"A long, long way. I heard a child
cry--"
"There is no child here," put in Hyacinthe. "Monsieur L'Oreillard says
children cost too much money. But if you have come far, you must need
food and fire, and I have neither. At the Cinq Chateaux you will find
both."
The stranger looked at him again with those quiet eyes, and Hyacinthe
fancied that his face was familiar. "I will stay here," he said; "you
are late at work, and you are unhappy."
"Why as to that," answered Hyacinthe, rubbing his cheeks and ashamed
of his tears, "most of are sad at one time or another, the good God
knows. Stay here and welcome if it pleases you; and you may take a
share of my bed, though it is no more than a pile of balsam boughs and
an old blanket in the loft. But I must work at this cabinet, for the
drawers must be finished and the handles put on and the corners
carved, all by the holy morning; or my wages will be paid with a
stick."
"You have a hard master," put in the other, "if he would pay you with
blows upon the feast of Noel."
"He is hard enough," said Hyacinthe, "but once he gave me a dinner of
sausages and white wine; and once, in the summer, melons. If my eyes
will stay open, I will finish this by morning. Stay with me an hour or
so, comrade, and talk to me of your travels, so that the time may pass
more quickly.
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