had stirred up cruel
anxieties which were slumbering in his breast. What could there be to
trouble the heart of Pierrotin in a fine new coach? To shine upon
"the road," to rival the Touchards, to magnify his own line, to carry
passengers who would compliment him on the conveniences due to the
progress of coach-building, instead of having to listen to perpetual
complaints of his "sabots" (tires of enormous width),--such was
Pierrotin's laudable ambition; but, carried away with the desire to
outstrip his comrade on the line, hoping that the latter might some day
retire and leave to him alone the transportation to Isle-Adam, he had
gone too far. The coach was indeed ordered from Barry, Breilmann, and
Company, coach-builders, who had just substituted square English
springs for those called "swan-necks," and other old-fashioned French
contrivances. But these hard and distrustful manufacturers would only
deliver over the diligence in return for coin. Not particularly pleased
to build a vehicle which would be difficult to sell if it remained upon
their hands, these long-headed dealers declined to undertake it at all
until Pierrotin had made a preliminary payment of two thousand francs.
To satisfy this precautionary demand, Pierrotin had exhausted all his
resources and all his credit. His wife, his father-in-law, and his
friends had bled. This superb diligence he had been to see the evening
before at the painter's; all it needed now was to be set a-rolling, but
to make it roll, payment in full must, alas! be made.

Now, a thousand francs were lacking to Pierrotin, and where to get them
he did not know. He was in debt to the master of the Lion d'Argent; he
was in danger of his losing his two thousand francs already paid to the
coach-builder, not counting five hundred for the mate to Rougeot, and
three hundred for new harnesses, on which he had a three-months' credit.
Driven by the fury of despair and the madness of vanity, he had just
openly declared that the new coach was to start on the morrow. By
offering fifteen hundred francs, instead of the two thousand five
hundred still due, he was in hopes that the softened carriage-builders
would give him his coach. But after a few moments' meditation, his
feelings led him to cry out aloud:--

"No! they're dogs! harpies! Suppose I appeal to Monsieur Moreau, the
steward at Presles? he is such a kind man," thought Pierrotin, struck
with a new idea. "Perhaps he would take my note for si