is father's road and his brother's road, and about how his was so
smooth we could play at billiards on it, but we couldn't on theirs. When
we replied that we didn't want to play, but to walk it, he said we were
only chaffing him. "I know you well," he added; "you are the two young
men who are staying with Monsieur le Docteur."

We should have done better not to take our cue from this specimen of a
billiard-table road-maker, for he misdirected us, and we must have got
on to the father's road when we should have been on the brother's, or
_vice versa_. And the rain came on and drenched us, and soon there was a
good deal of big cloud-rolling above us, and enough of light-flashing to
show us there was nothing worth seeing--no house, no shelter of any
kind. But we didn't mind; we knew that in an orthodox thunderstorm a
friendly beacon of light shining from the window of a cottage is sure,
sooner or later, to come to the rescue of the belated traveller; and so
we pushed on till we discerned its twinkle. Then we made for it.

We were soon being hospitably received by the three inmates of the
friendly cottage--an old man, an old woman, and a dog in the prime of
life. The old man made up the fire on the brick hearth for us to dry our
clothes by, the woman stirred something that was simmering in the
caldron, and the dog sat down and stared at Dupont. He was a beautiful
shaggy creature, a sort of shepherd-dog, I think; they called him Rollo.
His pedigree might perhaps not have passed muster, but for all that, one
felt sure that his sire and his sire's spouse must have been good dogs.
I have never forgotten the deep mysterious look in that creature's eyes.

There were some pigs, too, somewhere in immediate proximity to us, but
more heard than seen, consigned as they were to a dark corner, where
they lustily grunted, whilst some of their relatives, already
dismembered, hung up inside the chimney-breast, to be gradually smoked
and cured. The old woman fetched a saucepan, and put something in it
that bubbled and fizzed, and presently one could see floating,
quivering particles come together and solidify, and finally emerge in
pancake form. Good solid pancakes they were, like counterpanes, not like
those flimsy kid-glove sort of pancakes we get in society. We fully
enjoyed them, and the coarse peasant's bread and the home-made cider.

Then we went to bed--to palliasse rather, for two big bags filled with
straw were laid down for us, a