“Very remarkable, very,” said the reader, shaking his head. He closed the _Georgics_, took a long look at Château-Foix, and said: “You would be doing me a great favour, citizen, if you would tell me again about that English plan of sowing beans and clover—was it not?—alternately with wheat.” Considerably relieved at forsaking so dangerous an exegesis, Gilbert readily complied with this request. It transpired in the course of a long conversation that the old man was by profession an apothecary at Mortagne, but that he had a little country house, with some land, near Verneuil, to which it was his joy to retreat from time to time, and where, indeed, he hoped shortly to retire for good. His name was Maillard; the girls who had seen him off were his sister’s children, who, with their mother, lived at Verneuil. This information, and much more on his horticultural successes and failures, he tendered simply and agreeably; asked no inconvenient questions, and forced Gilbert to tell no lies—except that, referring once to the bored Louis as “your friend,” he had to be corrected, and begged Gilbert’s pardon. Thus the miles of hillier country between Tourouvre and Mortagne passed, and at about eight in the evening they reached their destination. “To what inn would you recommend us to go?” asked the Marquis, as, leaving Louis to bring forth the cabbages, he helped M. Maillard out with his basket, his pumpkin, and his nosegay. The apothecary gave him a sudden glance so keen that Gilbert was startled. “Anywhere but to the Croix Blanche,” he said. “I would not recommend that. Thank you; my boy, here, will carry these things. Bon voyage, citizen, and a thousand thanks for your agreeable and instructive conversation.” He shook hands warmly, and trotted off. “Good Lord!” exclaimed Louis, stretching himself, “I thought he was going to bestow the pumpkin on you. I want my supper; don’t you, after talking so much?” But supper was not easy to find. Mortagne had been holding one of its big horse-fairs, and was very full. Two inns in succession refused them, and they were told that there was but one other—the Croix Blanche. Towards this the travelers bent their steps, not in very good humour. “This comes of my having lost the baggage,” sighed the Vicomte. “They think we are tramps.” “There’s one thing you don’t look like,” retorted Gilbert, “and that’s a servant. You see, it never occurred to that old man that you were one.” “It shows his perspicacity,” returned Louis airily. “And for that I forgive him his boring conversation on potatoes. And—the deuce! isn’t this his shop?” They stopped involuntarily and glanced in. The proprietor was behind the counter, and, chancing to look up, saw them and ran to the door. “Where are you going, citizen?” he asked. “Not to the Croix Blanche?” “The other inns are full,” said the Marquis.