'I have a great trouble in the house, that is why I sent you away.'

I understood what she meant; somebody dear to her was dying. A man who was
listening said his brother-in-law, the baker, was also an innkeeper, and he
offered to take me to the auberge. I gladly consented, for I was fearful of
being obliged to tramp on to some other place. Presently I was in a large,
low room, which was both kitchen and baker's shop. On shelves were great
wheel-shaped loaves (they are called _miches_ in the provinces), some about
two feet in diameter, made chiefly of rye with a little wheaten flour.
Filled sacks were ranged along the wall. In a deep recess were the
kneading-trough, and the oven, now cold. The broad rural hearth, with its
wood-fire and sooty chimney, the great pot for the family soup hanging to a
chain, took up a large share of the remaining space. I sat upon a rickety
chair beside a long table that had seen much service, but was capable of
seeing a great deal more, for it had been made so as to outlast generations
of men. Bare-footed children ran about upon the black floor, and a thin,
gaunt young woman, who wore very short petticoats, which revealed legs not
unlike those of the table, busied herself with the fire and the pot. She
was the sister of the children, and had been left in charge of the house
while her father and mother were on a journey. She accepted me as a lodger,
but for awhile she was painfully taciturn. This, however, her scanty
knowledge of French, and the fact that a stranger even of the class of
small commercial travellers was a rare bird in the village, fully accounted
for. The place was not cheerful, but as I listened to the crickets about
the hearth, and watched the flames leap up and lick the black pot, my
spirits rose. Presently the church bell sounded, dong, dong, dong.

'Why are they tolling the bell?' I asked.