The hemp-beater at once drew the wooden latch by which the door was fastened on the inside; at that time, it was still the only lock known in most of the houses in our village.  The bridegroom’s party invaded the bride’s dwelling, but not without a combat; for the boys stationed inside the house, and even the old hemp-beater and the old women, made it their duty to defend the hearthstone.  The bearer of the spit, supported by his adherents, was bound to succeed in bestowing his bird in the fire-place.  It was a genuine battle, although they abstained from striking one another, and there was no anger in it.  But they pushed and squeezed one another with such violence, and there was so much self-esteem at stake in that conflict of muscular strength, that the results might be more serious than they seemed to be amid the laughter and the singing.  The poor old hemp-beater, who fought like a lion, was pressed against the wall and squeezed until he lost his breath.  More than one champion was floored and unintentionally trodden under foot, more than one hand that grasped at the spit was covered with blood.  Those sports are dangerous, and the accidents were so serious in later years that the peasants determined to allow the ceremony of the livrees to fall into desuetude.  I believe that we saw the last of it at Francoise Meillant’s wedding, and still it was only a mock-battle.

The contest was animated enough at Germain’s wedding.  It was a point of honor on one side and the other to attack and to defend La Guillette’s fireside.  The huge spit was twisted like a screw in the powerful hands that struggled for possession of it.  A pistol-shot set fire to a small store of hemp in skeins that lay on a shelf suspended from the ceiling.  That incident created a diversion, and while some hastened to smother the germ of a conflagration, the grave-digger, who had climbed to the attic unperceived, came down the chimney and seized the spit, just as the drover, who was defending it near the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent its being snatched from him.  Some time before the assault, the matrons had taken care to put out the fire, fearing that some one might fall in and be burned while they were struggling close beside it.  The facetious grave-digger, in concert with the drover, possessed himself of the trophy without difficulty, therefore, and threw it across the fire-dogs.  It was done!  No one was allowed to touch it after that.  He leaped into the room, and lighted a bit of straw which surrounded the spit, to make a pretence of cooking the goose, which was torn to pieces and its limbs strewn over the floor.