Materne and his two sons walked on for a long time in silence; the weather had set in fine; the pale wintry sun shone on the dazzlingly white snow without melting it. The ground still remained firm and hard. At a distance, in the valley, were outlined, with surprising clearness, the branches of the fir trees, the reddish peaks of the rocks, the roofs of the cottages, with the icicles hanging from the eaves, their little glittering window-panes, and their pointed gables. People were walking in the street of Grandfontaine; a group of young girls were standing round the fountain, and some old men in cotton night-caps were smoking their pipes at the doors of their cottages. All this miniature world beneath the blue vault of heaven went and came and lived without a breath or a sigh reaching the ears of the foresters. The old huntsman halted at the outskirts of the wood, and said to his sons:--"I shall go down into the village, and see Dubreuil, who keeps the 'Fir Apple.'" He pointed with his stick to a long white building, the windows and doors surrounded by a yellow border, and a branch of pine suspended from the wall by way of a sign. "You will await me here; if there is no danger I will come out on the door-step, and raise my hat; you can then come and take a glass of wine with me." He immediately descended the snow-covered mountain side, which took him full ten minutes, then made his way between two furrows, reached the meadow, crossed the village square; and his two sons, gun in hand, saw him enter the inn. A few moments after, he re-appeared at the door, and raised his hat, to their great delight. In another quarter of an hour, they had rejoined their father in the large keeping-room of the "Fir Apple," a low apartment, heated by a large copper furnace, with a sanded floor, and long deal tables running down the centre of it. When Materne entered, there was no one there but the innkeeper, Dubreuil, the fattest and most apoplectic of the publicans of the Vosges, with a big belly, round, goggle eyes, flat nose, a wart on his right cheek, and his triple chin falling in folds over his turned-down collar. With the exception of this curious personage, sitting in a large leathern arm-chair near the furnace, Materne was alone. He had just filled the glasses, the old clock was striking nine, and its wooden cock was flapping its wing with a curious, creaking sound. "Your health, Father Dubreuil," said the two lads in a rough voice. "Good day, brave boys, good day!" replied the innkeeper, forcing a smile. Then, in an oily voice, he demanded, "Is there nothing new?" "Truly, no," replied Jasper; "this is winter, the time for hunting the wild boar."