The postman was a little reserved at first, not knowing to what country I belonged, but when he was satisfied that I was not a German, he let his tongue rattle on with the freedom which is one of the peculiarities of his class.  He confided to me that the best help to a man who walked much was absinthe.  It pulled him up the hills and sent him whisking across the plains.

‘I eat very little,’ said my black-bearded, bright-eyed fellow-tramp; ‘but,’ he added, ‘I drink three or four glasses of absinthe a day.’

‘You will eat still less,’ I said, ’if you don’t soon begin to turn off the tap.’

Considering the hard monotony of their lives and the strain imposed upon physical endurance by walking from twenty to twenty-five miles a day in all weathers, the rural postmen in France are a sober body of men.  This one told me that he walked sometimes eight miles out of his way to carry a single letter.

Thus gossiping, we reached Montclar, on the plateau, a little to the south of the deep gorge of the Tarn.  Here we entered an auberge, where the postman was glad to moisten his dry throat with the green-eyed enemy.  This inn was formerly one of those small chateaux—­more correctly termed maisons fortes, or manors—­which sprang up all over France in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.  The inhabited part of the building was reached by a spiral staircase enclosed by a tower.  A balcony connected with the principal room enabled me to read an inscription cut in a stone of the tower:  ‘Tristano Disclaris, 1615.’  But for this record left by the founder, his name would probably have passed, long ago, out of the memory of men.

I found that the chief occupation of the people in this house was that of making Roquefort cheeses; indeed, it was impossible not to guess what was going on from the all-pervading odour.  And yet:  I was still many miles from Roquefort!  However, I knew all about this matter before.  I was not twenty miles from Albi when I found that Roquefort cheese-making was a local industry.  In fact, this is the case over a very wide region.  The cheeses, having been made, are sent to Roquefort to ripen in the cellars, which have been excavated in the rock, and also to acquire the necessary reputation.  While my lunch was being prepared I looked into the dairy, which was very clean and creditable.  On the ground were large tubs of milk, and on tables were spread many earthenware moulds pierced with little holes and containing the pressed curds.

The hostess was a buxom, good-tempered woman with rosy cheeks.  She told me that she could not give me anything better than ham and eggs.  She could not have offered me anything more acceptable after all the greasy cooking, the steadfast veal and invariable fowl which I had so long been compelled to accept daily with resignation.  By a mysterious revelation of art she produced the ham and eggs in a way that made me think that she must surely be descended from