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Updated: April 30, 2025
"I would not refuse," said the peasant, "to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?" "There is no room." "Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Labarre?" "Yes." "Well?" The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know. He did not receive me." "Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?"
It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de Chaffaut. The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself.
It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood. One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Labarre's.
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