‘And do you never give him a lift?’

‘Never!’ roared the cattle-dealer, laughing like an ogre.

The dog being now ten years old, I was not surprised to hear that he sometimes tried to lose himself just before his master was starting upon a long round.  Considering his age, and all the running he had done in return for board and lodging, I thought his diplomacy excusable; but the cattle-dealer used strong language to express his loathing of such depravity and ingratitude in a dog old enough to be serious, and on which so much kindness had been lavished.

This man had a very bad opinion of the inhabitants of that part of the Rouergue which I was about to cross, and he strove to convince me that it was very imprudent of me to think of travelling on foot and alone through such a wild country.  Had I told him that I carried no other arm but my oak stick with iron spike, he would have been still more vehement.  Frenchmen like the companionship of a revolver.  I do not.  In the first place, it makes me imagine there is an assassin lurking in every thicket; secondly, I do not know where to carry it conveniently so that it would be of use in time of need.  I place confidence in my stick, and take my chance.  To tell the plain truth, I did not believe what my table companion said about the dangerous character of the inhabitants.  The reason he gave for their exceptional wickedness was that they were very poor, but this view was contrary to my experience of humanity.

While we were talking over our coffee, there was a rising uproar in the village street.  Looking out of the window, we saw two men fighting in the midst of a crowd.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the cattle-dealer, with a sonorous chuckle, ’that ought to give you an idea of the capacities of the inhabitants.’  Then, entering into the spirit of the battle, he shouted:  ’Leave them alone—­leave them alone!  It is not men who are fighting; it is the juice of the grape!’

Both combatants soon had enough of it, and very little damage was done on either side.  The scene was more ludicrous than tragic.  After all, it was well, perhaps, that these men had not learnt how to use their fists, and that with them pushing, slapping, and rolling upon one another satisfied honour.

The hostess of this inn, while cooking the inevitable fowl for lunch, basted it after the Languedocian fashion, of which I had taken note elsewhere.  Very different is it from what is commonly understood by basting.  A curious implement is used for the purpose.  This is an iron rod, with a piece of metal at one end twisted into the form of an extinguisher, but with a small opening left at the pointed extremity.  The extinguisher, if it may be so termed, is made red-hot, or nearly so, and then a piece of fat bacon is put into it, which bursts into flame.  A little stream of blazing fat passes through the small opening, and this is made to trickle over the fowl, which is turned upon, the spit by clockwork in front of the wood fire.  The fowl or joint thus treated tastes of burnt bacon; but the Southerners like strong flavours, and revel in grease as well as garlic.