The servants--three or four peasant women who waited on us--talked all the time; and were _tutoyées_ by the family. Farm-laborers came in and discussed agricultural matters, manures, etc., quite informally, squeezing their bonnets de coton in their hands. The postman sat by the fire and drank a glass of cider and smoked his pipe up the chimney while the letters were read--most of them out loud--and were commented upon by everybody in the most friendly spirit. All this made the meal last a long time. M. Laferté always wore his blouse--except in the evening, and then he wore a brown woollen vareuse, or jersey; unless there were guests, when he wore his Sunday morning best. He nearly always spoke like a peasant, although he was really a decently educated man--or should have been. His old mother, who was of good family and eighty years of age lived in a quite humble cottage in a small street in La Tremblaye, with two little peasant girls to wait on her; and the La Tremblayes, with whom M. Laferté was not on speaking terms, were always coming into the village to see her and bring her fruit and flowers and game. She was a most accomplished old lady, and an excellent musician, and had known Monsieur de Lafayette. We breakfasted with her when we alighted from the diligence at six in the morning; and she took such a fancy to Barty that her own grandson was almost forgotten. He sang to her, and she sang to him, and showed him autograph letters of Lafayette, and a lock of her hair when she was seventeen, and old-fashioned miniatures of her father and mother, Monsieur and Madame de something I've quite forgotten. M. Laferté kept a pack of bassets (a kind of bow-legged beagle), and went shooting with them every day in the forest, wet or dry; sometimes we three boys with him. He lent us guns--an old single-barrelled flint-lock cavalry musket or carbine fell to my share; and I knew happiness such as I had never known yet. Barty was evidently not meant for a sportsman. On a very warm August morning, as he and I squatted "à l'affût" at the end of a long straight ditch outside a thicket which the bassets were hunting, we saw a hare running full tilt at us along the ditch, and we both fired together. The hare shrieked, and turned a big somersault and fell on its back and kicked convulsively--its legs still galloping--and its face and neck were covered with blood; and, to my astonishment, Barty became quite hysterical with grief at what we had done. It's the only time I ever saw him cry. "_Caïn! Caïn! qu'as-tu fait de ton frère?_" he shrieked again and again, in a high voice, like a small child's--like the hare's. I calmed him down and promised I wouldn't tell, and he recovered himself and bagged the game--but he never came out shooting with us again! So I inherited his gun, which was double-barrelled.