es
of a company, obtained under Louis XIV., for the exclusive right of
transporting travellers from one part of the kingdom to another, and
instituted the lines of coaches called the "turgotines," all the old
vehicles of the former company flocked into the provinces. One of
these shabby coaches was now plying between Mayenne and Fougeres. A few
objectors called it the "turgotine," partly to mimic Paris and partly
to deride a minister who attempted innovations. This turgotine was
a wretched cabriolet on two high wheels, in the depths of which two
persons, if rather fat, could with difficulty have stowed themselves.
The narrow quarters of this rickety machine not admitting of any
crowding, and the box which formed the seat being kept exclusively for
the postal service, the travellers who had any baggage were forced to
keep it between their legs, already tortured by being squeezed into a
sort of little box in shape like a bellows. The original color of coach
and running-gear was an insoluble enigma. Two leather curtains, very
difficult to adjust in spite of their long service, were supposed to
protect the occupants from cold and rain. The driver, perched on a
plank seat like those of the worst Parisian "coucous," shared in the
conversation by reason of his position between his victims, biped and
quadruped. The equipage presented various fantastic resemblances to
decrepit old men who have gone through a goodly number of catarrhs and
apoplexies and whom death respects; it moaned as it rolled, and
squeaked spasmodically. Like a traveller overtaken by sleep, it rocked
alternately forward and back, as though it tried to resist the violent
action of two little Breton horses which dragged it along a road
which was more than rough. This monument of a past era contained three
travellers, who, on leaving Ernee, where they had changed horses,
continued a conversation begun with the driver before reaching the
little town.

"What makes you think the Chouans are hereabouts?" said the coachman.
"The Ernee people tell me that Commandant Hulot has not yet started from
Fougeres."

"Ho, ho, friend driver!" said the youngest of the travellers, "you risk
nothing but your own carcass! If you had a thousand francs about you,
as I have, and were known to be a good patriot, you wouldn't take it so
easy."

"You are pretty free with your tongue, any way," said the driver,
shaking his head.

"Count your lambs, and the wolf will eat them," remar