"What then?"

But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.

　　"Will dinner be ready soon?" said the man.

　　"Immediately," replied the landlord.

　　While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window.

　　On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey.

　　The landlord whispered a word in the scullion's ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.

　　The traveller saw nothing of all this.

　　Once more he inquired, "Will dinner be ready soon?"

　　"Immediately," responded the host.

　　The child returned.

　　He brought back the paper.

　　The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply.

　　He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment.

　　Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.

　　"I cannot receive you, sir," said he.

　　The man half rose.

　　"What!

　　Are you afraid that I will not pay you?

　　Do you want me to pay you in advance?

　　I have money, I tell you."

　　"It is not that."

　　"What then?"

　　"You have money--"

　　"Yes," said the man.

　　"And I," said the host, "have no room."

　　The man resumed tranquilly, "Put me in the stable."

　　"I cannot."

　　"Why?"

　　"The horses take up all the space."

　　"Very well!" retorted the man; "a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw.

　　We will see about that after dinner."

　　"I cannot give you any dinner."

　　This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave.

　　He rose.

　　"Ah! bah!

　　But I am dying of hunger.

　　I have been walking since sunrise. I have travelled twelve leagues.