CHAPTER I

That which was lacking to Pierrotin's happiness

Railroads, in a future not far distant, must force certain industries

to disappear forever, and modify several others, more especially those

relating to the different modes of transportation in use around Paris.

Therefore the persons and things which are the elements of this Scene

will soon give to it the character of an archaeological work. Our

nephews ought to be enchanted to learn the social material of an epoch

which they will call the "olden time." The picturesque "coucous" which

stood on the Place de la Concorde, encumbering the Cours-la-Reine,--

coucous which had flourished for a century, and were still numerous in

1830, scarcely exist in 1842, unless on the occasion of some

attractive suburban solemnity, like that of the Grandes Eaux of

Versailles. In 1820, the various celebrated places called the

"Environs of Paris" did not all possess a regular stage-coach service.

Nevertheless, the Touchards, father and son, had acquired a monopoly

of travel and transportation to all the populous towns within a

radius of forty-five miles; and their enterprise constituted a fine

establishment in the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis. In spite of their

long-standing rights, in spite, too, of their efforts, their capital,

and all the advantages of a powerful centralization, the Touchard

coaches ("messageries") found terrible competition in the coucous for

all points with a circumference of fifteen or twenty miles. The

passion of the Parisian for the country is such that local enterprise

could successfully compete with the Lesser Stage company,--Petites

Messageries, the name given to the Touchard enterprise to distinguish

it from that of the Grandes Messageries of the rue Montmartre. At the

time of which we write, the Touchard success was stimulating

speculators. For every small locality in the neighborhood of Paris

there sprang up schemes of beautiful, rapid, and commodious vehicles,

departing and arriving in Paris at fixed hours, which produced,

naturally, a fierce competition. Beaten on the long distances of

twelve to eighteen miles, the coucou came down to shorter trips, and

so lived on for several years. At last, however, it succumbed to

omnibuses, which demonstrated the possibility of carrying eighteen

persons in a vehicle drawn by two horses. To-day the coucous--if by

chance any of those birds of ponderous flight still linger in the

second-hand carriage-shops--might be made, as to its structure and

arrangement, the subject of learned researches comparable to those of

Cuvier on the animals discovered in the chalk pits of Montmartre.

These petty enterprises, which had struggled since 1822 against the

Touchards, usually found a strong foothold in the good-will and

sympathy of the inhabitants of the districts which they served. The

person undertaking the business as proprietor and conductor was nearly

always an inn-keeper along the route, to whom the beings, things, and

interests with which he had to do were all familiar. He could execute

commissions intelligently; he never asked as much for his little

stages, and therefore obtained more custom than the Touchard coaches.

He managed to elude the necessity of a custom-house permit. If need

were, he was willing to infringe the law as to the number of

passengers he might carry. In short, he possessed the affection of the

masses; and thus it happened that whenever a rival came upon the same

route, if his days for running were not the same as those of the

coucou, travellers would put off their journey to make it with their

long-tried coachman, although his vehicle and his horses might be in a

far from reassuring condition.

One of the lines which the Touchards, father and son, endeavored to

monopolize, and the one most stoutly disputed (as indeed it still is),

is that of Paris to Beaumont-sur-Oise,--a line extremely profitable,

for three rival enterprises worked it in 1822. In vain the Touchards

lowered their price; in vain they constructed better coaches and

started oftener. Competition still continued, so productive is a line

on which are little towns like Saint-Denis and Saint-Brice, and

villages like Pierrefitte, Groslay, Ecouen, Poncelles, Moisselles,

Monsoult, Maffliers, Franconville, Presles, Nointel, Nerville, etc.

The Touchard coaches finally extended their route to Chambly; but

competition followed. To-day the Toulouse, a rival enterprise, goes as

far as Beauvais.

