Just then Langlume, the miller of Les Aigues, passed the tavern.
Madame Tonsard hailed him.

"Is it true," she said, "that gleaning is to be forbidden?"

Langlume, a jovial white man, white with flour and dressed in
grayish-white clothes, came up the steps and looked in. Instantly
all the peasants became as sober as judges.

"Well, my children, I am forced to answer yes, and no. None but the
poor are to glean; but the measures they are going to take will turn
out to your advantage."

"How so?" asked Godain.

"Why, they can prevent any but paupers from gleaning here," said the
miller, winking in true Norman fashion; "but that doesn't prevent you
from gleaning elsewhere,--unless all the mayors do as the Blangy mayor
is doing."

"Then it is true," said Tonsard, in a threatening voice.

"As for me," said Bonnebault, putting his foraging-cap over one ear
and making his hazel stick whiz in the air, "I'm off to Conches to
warn the friends."

And the Lovelace of the valley departed, whistling the tune of the
martial song,--