"J’en ai l’heureuse promesse,
Vers le milieu de la nuit,
L’amour m’ouvrira sans bruit
L’alcôve de ma maîtresse!"[6]
"Oh, yes!" said Robineau; "if you find an alcove here, you’ll be very clever! For my part, messieurs, it seems to me that before making up our minds to sleep in this stifling mouse-trap—to say nothing of the fact that it doesn’t smell like the rose—we should apply to some others of the villagers; perhaps they are not all such cowards as these people!"
"Oh! they are all quite as superstitious, my dear fellow!—As you see, this White House is to them what the White Lady is to the people of Glendearg in Sir Walter Scott’s Monastery."
"This is no question of novels—we are not in Scotland; I tell you that I don’t propose to sleep here myself, and I’ll show you that I know how to get out of the fix we are in."
As he spoke, Robineau strode to the door of the hovel, opened it, and thrust his head out; but, terrified by the dense darkness which reigned in the mountains, there being no moon, and unable to discover a single light in the neighboring houses, he quickly drew in his head, closed the door, and returned crestfallen to his friends, saying:
"Well, if that suits you, let us sleep here; I am willing."
Alfred asked the head of the family if it would disturb him to allow them to pass the night under his roof. Far from that, the Auvergnat, his wife, his father and his children united in assuring the young men that the house was at their service. Our travellers concluded that, although the people of Chadrat might be dull-witted and stupid, they were humane, kindly and hospitable; virtues which we do not always find among refined, clever and well-educated people.
As soon as it was decided that our travellers were to pass the night in the abode of the Auvergnats, they thought of nothing but making themselves comfortable and acting as if they belonged to the family. Alfred and Edouard gayly made the best of it; they laughed and sang and chatted with the peasants; Robineau alone continued to scowl, and viewed everything with a pessimistic eye.
"What is your name, my good man?" Alfred asked the shepherd.
"My name is Claude, monsieur, and my wife’s name is Claudine."