Along this route, which is that toward England, there lies a road

which turns off at a place well-named, in view of its topography, The

Cave, and leads through a most delightful valley in the basin of the

Oise to the little town of Isle-Adam, doubly celebrated as the cradle

of the family, now extinct, of Isle-Adam, and also as the former

residence of the Bourbon-Contis. Isle-Adam is a little town flanked by

two large villages, Nogent and Parmain, both remarkable for splendid

quarries, which have furnished material for many of the finest

buildings in modern Paris and in foreign lands,--for the base and

capital of the columns of the Brussels theatre are of Nogent stone.

Though remarkable for its beautiful sites, for the famous chateaux

which princes, monks, and designers have built, such as Cassan, Stors,

Le Val, Nointel, Persan, etc., this region had escaped competition in

1822, and was reached by two coaches only, working more or less in

harmony.

This exception to the rule of rivalry was founded on reasons that are

easy to understand. From the Cave, the point on the route to England

where a paved road (due to the luxury of the Princes of Conti) turned

off to Isle-Adam, the distance is six miles. No speculating enterprise

would make such a detour, for Isle-Adam was the terminus of the road,

which did not go beyond it. Of late years, another road has been made

between the valley of Montmorency and the valley of the Oise; but in

1822 the only road which led to Isle-Adam was the paved highway of the

Princes of Conti. Pierrotin and his colleague reigned, therefore, from

Paris to Isle-Adam, beloved by every one along the way. Pierrotin's

vehicle, together with that of his comrade, and Pierrotin himself,

were so well known that even the inhabitants on the main road as far

as the Cave were in the habit of using them; for there was always

better chance of a seat to be had than in the Beaumont coaches, which

were almost always full. Pierrotin and his competitor were on the best

of terms. When the former started from Isle-Adam, the latter was

returning from Paris, and vice versa.

It is unnecessary to speak of the rival. Pierrotin possessed the

sympathies of his region; besides, he is the only one of the two who

appears in this veracious narrative. Let it suffice you to know that

the two coach proprietors lived under a good understanding, rivalled

each other loyally, and obtained customers by honorable proceedings.

In Paris they used, for economy's sake, the same yard, hotel, and

stable, the same coach-house, office, and clerk. This detail is alone

sufficient to show that Pierrotin and his competitor were, as the

popular saying is, "good dough." The hotel at which they put up in

Paris, at the corner of the rue d'Enghien, is still there, and is

called the "Lion d'Argent." The proprietor of the establishment, which

from time immemorial had lodged coachmen and coaches, drove himself

for the great company of Daumartin, which was so firmly established

that its neighbors, the Touchards, whose place of business was

directly opposite, never dreamed of starting a rival coach on the

Daumartin line.

Though the departures for Isle-Adam professed to take place at a fixed

hour, Pierrotin and his co-rival practised an indulgence in that

respect which won for them the grateful affection of the country-

people, and also violent remonstrances on the part of strangers

accustomed to the regularity of the great lines of public conveyances.

But the two conductors of these vehicles, which were half diligence,

half coucou, were invariably defended by their regular customers. The

afternoon departure at four o'clock usually lagged on till half-past,

while that of the morning, fixed for eight o'clock, was seldom known

to take place before nine. In this respect, however, the system was

elastic. In summer, that golden period for the coaching business, the

rule of departure, rigorous toward strangers, was often relaxed for

country customers. This method not infrequently enabled Pierrotin to

pocket two fares for one place, if a countryman came early and wanted

a seat already booked and paid for by some "bird of passage" who was,

unluckily for himself, a little late. Such elasticity will certainly

not commend itself to purists in morality; but Pierrotin and his

colleague justified it on the varied grounds of "hard times," of their

losses during the winter months, of the necessity of soon getting

better coaches, and of the duty of keeping exactly to the rules

written on the tariff, copies of which were, however, never shown,

unless some chance traveller was obstinate enough to demand it.

Pierrotin, a man about forty years of age, was already the father of a

family. Released from the cavalry on the great disbandment of 1815,

the worthy fellow had succeeded his father, who for many years had

driven a coucou of capricious flight between Paris and Isle-Adam.

