'Because,' replied the gaunt young woman, 'a man has died in the village.'

By pressing her to speak, she explained that while a corpse lay unburied
the bell was tolled three times in the day--early in the morning, at
mid-day, and at nightfall. The conversation was in darkness, save such
light as the fire gave. It was not until the soup was ready that the lamp
was lighted. Then the young woman, addressing me abruptly, said:

'Cut up your bread for your soup.'

I did as I was told, for I always try to accommodate myself to local
customs, and never resent the rough manners of well-intentioned people. The
bread was not quite black, but it was very dark from the amount of rye that
was in it. The soup was water flavoured with a suggestion of fat bacon,
whatever vegetables happened to be in the way, and salt. This fluid, poured
over bread--when the latter is not boiled with it--is the chief sustenance
of the French peasant. It was all that the family now had for their evening
meal, and in five minutes everyone had finished. They drank no wine; it
was too expensive for them, the nearest vineyard being far away. A bottle,
however, was placed before me, but the quality was such that I soon left
it. To get some meat for me the village had to be scoured, and the result
was a veal cutlet.

I was not encouraged to sit up late. As the eldest daughter of the inn
showed me my night quarters, she said:

'Your room is not beautiful, but the bed is clean.'

This was quite true. The room, in accordance with a very frequent
arrangement in these rural auberges, was not used exclusively for sleeping