Where had I come
from? Where (if I was honest) had I intended to sleep? How came I at
such an hour on foot? and other examinations. I thought a little what
excuse to give him, and then, determining that I was too tired to make
up anything plausible, I told him the full truth; that I had meant to
sleep rough, but had been overcome by fatigue, and that I had walked
from Toul, starting at evening. I conjured him by our common Faith to
let me in. He told me that it was impossible, as he had but one room
in which he and his family slept, and assured me he had asked all
these questions out of sympathy and charity alone. Then he wished me
good-night, honestly and kindly, and went in.
By this time I was very much put out, and began to be angry. These
straggling French towns give no opportunity for a shelter. I saw that
I should have to get out beyond the market gardens, and that it might
be a mile or two before I found any rest. A clock struck one. I looked
up and saw it was from the belfry of one of those new chapels which
the monks are building everywhere, nor did I forget to curse the monks
in my heart for building them. I cursed also those who started
smelting works in the Moselle valley; those who gave false advice to
travellers; those who kept lions and tigers in caravans, and for a
small sum I would have cursed the whole human race, when I saw that my
bile had hurried me out of the street well into the countryside, and
that above me, on a bank, was a patch of orchard and a lane leading up
to it. Into this I turned, and, finding a good deal of dry hay lying
under the trees, I soon made myself an excellent bed, first building a
little mattress, and then piling on hay as warm as a blanket.
I did not lie awake (as when I planned my pilgrimage I had promised
myself I would do), looking at the sky through the branches of trees,
but I slept at once without dreaming, and woke up to find it was broad
daylight, and the sun ready to rise. Then, stiff and but little rested
by two hours of exhaustion, I took up my staff and my sack and
regained the road.
I should very much like to know what those who have an answer to
everything can say about the food requisite to breakfast? Those great
men Marlowe and Jonson, Shakespeare, and Spenser before him, drank
beer at rising, and tamed it with a little bread. In the regiment we
used to drink black coffee without sugar, and cut off a great hunk of
stale crust, and eat nothing more till the halt:
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