Having married the daughter of a small inn-keeper, he enlarged his

business, made it a regular service, and became noted for his

intelligence and a certain military precision. Active and decided in

his ways, Pierrotin (the name seems to have been a sobriquet)

contrived to give, by the vivacity of his countenance, an expression

of sly shrewdness to his ruddy and weather-stained visage which

suggested wit. He was not without that facility of speech which is

acquired chiefly through "seeing life" and other countries. His voice,

by dint of talking to his horses and shouting "Gare!" was rough; but

he managed to tone it down with the bourgeois. His clothing, like that

of all coachmen of the second class, consisted of stout boots, heavy

with nails, made at Isle-Adam, trousers of bottle-green velveteen,

waistcoat of the same, over which he wore, while exercising his

functions, a blue blouse, ornamented on the collar, shoulder-straps

and cuffs, with many-colored embroidery. A cap with a visor covered

his head. His military career had left in Pierrotin's manners and

customs a great respect for all social superiority, and a habit of

obedience to persons of the upper classes; and though he never

willingly mingled with the lesser bourgeoisie, he always respected

women in whatever station of life they belonged. Nevertheless, by dint

of "trundling the world,"--one of his own expressions,--he had come to

look upon those he conveyed as so many walking parcels, who required

less care than the inanimate ones,--the essential object of a coaching

business.

Warned by the general movement which, since the Peace, was

revolutionizing his calling, Pierrotin would not allow himself to be

outdone by the progress of new lights. Since the beginning of the

summer season he had talked much of a certain large coach, ordered

from Farry, Breilmann, and Company, the best makers of diligences,--a

purchase necessitated by an increasing influx of travellers.

Pierrotin's present establishment consisted of two vehicles. One,

which served in winter, and the only one he reported to the tax-

gatherer, was the coucou which he inherited from his father. The

rounded flanks of this vehicle allowed him to put six travellers on

two seats, of metallic hardness in spite of the yellow Utrecht velvet

with which they were covered. These seats were separated by a wooden

bar inserted in the sides of the carriage at the height of the

travellers' shoulders, which could be placed or removed at will. This

bar, specially covered with velvet (Pierrotin called it "a back"), was

the despair of the passengers, from the great difficulty they found in

placing and removing it. If the "back" was difficult and even painful

to handle, that was nothing to the suffering caused to the omoplates

when the bar was in place. But when it was left to lie loose across

the coach, it made both ingress and egress extremely perilous,

especially to women.

Though each seat of this vehicle, with rounded sides like those of a

pregnant woman, could rightfully carry only three passengers, it was

not uncommon to see eight persons on the two seats jammed together

like herrings in a barrel. Pierrotin declared that the travellers were

far more comfortable in a solid, immovable mass; whereas when only

three were on a seat they banged each other perpetually, and ran much

risk of injuring their hats against the roof by the violent jolting of

the roads. In front of the vehicle was a wooden bench where Pierrotin

sat, on which three travellers could perch; when there, they went, as

everybody knows, by the name of "rabbits." On certain trips Pierrotin

placed four rabbits on the bench, and sat himself at the side, on a

sort of box placed below the body of the coach as a foot-rest for the

rabbits, which was always full of straw, or of packages that feared no

damage. The body of this particular coucou was painted yellow,

embellished along the top with a band of barber's blue, on which could

be read, on the sides, in silvery white letters, "Isle-Adam, Paris,"

and across the back, "Line to Isle-Adam."

Our descendants will be mightily mistaken if they fancy that thirteen

persons including Pierrotin were all that this vehicle could carry. On

great occasions it could take three more in a square compartment

covered with an awning, where the trunks, cases, and packages were

piled; but the prudent Pierrotin only allowed his regular customers to

sit there, and even they were not allowed to get in until at some

distance beyond the "barriere." The occupants of the "hen-roost" (the

name given by conductors to this section of their vehicles) were made

to get down outside of every village or town where there was a post of

gendarmerie; the overloading forbidden by law, "for the safety of

passengers," being too obvious to allow the gendarme on duty--always a

friend to Pierrotin--to avoid the necessity of reporting this flagrant

violation of the ordinances. Thus on certain Saturday nights and

Monday mornings, Pierrotin's coucou "trundled" fifteen travellers; but

on such occasions, in order to drag it along, he gave his stout old

horse, called Rougeot, a mate in the person of a little beast no

bigger than a pony, about whose merits he had much to say. This little

horse was a mare named Bichette; she ate little, she was spirited, she

was indefatigable, she was worth her weight in gold.

