Old Père Léger had never seen the Count, who, on the other hand, knew him only by name. Though the Count, as he got into the chaise, cast about him the inquiring glance which had so much annoyed Oscar and Georges, it was because he was looking for his notary’s clerk, intending to impress on him the need for the greatest secrecy in case he should have been compelled to travel, like himself, by Pierrotin’s conveyance. But he was reassured by Oscar’s appearance and by that of the old farmer, and, above all, by the air of aping the military, with his moustache and his style generally, which stamped Georges an adventurer; and he concluded that his note had reached Maître Alexandre Crottat in good time.
“Père Léger,” said Pierrotin as they came to the steep hill in the Faubourg Saint-Denis, at the Rue de la Fidélité, “suppose we were to walk a bit, heh?” On hearing the name, the Count observed:
“I will go out too; we must ease the horses.”
“Oh! If you go on at this rate, we shall do fourteen leagues in a fortnight!” exclaimed Georges.
“Well, is it any fault of mine,” said Pierrotin, “if a passenger wishes to get out?”
“I will give you ten louis if you keep my secret as I bid you,” said the Count, taking Pierrotin by the arm.
“Oh, ho! My thousand francs!” thought Pierrotin, after giving Monsieur de Sérizy a wink, conveying, “Trust me!”
Oscar and Georges remained in the chaise.
“Look here, Pierrotin—since Pierrotin you are,” cried Georges, when the travelers had got into the chaise again at the top of the hill, “if you are going no faster than this, say so. I will pay my fare to Saint-Denis, and hire a nag there, for I have important business on hand, which will suffer from delay.”
“Oh! he will get on, never fear,” replied the farmer. “And the road is not a wide one.”
“I am never more than half an hour late,” answered Pierrotin.
“Well, well, you are not carting the Pope, I suppose,” said Georges, “so hurry up a little.”
“You ought not to show any favor,” said Mistigris; “and if you are afraid of jolting this gentleman”—and he indicated the Count—“that is not fair.”
“All men are equal in the eye of the Coucou,” said Georges, “as all Frenchmen are in the eye of the Charter.”
“Be quite easy,” said old Léger, “we shall be at la Chapelle yet before noon.” La Chapelle is a village close to the Barrière Saint-Denis.
Those who have traveled know that persons thrown together in a public conveyance do not immediately amalgamate; unless under exceptional circumstances, they do not converse till they are well on their way. This silent interval is spent partly in reciprocal examination, and partly in finding each his own place and taking possession of it. The soul, as much as the body, needs to find its balance. When each severally supposes that he has made an accurate guess at his companion’s age, profession, and temper, the most talkative first opens a conversation, which is taken up all the more eagerly, because all feel the need for cheering the way and dispelling the dullness.
This at least, is what happens in a French coach. In other countries manners are different. The English pride themselves on never opening their lips; a German is dull in a coach; Italians are too cautious to chat; the Spaniards have almost ceased to have any coaches; and the Russians have no roads. So it is only in the ponderous French diligence that the passengers amuse each other, in the gay and gossiping nation where each one is eager to laugh and display his humor, where everything is enlivened by raillery, from the misery of the poorest to the solid interests of the upper middle-class. The police do little to check the license of speech, and the gallery of the Chambers has made discussion fashionable.
When a youngster of two-and-twenty, like the young gentleman who was known so far by the name of Georges, has a ready wit, he is strongly tempted, especially in such circumstances as these, to be reckless in the use of it. In the first place, Georges was not slow to come to the conclusion that he was the superior man of the party. He decided that the Count was a manufacturer of the second class, setting him down as a cutler; the shabby looking youth attended by Mistigris he thought but a greenhorn, Oscar a perfect simpleton, and the farmer a capital butt for a practical joke. Having thus taken the measure of all his traveling companions, he determined to amuse himself at their expense.
“Now,” thought he, as the coucou rolled down the hill from la Chapelle towards the plain of Saint-Denis, “shall I pass myself off as Étienne, or as Béranger?—No, these bumpkins have never heard of either.—A Carbonaro? The Devil! I might be nabbed.—One of Marshal Ney’s sons? Pooh, what could I make of that? Tell them the story of my father’s death? That would hardly be funny.—Suppose I were to have come back from the Government colony in America? They might take me for a spy, and regard me with suspicion.—I will be a Russian Prince in disguise; I will cram
