“But do the people eat them?” I inquired, for I knew they were not used in France.
“'Only the Bostonnais and cattle,' we used to say, madame, but now the Intendant has ordered them to be planted and eaten by all.”
“And they will obey?”
“'Le miel n'est pas pour les ânes,' madame; those who do not, will go hungry,” she answered, laughing.
I was interested in the news, as well as in the calm philosophy with which the innovation was accepted, and after a few more questions I returned to the front of the house.
The room into which the entrance gave—for it was more of a room than a hall—was large and low, with a ceiling painted white, supported by heavy beams; it was carpeted and furnished with much comfort—much more than one would find in a similar house either in Scotland or France.
In a short time a young lady entered, her dark olive face well set off by her brown hair, becomingly though simply dressed, with a light girlish figure showing to advantage in her flowered gown.
“I am Mlle. de Sarennes, madame, and I regret that you should have been kept waiting.” She began gravely enough, but catching some wonderment in my face, she continued, laughing merrily: “Oh, 'tis of no use; I can never masquerade! I am Queen of the Fields, madame, and you surprised me a moment ago, sceptre in hand,” whereupon she made me a grand courtesy, nearly sinking to the floor.
“And I am Mme. de St. Just,” I answered, joining in her girlish fun, “a poor rescued prisoner seeking for shelter; and this is my waiting-woman and very good friend, Lucy Routh. I come to you with letters from M. de Montcalm, trusting our presence may not prove a burthen to you.”
“But here is my mother,” said the young girl, quickly. “Not a word to her of how you discovered me; she will never acknowledge that such a thing as field-work is necessary, though there is not a man left to share it, except myself. We hide it from her as we would a sin.”