"My wife wouldn't give her for that fat lazybones of a Rougeot!" cried

Pierrotin, when some traveller would joke him about his epitome of a

horse.

The difference between this vehicle and the other consisted chiefly in

the fact that the other was on four wheels. This coach, of comical

construction, called the "four-wheel-coach," held seventeen

travellers, though it was bound not to carry more than fourteen. It

rumbled so noisily that the inhabitants of Isle-Adam frequently said,

"Here comes Pierrotin!" when he was scarcely out of the forest which

crowns the slope of the valley. It was divided into two lobes, so to

speak: one, called the "interior," contained six passengers on two

seats; the other, a sort of cabriolet constructed in front, was called

the "coupe." This coupe was closed in with very inconvenient and

fantastic glass sashes, a description of which would take too much

space to allow of its being given here. The four-wheeled coach was

surmounted by a hooded "imperial," into which Pierrotin managed to

poke six passengers; this space was inclosed by leather curtains.

Pierrotin himself sat on an almost invisible seat perched just below

the sashes of the coupe.

The master of the establishment paid the tax which was levied upon all

public conveyances on his coucou only, which was rated to carry six

persons; and he took out a special permit each time that he drove the

four-wheeler. This may seem extraordinary in these days, but when the

tax on vehicles was first imposed, it was done very timidly, and such

deceptions were easily practised by the coach proprietors, always

pleased to "faire la queue" (cheat of their dues) the government

officials, to use the argot of their vocabulary. Gradually the greedy

Treasury became severe; it forced all public conveyances not to roll

unless they carried two certificates,--one showing that they had been

weighed, the other that their taxes were duly paid. All things have

their salad days, even the Treasury; and in 1822 those days still

lasted. Often in summer, the "four-wheel-coach," and the coucou

journeyed together, carrying between them thirty-two passengers,

though Pierrotin was only paying a tax on six. On these specially

lucky days the convoy started from the faubourg Saint-Denis at half-

past four o'clock in the afternoon, and arrived gallantly at Isle-Adam

by ten at night. Proud of this service, which necessitated the hire of

an extra horse, Pierrotin was wont to say:--

"We went at a fine pace!"

But in order to do the twenty-seven miles in five hours with his

caravan, he was forced to omit certain stoppages along the road,--at

Saint-Brice, Moisselles, and La Cave.

The hotel du Lion d'Argent occupies a piece of land which is very deep

for its width. Though its frontage has only three or four windows on

the faubourg Saint-Denis, the building extends back through a long

court-yard, at the end of which are the stables, forming a large house

standing close against the division wall of the adjoining property.

The entrance is through a sort of passage-way beneath the floor of the

second story, in which two or three coaches had room to stand. In 1822

the offices of all the lines of coaches which started from the Lion

d'Argent were kept by the wife of the inn-keeper, who had as many

books as there were lines. She received the fares, booked the

passengers, and stowed away, good-naturedly, in her vast kitchen the

various packages and parcels to be transported. Travellers were

satisfied with this easy-going, patriarchal system. If they arrived

too soon, they seated themselves beneath the hood of the huge kitchen

chimney, or stood within the passage-way, or crossed to the Cafe de

l'Echiquier, which forms the corner of the street so named.

In the early days of the autumn of 1822, on a Saturday morning,

Pierrotin was standing, with his hands thrust into his pockets through

the apertures of his blouse, beneath the porte-cochere of the Lion

d'Argent, whence he could see, diagonally, the kitchen of the inn, and

through the long court-yard to the stables, which were defined in

black at the end of it. Daumartin's diligence had just started,

plunging heavily after those of the Touchards. It was past eight

o'clock. Under the enormous porch or passage, above which could be

read on a long sign, "Hotel du Lion d'Argent," stood the stablemen and

porters of the coaching-lines watching the lively start of the

vehicles which deceives so many travellers, making them believe that

the horses will be kept to that vigorous gait.

