‘Well,’ I said, quite by chance, ‘we have not these things, it is true. But we have things in the north you have not. We have tens of thousands of good horses--not such ponies as you breed here. At the horse fair at Fecamp my sorrel would be lost in the crowd. Here in the south you will not meet his match in a long day’s journey.’ ‘Do not make too sure of that,’ the man replied, his eyes bright with triumph and the dram. ‘What would you say if I showed you a better--in my own stable?’ I saw that his words sent a kind of thrill through his other hearers, and that such of them as understood for two or three of them talked their PATOIS only--looked at him angrily; and in a twinkling I began to comprehend. But I affected dullness, and laughed in scorn. ‘Seeing is believing,’ I said. ‘I doubt if you knows good horse when you see one, my friend.’ ‘Oh, don’t I?’ he said, winking. ‘Indeed!’ ‘I doubt it,’ I answered stubbornly. ‘Then come with me, and I will show you one,’ he retorted, discretion giving way to vain-glory. His wife and the others, I saw, looked at him dumbfounded; but, without paying any heed to them, he rose, took up a lanthorn, and, assuming an air of peculiar wisdom, opened the door. ‘Come with me,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know a good horse when I see one, don’t I? I know a better than yours, at any rate!’ I should not have been surprised if the other men had interfered; but I suppose he was a leader among them, they did not, and in a moment we were outside. Three paces through the darkness took us to the stable, an offset at the back of the inn. My man twirled the pin, and, leading the way in, raised his lanthorn. A horse whinnied softly, and turned its bright, mild eyes on us--a baldfaced chestnut, with white hairs in its tail and one white stocking. ‘There!’ my guide exclaimed, waving the lanthorn to and fro boastfully, that I might see its points. ‘What do you say to that? Is that an undersized pony?’ ‘No,’ I answered, purposely stinting my praise. ‘It is pretty fair--for this country.’ ‘Or any country,’ he answered wrathfully. ‘Or any country, I say--I don’t care where it is! And I have reason to know! Why, man, that horse is--But there, that is a good horse, if ever you saw one!’ And with that he ended--abruptly and lamely; lowered the lanthorn with a sudden gesture, and turned to the door. He was on the instant in such hurry to leave that he almost shouldered me out. But I understood. I knew that he had neatly betrayed all--that he had been on the point of blurting out that that was M. de Cocheforet’s horse! M. Cocheforet’s COMPRENEZ BIEN! And while I turned away my face in the darkness that he might not see me smile, I was not surprised to find the man in a moment changed, and become, in the closing of the door, as sober and suspicious as before, ashamed of himself and enraged with me, and in a mood to cut my throat for a trifle.