"I will go down to the village, to Dubreuil's, the keeper of the Pine-Cone."
He pointed with his staff to a long white building, with doors and windows surrounded by a yellow border, and a pine branch hanging from the wall by way of sign.
"Wait for me here," said the old man, "unless I come to the door and raise my hat, when you may follow, and take a glass of wine with me."
He descended the snow-covered mountain-side, gained the plain, and crossed the village common, and his two boys, resting upon their pieces, saw him enter the inn. A few moments after, he reappeared on the threshold and raised his hat. Fifteen minutes after, they had rejoined their father in the large hall of the Pine-Cone—a long, low room, warmed by a huge stove on the sanded floor.
Except for the presence of the innkeeper, Dubreuil, the fattest and most apoplectic man in the Vosges, with little round eyes, a flat nose, and a triple chin falling upon his breast—except, I say, for the presence of this redoubtable personage, who was sitting in a large arm-chair near the fire, Materne found himself alone when he entered the inn. He ordered the glasses filled as the old clock struck nine, and the wooden cock upon it flapped his wings with a strange rusty noise.
"Good morning, Father Dubreuil!" said both the young men.
"Good morning, my boys, good morning!" replied the inn-keeper, in an oily voice, smiling an oily smile. "Any news?"
"No, faith," answered Kasper. "Winter is upon us, the season for boar-hunting."
Then both, placing their rifles in a corner of the window, at hand in case of need, sat down at a table opposite their father, and drank, saying. "To our health!" as they had been taught to be always careful to do.