Impossible.
This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Labarre?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
The traveller replied with embarrassment:
"I do not know. He did not receive me."
"Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?"
The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammered, "He did not receive me either."
The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder:--
"Are you the man?--"
He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.
Meanwhile, at the words, Are you the man? the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, "Tso-maraude."[1]
[1] Patois of the French Alps:
chat de maraude, rascally marauder.
All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to one's self.
After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door and said:--
"Clear out!"
"For pity's sake, a glass of water," said the man.
"A shot from my gun!" said the peasant.
Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two large bolts.