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c h a p t e r t w o The Two Brothers Wander on the Plains of Champagne After these Latin words to satisfy the rule established by great men from time immemorial in every time and place—never begin an enterprise without some sentence worthy of its importance and quotable at the head of the narrative—our two travelers plunged deep into the solitude of Pont-Favergé, along roads unfit for riders on horseback, passengers in carriages, or even simple pedestrians.1 Foreigners and city-dwellers looking at our kingdom through a post-chaise window always marvel with inexpressible admiration for its broad, extensive highways: the fine avenues to our filthy inns convince the rest of Europe that such excellent paths of communication cannot be found anywhere in the other seventeen major sections of this portion of the globe. But the itinerant philosopher who ventures between the desolate roads remains unimpressed by this elaborate apparatus, useful though it may be for transporting cannons and armies. Commodities transported on any path of this vast labyrinth may reach the rich man’s door comfortably enough.* Nevertheless, the sweat and tears with which our wretched cultivators pay for these roads inspire them with such hatred of anything named “road” that they cannot bring themselves * All this was true a few years ago; but thanks to the salutary institutions called (I know not why) provincial assemblies, the only practicable roads are those belonging to provincial metropolises . Two or three leagues away from any of these favored cities, the roads turn into quagmires. 10 chapter two to trim the mucky paths to their own miserable cottages.2 After having ruined his own tools, livestock, and health to beautify the rich man’s promenade, the laborer must burden them anew before reaching a road he himself has built: and on this easy-to-travel road he must watch a portion of his own cash tribute streaming from the capital to the frontiers. Nor can he hope to bring to his cottage door the least little capillary vessel of the noisy, fast-moving canals. Such were the reflections inspired in our two philosophers by the vile roads crisscrossing flea-ridden Champagne. The sun had already accomplished more than half its journey when the two arrived at Pont-Favergé; they recognized dinnertime by a bunch of heather hanging by a fishhook on a wall (for in these cantons, one rarely sees either wooden signs or painting, which has not made much progress in Champagne ). This hook was suspended on a hut that had neither cobblestone walls nor plank floors; a few old smoke-covered boards served to store the meager buckwheat that nourished its sober inhabitants, rather than as a kitchen ceiling . Five or six evil-looking pallets, likelier to kill off the sleepers than secure their repose, were scattered about the room. A few nasty chipped plates, a pot with an oaken lid, a big bread-bin, and a saltbox that must get filled with salt, willy-nilly, thanks to the wise laws of Philip the Salic: the peasant may do without bread if he so chooses, but must have enough money to purchase salt.3 Such were the sumptuous furnishings of the tavern destined to welcome the greatest philosopher of France and his faithful admirer. The owners of this impressive tavern, the best-furnished house in the village, were working in the fields. They had left in charge a deaf old woman paralyzed by apoplexy on the left side, and whose advanced age made her bald head oscillate like the pendulum of a turning spit. This woman seemed to be placed on earth specifically to encourage abstinence in any philosophers inclined toward rural solitude and retirement. She might have been seventy, or so one would judge by her face; since country curates keep no very exact ledgers of birth and death, as they know only holy writ and Palace hackwork, and are sworn enemies of other writing. This good mother reckoned her age according to the number of times she had eaten meat: except for their local fete, the richest inhabitants of the village lived on fava beans like Pythagoreans . Fortunately for our travelers, it was market eve in nearby Machaut and the week’s eggs were already prepared, so a dozen eggs could be added to the salt soup that is these troglodytes’ usual fare. Then a large glass of mediocre wine, a piece of black bread and some cheese: worthy products of...

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