"It is the potentiality that is the comfort. Have you apartments for the night, Madame?"
"They are for des messieurs—for gentlemen," said the patronne diffidently.
Narcisse having also finished his draught stretched himself out on the ground, his chin on his fore paws, and glanced furtively upwards at the disparaging lady.
"Tron de l'air!" cried Paragot, "are we not gentlemen?"
"Tiens, you are of the Midi," cried the woman, recognising the expletive—for no one born north of Avignon says "Tron de l'air"—"I too am from Marseilles. My husband was a Savoyard. That is why I am here."
"I am a gentleman of Gascony," said my master, "and this is my son Asticot."
"It is a droll name," said the patronne.
"We are commercial travellers on our rounds with samples of philosophy."
"It is a droll trade," said the patronne.
We were greasy and dirty, sunburnt to the colour of Egyptian felaheen and dressed in the peasant's blue blouse. Creatures more unlike professors of philosophy could not be conceived. But the patronne seemed to be impressed—as who was not?—by Paragot.