The inn at Precy is the worst inn in France.  Not even in Scotland have I found worse fare.  It was kept by a brother and sister, neither of whom was out of their teens.  The sister, so to speak, prepared a meal for us; and the brother, who had been tippling, came in and brought with him a tipsy butcher, to entertain us as we ate.  We found pieces of loo-warm pork among the salad, and pieces of unknown yielding substance in the ragout.  The butcher entertained us with pictures of Parisian life, with which he professed himself well acquainted; the brother sitting the while on the edge of the billiard-table, toppling precariously, and sucking the stump of a cigar.  In the midst of these diversions, bang went a drum past the house, and a hoarse voice began issuing a proclamation.  It was a man with marionnettes announcing a performance for that evening.

He had set up his caravan and lighted his candles on another part of the girls’ croquet-green, under one of those open sheds which are so common in France to shelter markets; and he and his wife, by the time we strolled up there, were trying to keep order with the audience.

It was the most absurd contention.  The show-people had set out a certain number of benches; and all who sat upon them were to pay a couple of sous for the accommodation.  They were always quite full--a bumper house—­as long as nothing was going forward; but let the show-woman appear with an eye to a collection, and at the first rattle of her tambourine the audience slipped off the seats, and stood round on the outside with their hands in their pockets.  It certainly would have tried an angel’s temper.  The showman roared from the proscenium; he had been all over France, and nowhere, nowhere, ‘not even on the borders of Germany,’ had he met with such misconduct.  Such thieves and rogues and rascals, as he called them!  And every now and again, the wife issued on another round, and added her shrill quota to the tirade.  I remarked here, as elsewhere, how far more copious is the female mind in the material of insult.  The audience laughed in high good-humour over the man’s declamations; but they bridled and cried aloud under the woman’s pungent sallies.  She picked out the sore points.  She had the honour of the village at her mercy.  Voices answered her angrily out of the crowd, and received a smarting retort for their trouble.  A couple of old ladies beside me, who had duly paid for their seats, waxed very red and indignant, and discoursed to each other audibly about the impudence of these mountebanks; but as soon as the show-woman caught a whisper of this, she was down upon them with a swoop:  if mesdames could persuade their neighbours to act with common honesty, the mountebanks, she assured them, would be polite enough:  mesdames had probably had their bowl of soup, and perhaps a glass of wine that evening; the mountebanks also had a taste for soup, and did not choose to have their little earnings stolen from them before their eyes.  Once, things came as far as a brief personal encounter between the showman and some lads, in which the former went down as readily as one of his own marionnettes to a peal of jeering laughter.