The inn to which we had been recommended at Quartes was full, or else the landlady did not like our looks.  I ought to say, that with our long, damp india-rubber bags, we presented rather a doubtful type of civilisation:  like rag-and-bone men, the Cigarette imagined.  ’These gentlemen are pedlars?—­Ces messieurs sont des marchands?’—­asked the landlady.  And then, without waiting for an answer, which I suppose she thought superfluous in so plain a case, recommended us to a butcher who lived hard by the tower, and took in travellers to lodge.

Thither went we.  But the butcher was flitting, and all his beds were taken down.  Or else he didn’t like our look.  As a parting shot, we had ‘These gentlemen are pedlars?’

It began to grow dark in earnest.  We could no longer distinguish the faces of the people who passed us by with an inarticulate good-evening.  And the householders of Pont seemed very economical with their oil; for we saw not a single window lighted in all that long village.  I believe it is the longest village in the world; but I daresay in our predicament every pace counted three times over.  We were much cast down when we came to the last auberge; and looking in at the dark door, asked timidly if we could sleep there for the night.  A female voice assented in no very friendly tones.  We clapped the bags down and found our way to chairs.

The place was in total darkness, save a red glow in the chinks and ventilators of the stove.  But now the landlady lit a lamp to see her new guests; I suppose the darkness was what saved us another expulsion; for I cannot say she looked gratified at our appearance.  We were in a large bare apartment, adorned with two allegorical prints of Music and Painting, and a copy of the law against public drunkenness.  On one side, there was a bit of a bar, with some half-a-dozen bottles.  Two labourers sat waiting supper, in attitudes of extreme weariness; a plain-looking lass bustled about with a sleepy child of two; and the landlady began to derange the pots upon the stove, and set some beefsteak to grill.

‘These gentlemen are pedlars?’ she asked sharply.  And that was all the conversation forthcoming.  We began to think we might be pedlars after all.  I never knew a population with so narrow a range of conjecture as the innkeepers of Pont-sur-Sambre.  But manners and bearing have not a wider currency than bank-notes.  You have only to get far enough out of your beat, and all your accomplished airs will go for nothing.  These Hainaulters could see no difference between us and the average pedlar.  Indeed we had some grounds for reflection while the steak was getting ready, to see how perfectly they accepted us at their own valuation, and how our best politeness and best efforts at entertainment seemed to fit quite suitably with the character of packmen.  At least it seemed a good account of the profession in France, that even before such judges we could not beat them at our own weapons.