The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible:
"How goes it, Jacques?"
"All well, Jacques."
They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
"Nothing but supper now,"said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
"It is the fashion,"growled the man. "I meet no dinner anywhere."
He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
"Touch then."It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
"To-night?"said the mender of roads.
"To-night,"said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
"Show me!"said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
"See!"returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. "You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain — "
"To the Devil with all that!"interrupted the other, rolling his eye over the landscape. "I go through no streets and past no fountains. Well?"
"Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the village."
"Good. When do you cease to work?"
"Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me?"
The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He was fast asleep directly.
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