that they tell in bartering, because they maintain
that every man who buys ought to understand his business. I much
wondered why, at a Figeac fair, when there was a question of buying a
bullock, the animal's tail was pulled as though all his virtue were
concentrated in this appendage. I learnt that the reason of the
tugging was this: Cattle are liable to a disease that causes the tail
to drop off, but the people here have discovered a very artful trick
of fastening it on again, and it needs a vigorous pull to expose the
fraud. Among other tricks of the country is that of drenching an
ill-tempered and unmanageable horse with two _litres_ of wine before
taking him to the fair. He then becomes as quiet as a lamb. I heard
the story of a _cure_, who was thus imposed upon by one of his own
parishioners. He wanted a very quiet horse, and he found one at the
fair; but the next day, when he went near the animal, it appeared to
be possessed of the devil. All this is bad; but there is satisfaction
to the student of old manners in knowing that everything takes place
as it did centuries ago. The cattle-dealers and peasants here actually
transact their business in _pistoles_ and _ecus_. A _pistole_ now
represents 10 francs, and an _ecu_ 3 francs.

The summer is glorious here, and as the climate is influenced by that
of Auvergne, it is less enervating by the Cele than in the
neighbouring valley of the Lot. There, some twenty miles farther
south, the grapes ripen two or three weeks sooner than they do upon
these hillsides. But the _vent d'autan_--the wind from the
south-east--is now blowing, and, although there is too much air, one
gasps for breath. The brilliant blue fades out of the sky, and the sun
just glimmers through layers of dun-coloured vapour. It is a sky that
makes one ill-tempered and restless by its sameness and indecision.
But the wind is a worse trial. It blows hot, as if it issued from the
infernal cavern. It sets the nerves altogether wrong, and disposes one
to commit evil deeds from mere wantonness and the feeling that some
violent reaction from this influence is what nature insists upon. It
is a wind that does not blow a steady honest gale, but goes to work in
a treacherously intermittent fashion--now lulled to a complete calm,
now springing at you like a tiger from the jungle. Then your eyes are
filled with dust, unless you close them quickly, or turn your back to
the enemy in the nick of time. The night comes, and