“Which is three--no, four--no, three years and a half ago--in short, just after the time when that Satan of a man, Robespierre, had his head cut off (and serve him right!), I said to my husband (who was on his last legs then, poor man!) ‘She’ll die’--meaning the lady. She didn’t though. My fowls, eggs, bread, butter, vegetables, and wine carried her through--always in combination with the anxious care of Citizen Maurice. Yes, yes! let us be tenderly conscientious in giving credit where credit is due; let us never forget that the citizen Maurice contributed something to the cure of the interesting invalid, as well as the victuals and drink from the Piebald Horse. There she is now, the prettiest little woman in the prettiest little cottage--” “Where? Will you be so obliging as to tell me where?” “And in excellent health, except that she is subject now and then to nervous attacks; having evidently, as I believe, been struck with some dreadful fright--most likely during that accursed time of the Terror; for they came from Paris--you don’t drink, honest man! Why don’t you drink? Very, very pretty in a pale way; figure perhaps too thin--let me pour it out for you--but an angel of gentleness, and attached in such a touching way to the citizen Maurice--” “Citizen hostess, will you, or will you not, tell me where they live?” “You droll little man, why did you not ask me that before, if you wanted to know? Finish your wine, and come to the door. There’s your change, and thank you for your custom, though it isn’t much. Come to the door, I say, and don’t interrupt me! You’re an old man--can you see forty yards before you? Yes, you can! Don’t be peevish--that never did anybody any good yet. Now look back, along the road where I am pointing. You see a large heap of stones? Good. On the other side of the heap of stones there is a little path; you can’t see that, but you can remember what I tell you? Good. You go down the path till you get to a stream; down the stream till you get to a bridge; down the other bank of the stream (after crossing the bridge) till you get to an old water-mill--a jewel of a water-mill, famous for miles round; artists from the four quarters of the globe are always coming to sketch it. Ah! what, you are getting peevish again? You won’t wait? Impatient old man, what a life your wife must lead, if you have got one! Remember the bridge. Ah! your poor wife and children, I pity them; your daughters especially! Pst! pst! Remember the bridge--peevish old man, remember the bridge!”