"It was not he, then," said the Norman. "_Mais dame! ouai!_" cried the Champenois. "He was dressed all in grey, and had a bay horse, on whose hoof I put as nice a piece of iron as ever came off an anvil; and he asked me how far it was to Mesnil, and whereabouts was the old Castle of St. Loup. '_Monsieur Pont Orson! Monsieur Pont Orson? Dieu! qui aurait déviné que c'étoit Monsieur Pont Orson?_'" "_Mais je vous dis que ce n'étoit pas lui_," cried the Norman, putting spurs to his horse. "_Allons, chérie. Adieu, Monsieur Champenois, adieu!_--Ha! ha! ha!" cried he, when at a little distance. "_Ganache!_ he has told me all that I wanted to know. Then he did go to Mesnil--the old Chateau of St. Loup! What could he want there? I've heard of this old chateau." "But who is Monsieur Pont Orson?" demanded Louise, interrupting the broken cogitations of her husband. "Nay, I know not, _ma chère_," replied her husband. "The man in the moon, with a corkscrew to tap yon fool's brains, and draw out all I wanted to know about the person whom I told you I was seeking for Monsieur de Chavigni.--It was a mere name. But there, I see a steeple on yon hill in the wood. Courage! we shall soon reach it. It is not above a league.--That must be Mesnil." The Norman's league, however, proved at least two, and Louise, though a good horsewoman, was complaining most bitterly of fatigue, when they arrived in the little street of Mesnil St. Loup, and, riding up to the dwelling of our old friend Gaultier the innkeeper, alighted under the withered garland that hung over the door. "_Holla! Aubergiste! Garçon!_" cried the Norman, "_Holla!_" But no one came; and on repeating the summons, the sweet voice of the dame of the house was all that could be heard, screaming forth a variety of tender epithets, applicable to the _garçon d'écurie_, and intended to stimulate him to come forth and take charge of the strangers' horses. "Don't you know, _Lambin_," cried she, "that that hog your master is lying up-stairs dying for no one knows what? And am I to go out, _Maraud_, and take people's horses with my hands all over grease, while you stand l--s--ng yourself there? _Cochon!_ if you do not go, I'll throw this pot-lid at you." And immediately a tremendous rattle on the boards at the farther side of the stable, announced that she had been as good as her word. This seemed the only effectual method of arousing the occult sensibilities of the _garçon d'écurie_, who listened unconcerned to her gentler solicitations, but, yielding to the more potent application of the pot-lid, came forth and took the bridle of the horses, while our Norman lifted his lady to the ground.