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 of Avranches, stopped before the little inn called the Croix-Branchard, at the entrance of Pontorson, and the sign of which bore this inscription, that was still legible a few years ago: "Good cider on draught." It had been hot all day, but the wind was beginning to blow.

This traveller was wrapped in a wide cloak, which covered the horse's back. He wore a broad-brimmed hat with a tricolored cockade, a bold thing to do in this country of hedges and gunshots, where a cockade was a target. His cloak tied at the neck was thrown back to leave his arms free, and underneath was seen a tricolored belt and two pistols sticking out of the belt. A sabre hung down beyond the cloak.

As the horse stopped, the door of the inn opened, and the innkeeper came out with a lantern in his hand. It was just between daylight and darkness; it was light on the road and dark in the house.

The host looked at the cockade.

"Citizen," said he, "do you stop here?"

"No."

"Where are you going then?"

"To Dol."

"In that case, return to Avranches or stay at Pontorson."

"Why?"

"Because they are fighting in Dol."

"Ah!" said the cavalier.

And he added,

"Give some oats to my horse."

The host brought a bucket, emptied a bag of oats into it and unbridled the horse, which began to snort and to eat.

The conversation continued,—

"Citizens, is this a horse of requisition?"

"No."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes. I bought it and paid for it."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Paris."

"Not directly?"

"No."

"I knew it, the roads are closed. But the post-wagon still runs."

"As far as Alençon. I left it there."