"Paul Marais," replied his wife with tart dignity, "don't be a fool."
And Pol, expecting no other answer, whistled softly and withdrew.
To explain madame's reproof it is necessary to state that two or three years previously a gentleman calling himself a count had visited Quilaix, and, charmed with the old-world air of the place, had dwelt in Pol's house for the space of six months.
The handsome profit derived by Pol on this occasion disposed him to look forward to the coming of other visitors: but, alas! Quilaix is too obscure to be mentioned in the ordinary manuals issued for the guidance of tourists. The count's sojourn was an exception to the normal course of events.
Nevertheless Pol would not abandon hope; and, day by day, he awaited the arrival of the diligence, for the purpose of inviting the chance stranger to his own dwelling, before any other person should have the opportunity of appropriating him.
"Everything comes to the man who waits," muttered Pol to himself, as he watched the distant vehicle swaying its zigzag course down the hillside road. "This diligence is perhaps bringing me a visitor. Who can tell?"
Twilight drew on; and, as the lamplighter was preparing the illumination of La Rue Grande by the primitive method of fixing an oil-lantern to the middle of a rope slung across the street, the diligence came up, but instead of going on as usual to the auberge in the little market square, the driver stopped short in front of Pol's house, and there alighted a young lady accompanied by a little boy, a child of two years.
"Madame Marais lives here?" she asked with an inquiring glance at Pol.
"My wife's name," replied Pol. He pocketed his pipe, doffed his cap, and bowed profoundly. "Permit me to lead you to her.—By the saints," he muttered to himself, "a boarder at last, or may I lose my harbour-mastership. Now, Celestine, it is my turn to laugh at you."
The young lady, holding the child by the hand, followed Pol to the parlour.