Passing through the little villages of Mehun and Langly, the Norman eyed every blacksmith's forge as he went; but the one was next to the post-house, and the other was opposite the inn; and the Norman went on, saying within himself--"A man who was seeking concealment, would rather proceed with his beast unshod than stop there." So, resuming his conversation with Louise, they jogged on, babbling, not of green fields, but of love and war; both of which subjects were much within the knowledge of the Sieur Marteville, his battles being somewhat more numerous than his wives, and having had plenty of both in his day. At all events, Louise was very well satisfied with the husband that Heaven had sent her, and looked upon him as a very fine gentleman, and a great warrior; and though, now and then, she would play the coquette a little, and put forth all the little _minauderie_ which a Languedoc soubrette could assume, in order to prevent the Norman from having too great a superiority, yet Monsieur Marteville was better satisfied with her than any of his former wives; and as she rode beside him, he admired her horsemanship, and looked at her from top to toe in much the same manner that he would have examined the points of a fine Norman charger. No matter how Louise was mounted: suffice it to say, that it was not on a side-saddle, such things being but little known at the time I speak of. While they were thus shortening the road with sweet discourse, at the door of a little hovel by the side of the highway, half hidden from sight by a clumsy mud wall against which he leaned, half exposed by the lolloping position he assumed, appeared the large, dirty, unmeaning face and begrimed person of a Champenois blacksmith, with one hand grubbing amongst the roots of his grizzled hair, and the other hanging listlessly by his side, loaded with the ponderous hammer appropriated to his trade. "_C'est ici_," thought the Norman; "_Quatre vingt dix neuf moutons et un Champenois font cent_--Ninety-nine sheep and a Champenois make a hundred; so we'll see what my fool will tell me.--_Holla! Monsieur!_" "_Plait-il?_" cried the Champenois, advancing from his hut. "Pray has Monsieur Pont Orson passed here to-day?" demanded the Norman. "Monsieur Pont Orson! Monsieur Pont Orson!" cried the Champenois, trying to assume an air of thought, and rummaging in his empty head for a name that never was in it: "Pardie, I do not know." "I mean," said the Norman, "the same little gentleman in grey, who stopped here ten days agone, to have a bay horse shod, as he was coming back from--what's the name of the place?" "No!" cried the Champenois; "he was going, he was not coming, when he had his horse shod." "But I say he was coming," replied the Norman. "How the devil do you know he was going?" "_Mais dame!_" exclaimed the other; "How do I know he was going? Why, did not he ask me how far it was to Mesnil? and if he had not been going, why should he wish to know?"