These little side conversations made Tapihans turn pale; at last, he moved from where he stood, seated himself in a corner of the room, near the fireplace, and striking on the table, called out in a shrill voice—
“A mug of wine!”
“Soffayel, go and get this man a cup of wine,” said the widow carelessly.
“This man!” repeated the miller; “is it of me you are speaking, Mother Windling? Perhaps you don’t happen to know me?”
“I’ll call you Tapihans as much as you like,” replied Dame Catherina sharply; “but don’t bother me.”
Tapihans said nothing more; but he drank off three mugs of wine one after the other, hammering on the table, and calling—
“Another mug!—and look sharp in bringing it!”
“I say, old fellow,” cried Coucou Peter, raising his voice, “you’re really not married yet, then?”
“Suppose I’m not, Coucou Peter, what then?” replied the miller, with a bitter smile. “We can’t go about the country like barefoot vagabonds who have nothing to eat in their own houses; we have to take care of our means, to look after what we’ve got, to cultivate our lands and gather in our harvests. We want to find wives amongst us; but women like better to throw themselves at the head of the first scamp that goes by—people that nobody knows from Adam or Eve, or about whom too much is known; individuals who fill their purses at the expense of the poor, and blow into a clarionet to pay their shot. You know something about that, friend Coucou Peter. We’ve a good deal to put up with, but we have the consolation of being able to say, ‘This is my meadow; this is my mill; this is my vine.’”
Coucou Peter, nonplussed for a moment, quickly recovered his ordinary assurance, and replied—