The peasant took from his coat a package of the cheap, powerful tobacco—the’bleu—which the French government provides for a few cents for the poor, and prepared to stuff his pipe. The young man pulled a package of American cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to the peasant.
“Will you have one?”
“My faith, yes!” said the peasant.
He took a cigarette clumsily from the package and held it between his great, stiff fingers, then he held it to the flame the young man offered, puffing at it in an unaccustomed way. Then he fell to examining it curiously, revolving it in his hands to read the label. He turned to his wife, who had followed every movement of this simple transaction with the glittering intent eyes of an animal, and began a rapid and excited discussion with her.
“It’s American—this.”
“Is it good?”
“My faith, yes—it’s of good quality.”
“Here, let me see! What does it call itself?”
They stared dumbly at the label.
“What do you call this?” said the peasant to the young man.
“Licky Streek,” said the youth, dutifully phonetical.
“L-l-leek-ee—?” they stared doubtfully. “What does that wish to say, in French?”
“Je ne sais pas,” he answered.
“Where are you going?” the peasant said, staring at the youth with rheumy little eyes of fascinated curiosity.
“Orléans.”
“How?” the peasant asked, with a puzzled look on his face.
“Orléans.”
“I do not understand,” the peasant said.
“Orléans! Orléans!” the girl shouted in a furious tone. “The gentleman says he is going to Orléans.”
“Ah!” the peasant cried, with an air of sudden illumination. “Orléans!”
It seemed to the youth that he had said the word just the same way the peasant said it, but he repeated it.
“Yes, Orléans.”
“He is going to Orléans,” the peasant said, turning to his wife.
“Ah-h!” she cried knowingly, with a great air of illumination, then both