"Shall I harness up, master?" asked Pierrotin's hostler, when there

was nothing more to be seen along the road.

"It is a quarter-past eight, and I don't see any travellers," replied

Pierrotin. "Where have they poked themselves? Yes, harness up all the

same. And there are no parcels either! Twenty good Gods! a fine day

like this, and I've only four booked! A pretty state of things for a

Saturday! It is always the same when you want money! A dog's life, and

a dog's business!"

"If you had more, where would you put them? There's nothing left but

the cabriolet," said the hostler, intending to soothe Pierrotin.

"You forget the new coach!" cried Pierrotin.

"Have you really got it?" asked the man, laughing, and showing a set

of teeth as white and broad as almonds.

"You old good-for-nothing! It starts to-morrow, I tell you; and I want

at least eighteen passengers for it."

"Ha, ha! a fine affair; it'll warm up the road," said the hostler.

"A coach like that which runs to Beaumont, hey? Flaming! painted red

and gold to make Touchard burst with envy! It takes three horses! I

have bought a mate for Rougeot, and Bichette will go finely in

unicorn. Come, harness up!" added Pierrotin, glancing out towards the

street, and stuffing the tobacco into his clay pipe. "I see a lady and

lad over there with packages under their arms; they are coming to the

Lion d'Argent, for they've turned a deaf ear to the coucous. Tiens,

tiens! seems to me I know that lady for an old customer."

"You've often started empty, and arrived full," said his porter, still

by way of consolation.

"But no parcels! Twenty good Gods! What a fate!"

And Pierrotin sat down on one of the huge stone posts which protected

the walls of the building from the wheels of the coaches; but he did

so with an anxious, reflective air that was not habitual with him.

This conversation, apparently insignificant, 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 six months."

At this moment a footman in livery, carrying a leather portmanteau and

coming from the Touchard establishment, where he had gone too late to

secure places as far as Chambly, came up and said:--

"Are you Pierrotin?"

"Say on," replied Pierrotin.

"If you would wait a quarter of an hour, you could take my master. If

not, I'll carry back the portmanteau and try to find some other

conveyance."

"I'll wait two, three quarters, and throw a little in besides, my

lad," said Pierrotin, eyeing the pretty leather trunk, well buckled,

and bearing a brass plate with a coat of arms.

"Very good; then take this," said the valet, ridding his shoulder of

the trunk, which Pierrotin lifted, weighed, and examined.

"Here," he said to his porter, "wrap it up carefully in soft hay and

put it in the boot. There's no name upon it," he added.

"Monseigneur's arms are there," replied the valet.

"Monseigneur! Come and take a glass," said Pierrotin, nodding toward

the Cafe de l'Echiquier, whither he conducted the valet. "Waiter, two

absinthes!" he said, as he entered. "Who is your master? and where is

he going? I have never seen you before," said Pierrotin to the valet

as they touched glasses.

"There's a good reason for that," said the footman. "My master only

goes into your parts about once a year, and then in his own carriage.

He prefers the valley d'Orge, where he has the most beautiful park in

the neighborhood of Paris, a perfect Versailles, a family estate of

which he bears the name. Don't you know Monsieur Moreau?"

"The steward of Presles?"

"Yes. Monsieur le Comte is going down to spend a couple of days with

him."

"Ha! then I'm to carry Monsieur le Comte de Serizy!" cried the coach-

proprietor.

"Yes, my land, neither more nor less. But listen! here's a special

order. If you have any of the country neighbors in your coach you are

not to call him Monsieur le comte; he wants to travel 'en cognito,'

and told me to be sure to say he would pay a handsome pourboire if he

was not recognized."

"So! Has this secret journey anything to do with the affair which Pere

Leger, the farmer at the Moulineaux, came to Paris the other day to

settle?"

