As the fortune of the road had cast me upon this village, I made up my mind
to accept pot-luck here, for the morning was no longer young, and I knew
not how far I might have to trudge before finding better quarters. So I
resolved to take my chance at what looked like the best inn in the place,
although it was a very rustic hostelry that would have repelled a wanderer
less seasoned than myself to the vicissitudes of the highways and byways. I
had, however, a cool little back-room with whitewashed walls to myself,
and through the small square window near the table where I sat I could see
something of the sunny world, with bits of tiled roof and green foliage,
as well as the lemon-coloured butterflies that fluttered from garden to
garden. There was no lack of food in the auberge, for a pig had been very
recently killed. There were several dishes, but they were all made up
from the same animal. When something fresh came, I thought, 'This, at all
events, must be mutton or veal'; but although it may have been cunningly
disguised with tomatoes or garlic, I perceived that it was pork again. It
was long after this adventure that I could look at a pig with a lenient and
unprejudiced mind.
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