The landlord applauded noisily. “It was well done,” he said. “He did all that he could. He admitted he was wrong.” And then oath upon oath. He was no marquis-lover either, but he had a sense of justice in him, this proletarian host of ours.

From the matter of hunting, the talk veered into a general comparison of Paris and the country. The proletarian beat the table like a drum in praise of Paris. “What is Paris? Paris is the cream of France. There are no Parisians: it is you and I and everybody who are Parisians. A man has eighty chances percent to get on in the world in Paris.” And he drew a vivid sketch of the workman in a den no bigger than a dog-hutch, making articles that were to go all over the world. “ Eh bien, quoi, c’est magnifique, ça! ” cried he.

The sad Northman interfered in praise of a peasant’s life; he thought Paris bad for men and women; “centralisation,” said he⁠—