On our way home from Rochepot, we halted for a rest at Auxey le Grand, and dropped into an inn, where we found two workmen hobnobbing over a bottle of red wine. One of them--the listener--was just an ordinary workman; common, base, and popular, as Pistol would have said. His companion, however, was a man of mark--a handsome, bronzed rascal, whose fiercely curled moustache and Paderewski hair, well set off by enormously baggy corduroys, a scarlet belt, and a blue shirt, suggested the merry bandit of an Elizabethan drama. Our curiosity being aroused, we addressed the brigand, who was not slow to reveal his identity. He was one François Paulin, a vine-dresser, and no brigand, as he proved by the production of a greasy document, stating that "The administrative council of the Société Vigneronne of the arrondissement of Beaune certifies that Monsieur Paulin (François) successfully passed the examinations of March 24th, 1889, and is skilled in pruning (apte à greffer) the vine, and in teaching that operation." Vines and vineyards naturally became our topic. "Ah!" said the brigand; "What a season we have had. Nothing but rain and cold, cold and rain! It is just ruin for us poor workmen." He drained his glass, and put it down, with a tense Gallic movement of the arm. He failed, somehow, to convey the idea that he was ruined. Such are the triumphs of personality. "Did the crop fail utterly hereabouts?" I asked. "Utterly, Monsieur," said Mathilde Duhesme, the innkeeper's daughter, as she brought us our coffee. "Not a bunch of grapes." Mathilde was a perfectly charming French girl, of the type that you will come upon, here and there, even in the remotest part of that country. England breeds few such women, in her station of life. That easy, graceful manner, and natural amiability and dignity are found here--when they are found at all--only among the educated or the high-born. "Yes, yes; mon Dieu, you have come in the wrong year for the vines," said the brigand, thumping the table. "You should have chosen a good season. Then lots of visitors come. They come in carts, full of _belles anges_ with gentlemen standing behind in top-hats. And they all take photographs. This very day we ought to have been in full vendange." [Illustration: Taking his Ease] His pride would have been solely hurt, had he guessed how little his description allured us. "Let's drink to a full vendange," said I. Mathilde ran off for another bottle. "What do you earn, you vignerons, in a good year?" "Four francs, and a litre of wine, per man, per day. And it is worth it; for we make good stuff here on the hillside, though this village of Auxey is the end of it. Yes, good wines!" "Tell me more about them," I said.