The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is crowded in spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon, the cattle accumulate in greater numbers. The peasants are in the best of good spirits, and talk is heard and laughter rings on all sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with rather more deference than the sellers, but those who come neither to buy nor to sell address themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is for everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to “eat, drink, and be merry.”
The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the sine qua non of life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one young rascal, with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way to the village inn and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class are two men who make more noise than all the rest, and who await the inevitable fistic encounter with interest. One of them is Andoche the blacksmith, an expert in his trade, but still more skilful in spoiling wine by drinking it.
As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the tables, he appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people do not like to drink conspicuously, but in Paris it is different. The peasant, conscious that he might better spend his money in some other direction, prefers to take his libations under cover or behind a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he thinks; but it is not necessary that the whole world should witness the process from start to finish.
At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not because they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that Jeanrobert, the landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s worth. Andoche cannot hope to find another man so generous as Fadard, with whom he has taken his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man who seems to have petrified in his youth, or a young man who too soon has been claimed by a precocious old age. Fadard does not belong in the town, but everybody knows him, for several times in the course of a year he comes to pay his respects—as he claims—to one Léocadia Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues, like those of Rosalie and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to them; but they really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up old young or young old man is actually a relative, who only comes to see her to borrow money now and then.
In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man, stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy old man of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic marble pillar, but avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme. He owes his administrative position alone to his skilful management in once conducting a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of Forêt-au-Duc. A more truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old man driving his oxen, and making them obey with a simple touch of the lash, could scarcely be found. As he stands near the cattle, suddenly a refractory bull, seizing his opportunity, lowers his horns as if to strike.
“Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment, “but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.”
“It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is Madame Catherine to-day?”
Savin’s face takes on a glowering look.
“For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively.
“Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as indifferent?”