-desired a thing in the country
as in a city. Moreover, there was no other inn along the country-road
for over twelve miles, a distance which conveyances (even when laden)
could easily do in three hours; so that those who went from Conches to
Ville-aux-Fayes always stopped at the Grand-I-Vert, if only to refresh
themselves. The miller of Les Aigues, who was also assistant-mayor, and
his men came there. The grooms and valets of the general were not averse
to Tonsard's wine, rendered attractive by Tonsard's daughters; so the
Grand-I-Vert held subterraneous communication with the chateau through
the servants, and knew immediately everything that they knew. It is
impossible either by benefits or through their own self-interests, to
break up the perpetual understanding that exists between the servants of
a household and the people from whom they come. Domestic service is of
the masses, and to the masses it will ever remain attached. This fatal
comradeship explains the reticence of the last words of Charles the
groom, as he and Blondet reached the portico of the chateau.

CHAPTER IV. ANOTHER IDYLL

"Ha! by my pipe, papa!" exclaimed Tonsard, seeing his father-in-law as
the old man entered and supposing him in quest of food, "your stomach
is lively this morning! We haven't anything to give you. How about that
rope,--the rope, you know, you were to make for us? It is amazing how
much you make over night and how little there is made in the morning!
You ought long ago to have twisted the one that is to twist you out of
existence; you are getting too costly for us."

The wit of a peasant or laborer is very Attic; it consists in speaking
out his mind and giving it a grotesque expression. We find the same
thing in a drawing-room. Delicacy of wit takes the place of picturesque
vulgarity, and that is really all the difference there is.

"That's enough for the father-in-law!" said the old man. "Talk business;
I want a bottle of the best."

So saying, Fourchon rapped a five-franc piece that gleamed in his hand
on the old table at which he was seated,--which, with its coating of
grease, its scorched black marks, its wine stains, and its gashes, was
singular to behold. At the sound of coin Marie Tonsard, as trig as a
sloop about to start on a cruise, glanced at her grandfather with a
covetous look that shot from her eyes like a spark. La Tonsard came out
of her bedroom, attracted by the music of metal.

"You are always rough