“Great hog, you have both of you reached your limit!”
“Don't say that, Melie; don't say that,” said Matthew, getting angry. “I have never reached my limit.”
They gave us a delicious luncheon outside beneath two lime trees, beside the little chapel and overlooking the vast landscape. And Matthew told us, with a mixture of humor and unexpected credulity, incredible stories of miracles.
We had drunk a good deal of delicious cider, sparkling and sweet, fresh and intoxicating, which he preferred to all other drinks, and were smoking our pipes astride our chairs when two women appeared.
They were old, dried up and bent. After greeting us they asked for Saint Blanc. Matthew winked at us as he replied:
“I will get him for you.” And he disappeared in his wood shed. He remained there fully five minutes. Then he came back with an expression of consternation. He raised his hands.
“I don't know where he is. I cannot find him. I am quite sure that I had him.” Then making a speaking trumpet of his hands, he roared once more:
“Meli-e-a!”
“What's the matter?” replied his wife from the end of the garden.
“Where's Saint Blanc? I cannot find him in the wood shed.”