On arriving at the village, we heard a noise of bustle, with, every now and again, the lowing of cattle. A horse neighed, and some sheep were bleating.
I had some difficulty in making my way across the Square of Grey-l’Abbaye, which had now been turned into a Fair, and was swarming with a good-tempered and slow-moving crowd.
In the spaces between the shooting galleries, and other shabby booths, they had inclosed the cattle which were for sale. Rough hands were calculating the weight of udders, were opening jaws by which a beast’s age can be read, slipping their hands along their muscles to judge of their condition, and so on.
The horse dealers were talking big, and between two rows of patient peasants, grooms were trotting about heavy cart-horses, and riding-whips were cracking all round.
The first man drunk that day, stumbled up, addressing me as “Citizen.”
We went straight on in the semi-silence of this Ardennes Market. The village inn was already full of people, singing, and not yet fighting. The church-bells were ringing their chimes of warning, and in the center of the Square, a little white building, decorated with greenery, showed that the Municipal Band would soon be adding its very simple strains to the hubbub of the fête.
When we got to the station (this was the moment I had chosen to act), I said:
“Uncle, shall I accompany you in your rounds at Nanthel?”
“Certainly not. Why?”
“Well, Uncle, in my dislike for cafés, taverns and public-houses, I shall ask you to leave me here, where I shall wait for you just as easily as in the shop in Nanthel.”