When he awoke in Chartres he was filled with a numb excitement. It was a grey wintry day with snow in the air, and he expected something to happen. He had this feeling often in the country, in France: it was a strange, mixed feeling of desolation and homelessness, of wondering with a ghostly emptiness why he was there — and of joy, and hope, and expectancy, without knowing what it was he was going to find.

In the afternoon he went down to the station and took a train that was going to Orléans. He did not know where Orléans was. The train was a mixed train, made up of goods cars and passenger compartments. He bought a third-class ticket and got into one of the compartments. Then the shrill little whistle blew, and the train rattled out of Chartres into the countryside, in the abrupt and casual way a little French train has, and which was disquieting to him.

There was a light mask of snow on the fields and the air was smoky: the whole earth seemed to smoke and steam, and from the windows of the train one could see the wet earth and the striped, cultivated pattern of the fields, and, now and then, some farm buildings. It did not look like America: the land looked fat and well kept, and even the smoky wintry woods had this well-kept appearance. Far off sometimes one could see tall lines of poplars and knew that there was water there.

In the compartment he found three people — an old peasant and his wife and daughter. The old peasant had sprouting moustaches, a seamed and weather-beaten face, and small rheumy-looking eyes. His hands had a rock-like heaviness and solidity, and he kept them clasped upon his knees. His wife’s face was smooth and brown, there were fine webs of wrinkles around her eyes, and her face was like an old brown bowl. The daughter had a dark sullen face and sat away from them next the window as if she was ashamed of them. From time to time when they spoke to her she would answer them in an infuriated kind of voice without looking at them.

The peasant began to speak amiably to him when he entered the compartment. He smiled and grinned back at the man, although he did not understand a word he was saying, and the peasant kept on talking then, thinking he understood.

The peasant took from his coat a package of the cheap, powerful tobacco — the ‘bleu — which the French government provides for a few cents for the poor, and prepared to stuff his pipe. The young man pulled a package of American cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to the peasant.

“Will you have one?”

“My faith, yes!” said the peasant.

He took a cigarette clumsily from the package and held it between his great, stiff fingers, then he held it to the flame the young man offered, puffing at it in an unaccustomed way. Then he fell to examining it curiously, revolving it in his hands to read the label. He turned to his wife, who had followed every movement of this simple transaction with the glittering intent eyes of an animal, and began a rapid and excited discussion with her.

“It’s American — this.”

“Is it good?”

“My faith, yes — it’s of good quality.”

“Here, let me see! What does it call itself?”

They stared dumbly at the label.

“What do you call this?” said the peasant to the young man.

“Licky Streek,” said the youth, dutifully phonetical.

“L-l-leek-ee —?” they stared doubtfully. “What does that wish to say, in French?”

“Je ne sais pas,” he answered.

“Where are you going?” the peasant said, staring at the youth with rheumy little eyes of fascinated curiosity.

“Orléans.”

“How?” the peasant asked, with a puzzled look on his face.

“Orléans.”

“I do not understand,” the peasant said.

“Orléans! Orléans!” the girl shouted in a furious tone. “The gentleman says he is going to Orléans.”

“Ah!” the peasant cried, with an air of sudden illumination. “ORLéANS!”

It seemed to the youth that he had said the word just the same way the peasant said it, but he repeated it.

“Yes, Orléans.”

“He is going to Orléans,” the peasant said, turning to his wife.

“Ah-h!” she cried knowingly, with a great air of illumination, then both fell silent, and began to stare at the youth with curious, puzzled eyes again.

“What region are you from?” the peasant asked presently, still intent and puzzled, staring at him with his small eyes.

“How’s that? I don’t understand.”

“I say — what region are you from?”

“The gentleman is not French!” the girl shouted furiously, as if exasperated by their stupidity. “He is a foreigner. Can’t you see that?”

“Ah-h!” the peasant cried, after a moment, with an air of astounded enlightenment. Then, turning to his wife, he said briefly, “He is not French. He is a stranger.”

“Ah-h!”

And then they both turned their small, round eyes on him and regarded him with a fixed, animal-like curiosity.

“From what country are you?” the peasant asked presently. “What are you?”

“I am an American.”

“Ah-h! An American. . . . He is an American,” he said, turning to his wife.

“Ah-h!”

The girl made an impatient movement and continued to stare furiously and sullenly out of the window.

Then the peasant, with the intent, puzzled curiosity of an animal began to examine his companion carefully from head to foot. He looked at his shoes, his clothes, his overcoat, and finally lifted his eyes in an intent and curious stare to the young man’s valise on the rack above his head. He nudged his wife and pointed to the valise.

“That’s good stuff, eh?” he said in a low voice. “It’s real leather.”

“Yes, it’s good, that.”

And both of them looked at the valise for some time and then turned their curious gaze upon the youth again. He offered the peasant another cigarette, and the old man took one, thanking him.

“It’s very fine, this,” he said, indicating the cigarette. “That costs dear, eh?”

“Ah-h! . . . That’s very dear,” and he began to look at the cigarette ............