An Inland Voyage Section 6 - Pont-Sur-Sambre -- We Are Pedlars

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Section 6 of An Inland Voyage An Inland Voyage by Robert Louis Stevenson PENSU SOMBRE We are peddlers. The cigarette returned with good news. There were beds to be had, some ten minutes' walk from where we were, at a place called Hon. We stowed the canoes in a granary, and asked among the children for a guide. The circle at once widened round us, and our offers of reward were received in dispiriting silence. We were plainly a pair of bluebeards to the children. They might speak to us in public places, and where they had the advantage of numbers. But it was another thing to venture off alone with two uncouth and legendary characters, who had dropped from the clouds upon their hamlet this quiet afternoon, sashed and benived, and with a flavour of great voyages. The owner of the granary came to our assistance, singled out one little fellow, and threatened him with corporalities. Or, I suspect, we should have had to find the way for ourselves. As it was, he was more frightened at the granary man than the strangers, having perhaps had some experience of the former. But I fancy his little heart must have been going at a fine rate, for he kept trotting at a respectful distance in front, and looking back at us with scared eyes. Not otherwise may the children of the young world have guided Jove or one of his Olympian compiers on an adventure.

A miry lane led us up from Carte, with its church and bickering windmill. The hinds were trudging homewards from their fields. A brisk little woman passed us by. She was seated across a donkey between a pair of glittering milk cans, and as she went she kicked jauntily with her heels upon the donkey's side, and scattered shrill remarks among the wayfarers. It was notable that none of the tired men took the trouble to reply.

Our conductor soon led us out of the lane and across the country. The sun had gone down, but the west in front of us was one lake of level gold. The path wandered a while in the open, and then passed under a chalice like a bower indefinitely prolonged. On either hand were shadowy orchards. Cottages lay low among the leaves and sent their smoke to heaven. Every here and there in an opening appeared the great gold face of the west.

I never saw the cigarette in such an idyllic frame of mind. He waxed positively lyrical in praise of country scenes. I was a little less exhilarated myself. The mild air of the evening, the shadows, the rich lights and the silence, made a symphonious accompaniment for our walk, and we both determined to avoid towns for the future and sleep in hamlets. At last the path went between two houses, and turned the party out into a wide muddy high road bordered, as far as the eye could reach on either hand, by an unsightly village. The houses stood well back, leaving a ribbon of wasteland on either side of the road, where there were stacks of firewood, carts, barrows, rubbish heaps, and a little doubtful grass. Away on the left a gaunt tower stood in the middle of the street. What it had been in past ages I know not, probably a hold in time of war, but nowadays it bore an illegible dial plate in its upper parts, and near the bottom an iron letter-box.

The inn to which we had been recommended at carts was full, or else the landlady did not like our looks. I ought to say that with our long, damp, India-rubber bags we represented rather a doubtful type of civilization, like rag-and-bone men, the cigarette imagined. These gentlemen are peddlers, say, Monsieur, sont-les marchands? asked the landlady, and then without waiting for an answer, which I suppose she thought superfluous, in so plain a case, recommended us to a butcher who lived hard by the tower, and took in travellers to lodge. Thither went we, but the butcher was flitting, and all his beds were taken down, or else he didn't like our look. As a parting shot, we had, These gentlemen are peddlers. It began to grow dark in earnest. We could no longer distinguish the faces of the people who passed us by with an inarticulate good evening. And the householders of Pont seemed very economical with their oil, for we saw not a single window lighted in all that long village. I believe it is the longest village in the world, but I dare say, in our predicament, every pace counted three times over.

We were much cast down when we came to the last auberge, and looking in at the dark door asked timidly if we could sleep there for the night. A female voice assented in no very friendly tones. We clapped the bags down and found our way to chairs.