On the spot where the Hotel Moderne now rears its more ambitous head,there stood at that time a cottage with sloping red-tiled roof andwhite-washed walls. It was owned by one Baptiste Portal, an oldpeasant of the Dauphine, who dispensed refreshments to travellers andpassers-by, as his father and grandfather had done before him, in theshape of somewhat thin vin du pays and an occasional glass of eau-de-vie, while he spent his slack time chiefly in grumbling at the factthat the new posting-inn on the high road had taken all his tradeaway. He did not see the necessity of the posting-inn, did not oldBaptiste, nor for that matter that of the high-road or the post-chaise. Before all these new notions had come into the heads of thegovernment people up in Paris, travellers had been content to comesquelching through the mud on the back of a good horse, or comeploughing through inches of dust in the old coche. So why not now? Andwas not the old wine of Les Amandiers as good and better than thevinegar dispensed at the more pretentious posting-inn? The place wascalled Les Amandiers because at the back of the house there were twoanaemic almond-trees with gaunt, twisted arms which covered themselvesin the spring with sickly blooms, and in the summer with dust. In thefront of the house, up against the white-washed wall, there was awooden bench on which Baptiste's priveleged customers were wont to siton fine evenings, to drink their vin du pays and join the old man inhis wholesale condemnation of the goverment "up in Paris" and its new-fangled ways. From this vantage-point a glorious view was obtainedover the valley of the Bueche, and beyond Laragne as far as the peaksof Pelvoux: whilest to the right towered in the distance the grand oldcitadel of Sisteron with its turets and fortifications dating from thefourteenth century, and the stately church of Notre Dame. But viewsand winding rivers, snowy peaks, and medieval fortresses did notinterest Baptiste Portal's customers nearly as much as the price ofalmonds or the alarming increase in the cost of living.Now, on this particular afternoon in May the mistral was blowingmercilessly across the valley from over the snows of Pelvoux, and thecold and the dust had driven all of good Portal's customers indoors.The low-raftered room, decorated with strings of onions which hungfrom the ceiling together with a bunch or two of garlic, of basil andother pot-herbs, and perfumed also with the aroma of the pot-au-feusimmering in the kitchen, had acquired just that right atmosphere,cosy, warm, and odorous, beloved of every true man born in theDauphine. It was a memorable afternoon, remembered long afterwards andretold by the gossips of Sisteron and Laragne in all its dramaticdetails. But at this hour, nothing more dramatic had occurred than thearrival of a detachment of soldiers, under the command of an under-officer, who had come up from Orange, so they said, in order to fetchaway the young men who were wanted for the army. They had demandedsupper and shelter for the night.Of course soldiers, as soldiers, were very much disapproved of bythose worthies of Sisteron who frequented Les Amandiers, moreespecially now when what they did was to fetch away the young men forcannon-fodder, to fight the English and prolong this awful war whichcaused food to be so dear and hands for harvesting so scarce. But, onthe other hand, soldiers, as company, were welcome. They brought newsof the outside world, most of it bad, it is true--nothing good didhappen anywhere these days--but news nevertheless. And though at therecital of what went on in Paris, in Lyons, or even as near as Orange,the guillotine, the tumbrils, the wholesale slaughter of tyrants andaristos, one shuddered with horror and apprehension, there were alwaysthe lively tales of barrack-life to follow, the laughter, the ribaldsong, and something of life seemed to infiltrate into this sleepyhalf-dead corner of the old Dauphine.The soldiers--there were a score of them--occupied the best place inthe room, as was only fitting; they sat squeezed tightly against oneanother like dried figs in a box, on the two benches on either side ofthe centre trestle table. Old Baptiste Portal sat with them, besidethe officer. Some kind of lieutenant this man appeared to be, or othersubaltern: but, oh dear me! these days one could hardly tell anofficer from the rag-tab and bob-tail of the army, save for the factthat he wore epaulettes. Now this man--but there! What was the use ofcomparing these ruffians with the splendid officers of the King'sarmies in the past?