nd we turned in, or rather on. Our hosts
had made us as comfortable as they could, and we felt that all we could
do in return was to sleep well and to forget a few francs on the table
when we left. The old man was so kind; he knew from the first that we
were itinerant painters, and that no discredit attached to our calling.
"C'est un metier comme un autre de faire des images,"[3] he said
encouragingly. They were a cheerful couple, those two old people, and
looked as if they had not known much trouble or worry, and had just
collected their wrinkles, as time went on, for what they were worth.

One does sleep soundly on a bag of straw after a thunderstorm and a
rustic supper, and I should have done so till sunrise if, some time in
the middle of the night, Rollo had not poked his nose into my face. I
woke up with a start, and looking round, was surprised to see Dupont
standing at the window, gazing into space.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"Nothing," he answered. "It's a wonderful night."

I turned round to go to sleep again, but Rollo was very restless, and a
glorious full moon was flooding the kitchen with light, her silver rays
forming fantastic patterns on the stone floor, broken as they were by
the little lead divisions of the casement and by the flower-pots,
bottles, and various nondescript articles on the window-sill.

"I wish you would come to bed, and not stand there as if you were
moon-struck," I said at last.

"That's just what I am," he replied. "I wish you would come and be so
too."

"As-tu fini?" I growled. "Va te coucher, imbecile,"[4] and with that I
dozed off.

But Rollo, I dreamed or I felt it, was sitting gravely by my side and
wondering how I could be so rude, his tail all the while beating the
ground at regular intervals. I roused myself once more; there stood
Dupont as before.

"Hang it all," I said, "I do wish that blessed dog and you would shut up
and turn in."

"I wish you'd open up and turn out," he answered. "Come along, don't be
an _epicier_;[5] get up and let's tramp it. It's a splendid night."

"What's the matter, messieurs?" here broke in the old man, whose head
and nightcap appeared at the glass door which separated his
sleeping-nook from the kitchen, and--"What's the matter?" echoed the
wife's voice. When he saw Claude, he simply said, "Oh, c'est ce jeune
homme qui souffre de la lune; c'est tout comme Rollo."[6]

I burst out laughing, and--I suppose lunacy is catching--I too