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As this excursion is a matter of some length, and, moreover, we go in
force, we have set aside our usual vehicle, the pony-cart, and ordered a
large wagonette from Lejosne's. It has been waiting for near an hour,
while one went to pack a knapsack, and t'other hurried over his toilette
and coffee; but now it is filled from end to end with merry folk in
summer attire, the coachman cracks his whip, and amid much applause from
round the inn-door off we rattle at a spanking trot. The way lies
through the forest, up hill and down dale, and by beech and pine wood,
in the cheerful morning sunshine. The English get down at all the
ascents and walk on ahead for exercise; the French are mightily
entertained at this, and keep coyly underneath the tilt. As we go we
carry with us a pleasant noise of laughter and light speech, and some
one will be always breaking out into a bar or two of opera bouffe.
Before we get to the Route Ronde here comes Desprez, the colourman from
Fontainebleau, trudging across on his weekly peddle with a case of
merchandise; and it is "Desprez, leave me some malachite green";
"Desprez, leave me so much canvas"; "Desprez, leave me this, or leave me
that"; M. Desprez standing the while in the sunlight with grave face and
many salutations. The next interruption is more important. For some time
back we have had the sound of cannon in our ears; and now, a little past
Franchard, we find a mounted trooper holding a led horse, who brings
the wagonette to a stand. The artillery is practising in the
Quadrilateral, it appears; passage along the Route Ronde formally
interdicted for the moment. There is nothing for it but to draw up at
the glaring cross-roads, and get down to make fun with the notorious
Cocardon, the most ungainly and ill-bred dog of all the ungainly and
ill-bred dogs of Barbizon, or clamber about the sandy banks. And
meanwhile the Doctor, with sun umbrella, wide Panama, and patriarchal
beard, is busy wheedling and (for aught the rest of us know) bribing the
too facile sentry. His speech is smooth and dulcet, his manner dignified
and insinuating. It is not for nothing that the Doctor has voyaged all
the world over, and speaks all languages from French to Patagonian. He
has not come home from perilous journeys to be thwarted by a corporal of
horse. And so we soon see the soldier's mouth relax, and his shoulders
imitate a relenting heart. "_En voiture, Messieurs, Mesdames_," sings
the Doctor; and on we g