At last the path went between two houses，and turned the party out into a wide，muddy highroad，bordered，as far as the eye could reach on either hand，by an unsightly village．The houses stood well back，leaving a ribbon of waste 1and 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．Whatit 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 Quartes was full，or else the landlady did not like our looks．I ought to say，that with our long，damp india-rubber bages，we presented rather a doubtful type of civilization：like rag-and-bone men，the Cigarette imagined．“These gentlemen are peddlers?Ces messieurs sont des 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 travelers to lodge．
Thither went we．But the butcher was flitting，and all his beds were taken down．Or else he didn’t like our looks．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．