"Jean, I love you, my lad! I was born in St. Remi, which is but a short distance out in the diocese. Does that sacré Henri Ponteuse yet have the tavern at the corner of the Grande Place?"
I decided to take a long leap in the dark, and answered:
"But no, monsieur; he is dead these ten years. 'Tis his——"
I was about to say "son," but luckily Joncaire interrupted in time.
"'Twill be that fine lass, Rosette, his niece!" he exclaimed. "Ah, I knew it."
"And she has taken a husband," I encouraged him, now so far committed that I might not draw back.
"Not young Voisin, the miller's son!"
"No, monsieur; a stranger from a far corner of the diocese. One Michel."
We were now in the entrance of the log house, and Joncaire opened wide the door.
"Jean, you are a lad in a million!" he pronounced. "You shall drink deep. I have some wine which Bigon the intendant fetched out for a few of us—you will understand you must say naught of it hereafter; it never paid duty. Aye, we shall make a fine night of it, and you shall tell me of all that has passed in Arles these many years.