

We were getting hungry and full of anticipation about the one-star menu. Menus are seasonal and winter means that all sorts of wild game are added, especially in the country when the chasse is open to hunters.

So we ate duck pate and venison with chestnuts. And then bleu de Bresse , creamy blue from the nearby town that gives the cheese its name. We passed on the sugared Perougienne galette (tart). The treat would be better appreciated at another time.

Dawn arrived about 8:30. We threw open the wooden shutters of our room and looked out onto a misty medieval landscape of terraced slopes, vast green dales and distant violet hills under a pink sky.

Perouges, built by Gauls to resemble Perugia in Italy long before the Romans made it part of their empire, is a circular fortress. Inside the high, once-impregnable ramparts, winding, uneven brindle cobblestone streets create a labyrinth of intra-supportive walls and humanity.

Abandoned to Rubble

By the 20th Century it had been abandoned by most of the 1,500 inhabitants the village had housed since medieval times. The Industrial Revolution in the big cities made it an impractical place to make a living. Perouges had become a mass of ruins and rubble.

Thibaut’s great-grandfather, Francisque, first interested other historians in the restoration of his village. “It shall not be said that Perouges, whose old ramparts resisted the sieges of the Middle Ages, shall fall forever beneath the pick,” said old Francisque.

People of nearby towns were dismantling Perouges stone by stone. Heavy doors, iron gates, even massive cornerstones of public and private buildings were being stolen for construction of modern buildings on the plain below.

Finally Thibaut’s son, Anthelme, formed an association to save the old town and stopped the demolition. And because of the faithful restoration, movie companies chose Perouges for location shooting. “The Three Musketeers” and “Monsieur Vincent” were filmed on these streets.

No more than 500 people live here, including farmers in the satellite hamlets. The old city has a permanent population of about 80. Among the village inhabitants whose only visible industry is tourism, are skilled craftsmen whose work is sanctioned by the town fathers.

Flowers for Tradition

A linen weaver re-creates patterns on old looms and hangs his newly woven pieces on stone hooks embedded in the outdoor walls of his home and shop. Following tradition, he pins bunches of flowers on the cloth for festival days.

A potter, a furniture maker and a book binder all ply centuries-old crafts in the manner of their ancestors. And the ostellerie lowers its horizontal wooden shutters out onto the street to sell Perougienne galettes to passers-by.

We were to have another chance to try the famous galette . It reminded us of our own days gone by when grandmothers sprinkled a bit of sugar and lemon rind on pastry dough and served it as finger food. This disk-shaped, golden galette , however, is a glamorous affair.

Old ways and new go well together.

Once gutters ran down the center of the streets, the flat-bottomed crevices compensating for lack of indoor plumbing. Serfs and servants were obliged to straddle the gutter while the nobles strolled up and down the sides.

Wide overhanging roofs from houses that lined the streets kept the aristrocrats dry in the rain, too. It rained for us. Everyone walked together under the picturesque eaves and we were thankful for them.

Close View of Old Life

Some modern Perougiens, who have converted old houses to include cozy ground-floor restaurants, offer a close view of an old life style. To announce that they are open for business they put a small table out on the street dressed with flowers and an artistically designed plate of eggs and seasonal produce. A message of welcome.

In the end, we did call Eda and Gilles and Roland and Catherine.

There was no point in keeping Perouges a secret. It was an experience we wanted to share with friends.

The Ostellerie, on Place du Tilleul in Perouges, charges 650 francs double, about $45.50.