It is a very common piece of policy on the part of hosts, aubergistes, landlords, and others of the same class and character, by whatsoever denomination they may be known, to laud up to the skies the guest just departed, praising in him those especial virtues which they wish to inculcate upon the guest who happens to be their listener. Thus the landlord was proceeding to paint in high colours the generosity and careless liberality of the Count de Meyrand, when some persons speaking, and a loud, rich, buttery laugh, merry in every tone, announced that the good priest, Father Willand, was approaching the auberge with some companion.
"We shall live like clerks now he is gone, we shall live like clerks," exclaimed the voice of the priest. "By the holy mass, he was not content with eating more than his own share of everything, but his very look changed everything that he did not eat, and turned it bad. His aspect was so cold that it chilled the pottage; his look so sharp that it turned the wine sour. I will make a new prayer night and morning: May I never again meet such a companion at an inn as this Count de Meyrand."
Bernard de Rohan found, on the entrance of the priest, that it was his own attendant, Martin, with whom Father Willand had been conversing. The attendant immediately produced the Count de Meyrand's note, which his master read attentively, and with an appearance of satisfaction. "So my friend De Meyrand has gone on business of importance to Paris," he said aloud.
"Ay, as the fox is said to go to his hole," replied the priest.
"I dare say, indeed," replied the young cavalier, "that there are many foxes in that hole, my good father; but still your comparison is not a very pleasant one for the good count."
"The comparison was more aimed at his way of going to Paris than at either Paris or himself," replied the priest. "I repeat, he is gone to Paris as a fox is said to go to his hole; that is, back foremost."
"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I never yet saw fox so stupid. Why should a fox go back foremost?"
"To hide the way he goes," answered the priest; "to make the footsteps point out of the hole instead of into it. So the good peasants tell one."
"But how can this apply to the Count de Meyrand?" asked Bernard de Rohan, with his curiosity now considerably excited.
"Because he tells you," replied the priest, "that he is going to Paris, and we watched him from the top of the hill, and saw him turn quite the other way before he got two leagues out into the plain."