The dinner-party formed every day, when the process of stripping the vines is going on, is, particularly in the cases in which the people are treated well by the proprietor, frequently a very pretty and very picturesque spectacle. It always takes place in the open air, amongst the bushes, or under some neighboring walnut-tree. Sometimes long tables are spread upon tressles; but in general no such formality is deemed requisite. The guests fling themselves in groups upon the ground—men and women picturesquely huddled together—the former bloused and bearded personages—the latter showy, in their bright short petticoats of home-spun and dyed cloth, with glaring handkerchiefs twisted like turbans round their heads—each man and woman with a deep plate in his or her lap. Then the people of the house bustle about, distributing huge brown loaves, which are torn asunder, and the fragments chucked from hand to hand. Next a vast cauldron of soup, smoking like a volcano, is painfully lifted out from the kitchen, and dealt about in mighty ladlefulls; while the founder of the feast takes care that the tough, thready bouilli—like lumps of boiled-down hemp—shall be fairly apportioned among his guests. Piquette is the general beverage. A barrel is set abroach, and every species of mug, glass, cup, and jug about the establishment is called to aid in its consumption. A short rest devoted to chatting, or very often sleeping in the shade, over, the signal is given, and the work recommences.
“You have seen our salle à manger,” said one of my courteous entertainers—he of the broad-brimmed straw-hat, “and now you shall see our chambre à coucher.” Accordingly, he led me to a barn close to his wine-cellars. The place was littered deep with clean, fresh straw. Here and there rolled-up blankets were laid against the wall; while all round, from nails stuck in between the bare bricks, hung by straps and strings the little bundles, knapsacks, and other baggage of the laborers. On one side, two or three swarthy young women were playfully pushing each other aside, so as to get a morsel of cracked mirror stuck against the wall—their long hair hanging down in black elf-locks, in the preliminary stage of its arrangement.
“That is the ladies’ side,” said my cicerone, pointing to the girls; “and that”—extending his other hand—“is the gentlemen’s side.”
“And so they all sleep here together?”
“Every night. I find shelter and straw; any other accommodation they must procure for themselves.”
“Rather unruly, I should suppose?”
“Not a bit. They are too tired to do any thing but sleep. They go off, sir, like dormice.”
“Oh, sil plait à Mossieu!” put in one of the damsels. “The chief of the band does the police.” (Fait la gen-d’armerie)
“Certainly—certainly,” said the proprietor, “the gentlemen lie here, with their heads to the walls; the ladies there; and the chef de la bande stretches himself all along between them.”
“A sort of living frontier.”