as it ought to be.
Look, it is too fine."

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself under adverse physical
circumstances, and, by a startling democratic process, the defects of
the majority decide the type of beauty.

"And where," said I, "is monsieur?"

"The master of the house is upstairs," she answered, "making you a
goad."

Blessed be the man who invented goads! Blessed the innkeeper of Bouchet
St. Nicholas, who introduced me to their use! This plain wand, with an
eighth of an inch of pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in my
hands. Thenceforward Modestine was my slave. A prick, and she passed the
most inviting stable-door. A prick, and she broke forth into a gallant
little trotlet that devoured the miles. It was not a remarkable speed,
when all was said; and we took four hours to cover ten miles at the best
of it. But what a heavenly change since yesterday! No more wielding of
the ugly cudgel; no more flailing with an aching arm; no more broadsword
exercise, but a discreet and gentlemanly fence. And what although now
and then a drop of blood should appear on Modestine's mouse-coloured
wedge-like rump? I should have preferred it otherwise, indeed; but
yesterday's exploits had purged my heart of all humanity. The perverse
little devil, since she would not be taken with kindness, must even go
with pricking.

It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except a cavalcade of stride-legged
ladies and a pair of post-runners, the road was dead solitary all the
way to Pradelles. I scarce remember an incident but one. A handsome foal
with a bell about his neck came charging up to us upon a stretch of
common, sniffed the air martially as one about to do great deeds, and,
suddenly thinking otherwise in his green young heart, put about and
galloped off as he had come, the bell tinkling in the wind. For a long
while afterwards I saw his noble attitude as he drew up, and heard the
note of his bell; and when I struck the high-road, the song of the
telegraph-wires seemed to continue the same music.

Pradelles stands on a hillside, high above the Allier, surrounded by
rich meadows. They were cutting aftermath on all sides, which gave the
neighbourhood, this gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. On
the opposite bank of the Allier the land kept mounting for miles to the
horizon: a tanned and sallow autumn landscape, with black blots of
fir-wood and white roads wandering through the hills. Over all this the
clouds shed