We are overtaken by two pedestrians only on our way home--ill-looking fellows enough, strangers in these parts, our driver assured us. 'No Caussenards, they,' he said. 'The Caussenard is harmless enough, only a trifle slow.' We get magnificent views of Mende and the Valley of the Lot--some slight recompense for having had to retrace our footsteps--and what was equally valuable, much useful information. 'Is the land cut up into small parcels here?' I asked. We were just then on the outskirts of the town, and he pointed with his whip to a large, well-built farmhouse, with solid, walled-in buildings. 'Most of the land round about Mende is farmed by the monsieur who lives there,' he replied. 'There he is, true enough, with his wife and children.' Just then we passed a hooded carriage, in which were seated father, mother, two little ones, and nursemaid, all taking a holiday jaunt, the day being Sunday. 'That is the owner of the farm,' he went on: 'several hundred acres--I can't say how many--but it is stocked with two hundred sheep, ten oxen, besides cows and pigs. There you have an idea of the size.' 'Are there no small farms here, then?' 'There are all sorts: little farms, big ones, and betwixt and between,' he replied. 'Everybody has his little bit' (Tout le monde a son petit lot); 'but the land immediately round the town is farmed by the neighbour you saw in the calèche.' 'Is he a peasant?' I asked. 'A peasant if you like. He is a cultivator' (Un paysan si vous voulez. C'est un cultivateur), was the answer.