In a tiny bit of a looking-glass hung on the frame of the east window, Peyrol, handling the unwearable English blade, was shaving himself — for the day was Sunday. The years of political changes ending with the proclamation of Napoleon as Consul¹ for life had not touched Peyrol except as to his strong thick head of hair, which was nearly all white now. After putting the razor away carefully, Peyrol introduced his stockinged feet into a pair of sabots of the very best quality and clattered³ downstairs. His brown cloth breeches were untied⁴ at the knee and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his shoulders. That sea-rover turned rustic⁵ was now perfectly⁶ at home in that farm which, like a lighthouse, commanded the view of two roadsteads and of the open sea. He passed through the kitchen. It was exactly as he had seen it first, sunlight on the floor, red copper⁷ utensils⁸ shining on the walls, the table in the middle scrubbed snowy white; and it was only the old woman, Aunt Catherine, who seemed to have acquired a sharper profile. The very hen manoeuvring her neck pretentiously⁹ on the doorstep, might have been standing¹⁰ there for the last eight years. Peyrol shooed her away, and going into the yard washed himself lavishly¹¹ at the pump. When he returned from the yard he looked so fresh and hale that old Catherine complimented him in a thin voice on his “bonne mine.” Manners were changing, and she addressed him no longer as citoyen but as Monsieur Peyrol. He answered readily that if her heart was free he was ready to lead her to the altar that very day. This was such an old joke that Catherine took no notice of it whatever, but followed him with her eyes as he crossed the kitchen into the salle, which was cool, with its tables and benches washed clean, and no living soul in it. Peyrol passed through to the front of the house, leaving the outer door open. At the

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