"I don't know," replied the valet, "but the fat's in the fire. Last

night I was sent to the stable to order the Daumont carriage to be

ready to go to Presles at seven this morning. But when seven o'clock

came, Monsieur le comte countermanded it. Augustin, his valet de

chambre, attributes the change to the visit of a lady who called last

night, and again this morning,--he thought she came from the country."

"Could she have told him anything against Monsieur Moreau?--the best

of men, the most honest of men, a king of men, hey! He might have made

a deal more than he has out of his position, if he'd chosen; I can

tell you that."

"Then he was foolish," answered the valet, sententiously.

"Is Monsieur le Serizy going to live at Presles at last?" asked

Pierrotin; "for you know they have just repaired and refurnished the

chateau. Do you think it is true he has already spent two hundred

thousand francs upon it?"

"If you or I had half what he has spent upon it, you and I would be

rich bourgeois. If Madame la comtesse goes there--ha! I tell you what!

no more ease and comfort for the Moreaus," said the valet, with an air

of mystery.

"He's a worthy man, Monsieur Moreau," remarked Pierrotin, thinking of

the thousand francs he wanted to get from the steward. "He is a man

who makes others work, but he doesn't cheapen what they do; and he

gets all he can out of the land--for his master. Honest man! He often

comes to Paris and gives me a good fee: he has lots of errands for me

to do in Paris; sometimes three or four packages a day,--either from

monsieur or madame. My bill for cartage alone comes to fifty francs a

month, more or less. If madame does set up to be somebody, she's fond

of her children; and it is I who fetch them from school and take them

back; and each time she gives me five francs,--a real great lady

couldn't do better than that. And every time I have any one in the

coach belonging to them or going to see them, I'm allowed to drive up

to the chateau,--that's all right, isn't it?"

"They say Monsieur Moreau wasn't worth three thousand francs when

Monsieur le comte made him steward of Presles," said the valet.

"Well, since 1806, there's seventeen years, and the man ought to have

made something at any rate."

"True," said the valet, nodding. "Anyway, masters are very annoying;

and I hope, for Moreau's sake, that he has made butter for his bread."

"I have often been to your house in the rue de la Chaussee d'Antin to

carry baskets of game," said Pierrotin, "but I've never had the

advantage, so far of seeing either monsieur or madame."

"Monsieur le comte is a good man," said the footman, confidentially.

"But if he insists on your helping to keep up his cognito there's

something in the wind. At any rate, so we think at the house; or else,

why should he countermand the Daumont,--why travel in a coucou? A peer

of France might afford to hire a cabriolet to himself, one would

think."

"A cabriolet would cost him forty francs to go there and back; for let

me tell you, if you don't know it, that road was only made for

squirrels,--up-hill and down, down-hill and up!" said Pierrotin. "Peer

of France or bourgeois, they are all looking after the main chance,

and saving their money. If this journey concerns Monsieur Moreau,

faith, I'd be sorry any harm should come to him! Twenty good Gods!

hadn't I better find some way of warning him?--for he's a truly good

man, a kind man, a king of men, hey!"

"Pooh! Monsieur le comte thinks everything of Monsieur Moreau,"

replied the valet. "But let me give you a bit of good advice. Every

man for himself in this world. We have enough to do to take care of

ourselves. Do what Monsieur le comte asks you to do, and all the more

because there's no trifling with him. Besides, to tell the truth, the

count is generous. If you oblige him so far," said the valet, pointing

half-way down his little finger, "he'll send you on as far as that,"

stretching out his arm to its full length.

This wise reflection, and the action that enforced it, had the effect,

coming from a man who stood as high as second valet to the Comte de

Serizy, of cooling the ardor of Pierrotin for the steward of Presles.

"Well, adieu, Monsieur Pierrotin," said the valet.

A glance rapidly cast on the life of the Comte de Serizy, and on that

of his steward, is here necessary in order to fully understand the

little drama now about to take place in Pierrotin's vehicle.