In quest of peace, I was driven at first into the loft of the inn, of which the cottage was a dependency.  Here the vocal music of the inhabitants was somewhat muffled, but the opportunities for studying natural history were rather excessive.  A swarm of bees had established themselves in a corner where they could not be dislodged, and they had a way of crawling over the floor that kept my expectations constantly raised.  The maize grown upon the small farm having been stored here from time immemorial, the rats had learnt from tradition and experience to consider this loft as their Land of Goshen.  When I took up my quarters among them they were annoyed, and also puzzled.  They could not understand why I remained there so long and so quiet; but at length they lost patience and gave up the riddle.  Then their impudence became unbounded; they helped themselves to the maize whenever they felt disposed to do so, and stared at me with the utmost effrontery as they sat upon their haunches nibbling; they ran races under the tiles and held pitched battles upon the rafters.  Talking one day to the proprietor of the house about his rats and other live stock, I tried to excite and distress him by describing the depredation that went on day and night in the loft.  But it was with a calm bordering on satisfaction that he listened to my story.  Then he told me that the rats ate about two sacks of maize every year.

‘And you do not put it elsewhere?’ ’Non pas!  I leave it here for them.’

‘For the rats?’

’Certainly, for the rats.  If I did not give them plenty of maize they would eat a hundred francs’ worth of linen in a single winter.  It is an economy to feed them.’

And there were about a dozen string-tailed cats about the place that never ventured into the loft.  They must have been either afraid or too lazy to attack the rats in their stronghold.  A man who could accept a plague of rodents in this philosophical spirit could not be otherwise than mild in his dealings with all animals, including men.  My old friend liked to let every creature live and enjoy existence.  He became so fond of his pigs that it grieved him sorely to have one killed.  Much domestic diplomacy had to be used before the fatal order could be wrung from him.  He would have gone on fattening the beast for ever had he been allowed, soothing his conscience over the waste with the vague hope that this pig of exceptional loveliness and vigour would grow to the size of a donkey if it were permitted to take its time.  He never worried his metayer over money matters, or insisted upon seeing that everything was equally divided.  Notwithstanding, that he had been made to smart all his life for his trustfulness and indolent good-nature, experience had taught him nothing of this world’s wisdom.  No beggar, although known to be a worthless rascal, ever asked him for a piece of bread or a night’s lodging in his barn without obtaining it.  The old man would