lumbered and strained along by the
aid of six lean horses, and many elaborate springs, chains and straps,
from Brittany towards Paris. The autumn roads were execrable, for the
rains had been heavy, and the ruts made by the harvest-waggons were
deep. The lateness of the season intensified the deserted look of rural
France. Little else was to be seen along most of the route than rows of
polled trees lining the highway, and here and there an old castle on a
hill, or a _commune_ of a few whitewashed cottages, where the coach
would pull up at the inn and perhaps change horses. The driver and guard
remained the same; but various postillions took charge and then gave up
their charges to others. Travellers of assorted ranks and occupations
got in and out. Of the twelve for whom there were places in the coach
some remained during long distances, some shorter, but only one was
faithful from Brittany to the end. He was a short-statured, country
_bourgeois_, whose woollen stockings and faded hat gave to him a certain
look of non-importance. Moreover, he was always wrapped unsociably in a
brown cloak, of which he kept a fold over his lower face, and in which
he snored in his corner even when all the others jumped up to escape an
upset.

After several days the aspect of the country suddenly changed. Immense
woods and parks rendered it even more solitary, yet strange to say the
increased solitude was evidence that the hugest capital in Europe was
near, for these were the hunting domains of the princes of the blood and
great courtiers, which encircled Paris.

During the night there was another sudden change. The forest solitudes
disappeared, the horses sped forward on fine broad roads; and soon the
coach dashed with a triumphant blast into the lights and stir of
Versailles, crossed its Place d'Armes and turned again into darkness
along the Avenue of Paris.

At length, in the first grey of morning, it rumbled loudly over a
stretch of cobbled pave, and pulled up at an iron railing inside the
City wall. Here the officers of the municipal customs came out. One of
the first passengers visited was the _bourgeois_, and his dingy black
box and sleepy expression received exceptionally contemptuous usage.

"Haste, beast, open it! Dost thou think I have to wait all day? Take
that," and the gendarme struck him a tap on the side with the flat of
his sword.

For a second the _bourgeois_ seemed another man. He drew up with such an
inhuman glea