“Don’t talk so much!” said his wife.  “Give monsieur a chance to sit down,” and she handed Durtal a brimming glass aromatic with the acidulous perfume of genuine cider.

In response to his compliments she told him that the cider came from Brittany and was made by relatives of hers at Landevennec, her and Carhaix’s native village.

She was delighted when Durtal affirmed that long ago he had spent a day in Landevennec.

“Why, then we know each other already!” she said, shaking hands with him again.

The room was heated to suffocation by a stove whose pipe zigzagged over to the window and out through a sheet-iron square nailed to the sash in place of one of the panes.  Carhaix and his good wife, with her honest, weak face and frank, kind eyes, were the most restful of people.  Durtal, made drowsy by the warmth and the quiet domesticity, let his thoughts wander.  He said to himself, “If I had a place like this, above the roofs of Paris, I would fix it up and make of it a real haven of refuge.  Here, in the clouds, alone and aloof, I would work away on my book and take my time about it, years perhaps.  What inconceivable happiness it would be to escape from the age, and, while the waves of human folly were breaking against the foot of the tower, to sit up here, out of it all, and pore over antique tomes by the shaded light of the lamp.”

He smiled at the naivete of his daydream.

“I certainly do like your place,” he said aloud, as if to sum up his reflections.

“Oh, you wouldn’t if you had to live here,” said the good wife.  “We have plenty of room, too much room, because there are a couple of bedchambers as big as this, besides plenty of closet space, but it’s so inconvenient—­and so cold!  And no kitchen—­” and she pointed to a landing where, blocking the stairway, the cook stove had had to be installed.  “And there are so many, many steps to go up when you come back from market.  I am getting old, and I have a twinge of the rheumatics whenever I think about making the climb.”

“You can’t even drive a nail into this rock wall and have a peg to hang things on,” said Carhaix.  “But I like this place.  I was made for it.  Now my wife dreams constantly of spending her last days in Landevennec.”

Des Hermies rose.  All shook hands, and monsieur and madame made Durtal swear that he would come again.

“What refreshing people!” exclaimed Durtal as he and Des Hermies crossed the square.

“And Carhaix is a mine of information.”

“But tell me, what the devil is an educated man, of no ordinary intelligence, doing, working as a—­as a day labourer?”