Hence Pierrotin was in need of a thousand francs! Being in debt to the innkeeper for stable-room, he dared not borrow the sum of him. For lack of this thousand francs, he risked losing the two thousand already paid in advance, to say nothing of five hundred, the cost of Rougeot the second, and three hundred for new harness, for which, however, he had three months’ credit. And yet, urged by the wrath of despair and the folly of vanity, he had just declared that his coach would start on the morrow, Sunday. In paying the fifteen hundred francs on account of the two thousand five hundred, he had hoped that the coach-makers’ feelings might be touched so far that they would let him have the vehicle; but, after three minutes’ reflection, he exclaimed:
“No, no! they are sharks, perfect skinflints.—Supposing I were to apply to Monsieur Moreau, the steward at Presles—he is such a good fellow, that he would, perhaps, take my note of hand at six months’ date,” thought he, struck by a new idea.
At this instant, a servant out of livery, carrying a leather trunk, on coming across from the Touchards’ office, where he had failed to find a place vacant on the Chambly coach starting at one o’clock, said to the driver:
“Pierrotin?—Is that you?”
“What then?” said Pierrotin.
“If you can wait less than a quarter of an hour, you can carry my master; if not, I will take his portmanteau back again, and he must make the best of a chaise off the stand.”
“I will wait two—three-quarters of an hour, and five minutes more to that, my lad,” said Pierrotin, with a glance at the smart little leather trunk, neatly strapped, and fastened with a brass lock engraved with a coat-of-arms.
“Very good, then, there you are,” said the man, relieving his shoulder of the trunk, which Pierrotin lifted, weighed in his hand, and scrutinized.
“Here,” said he to his stable-boy, “pack it round with soft hay, and put it in the boot at the back.—There is no name on it,” said he.
“There are monseigneur’s arms,” replied the servant.
“Monseigneur? worth his weight in gold!—Come and have a short drink,” said Pierrotin, with a wink, as he led the way to the café of the Echiquiers.—“Two of absinthe,” cried he to the waiter as they went in.—“But who is your master, and where is he bound? I never saw you before,” said Pierrotin to the servant as they clinked glasses.
“And for very good reasons,” replied the footman. “My master does not go your way once a year, and always in his own carriage. He prefers the road by the Orge valley, where he has the finest park near Paris, a perfect Versailles, a family estate, from which he takes his name.—Don’t you know Monsieur Moreau?”
“The steward at Presles?” said Pierrotin.
“Well, Monsieur le Comte is going to spend two days at Presles.”
“Oh, ho, then my passenger is the Comte de Sérizy!” cried Pierrotin.
“Yes, my man, no less. But, mind, he sends strict orders. If you have any of the people belonging to your parts in your chaise, do not mention the Count’s name; he wants to travel incognito, and desired me to tell you so, and promise you a handsome tip.”
“Hah! and has this hide-and-seek journey anything to do, by any chance, with the bargain that old Léger, the farmer at les Moulineaux, wants to make?”
“I don’t know,” replied the man; “but the fat is in the fire. Last evening I was sent to the stables to order the chaise à la Daumont, by seven this morning, to drive to Presles; but at seven my master countermanded it. Augustin, his valet, ascribes this change of plan to the visit of a lady, who seemed to have come from the country.”
“Can anyone have had anything to say against Monsieur Moreau? The best of men, the most honest, the king of men, I say! He might have made a deal more money than he has done if he had chosen, take my word for it!—”
“Then he was very foolish,” said the servant sententiously.
“Then Monsieur de Sérizy is going to live at Presles at last? The château has been refurnished and done up,” said Pierrotin after a pause. “Is it true that two hundred thousand francs have been spent on it already?”
“If you or I had the money that has been spent there, we could set up in the world.—If Madame la Comtesse goes down there, and Moreaus’ fun will be over,” added the man, with mysterious significance.
“A good man is Monsieur Moreau,” repeated Pierrotin, who was still thinking of borrowing the thousand francs from the steward; “a man that makes his men work, and does not spare them; who gets all the profit out of the land, and for his master’s benefit too. A good man! He often comes to Paris, and always by my coach; he gives me something handsome for myself, and always has a lot of parcels to and fro. Three or four a day, sometimes for monsieur and sometimes for madame; a bill of fifty francs a month say, only on the carrier’s score. Though madame holds her head a little above her place, she is fond of her children; I take them to school for her and bring them home again. And
