“Not getting on! we are trotting all the way.”
“Gallop then!” and he began to canter.
Panurge again followed; Gorenflot was in agonies.
“Oh, M. Chicot!” said he, as soon as he could speak, “do you call this traveling for pleasure? It does not amuse me at all.”
“On! on!”
“It is dreadful!”
“Stay behind then!”
“Panurge can do no more; he is stopping.”
“Then adieu, compère!”
Gorenflot felt half inclined to reply in the same manner, but he remembered that the horse, whom he felt ready to curse, bore on his back a man with a hundred and fifty pistoles in his pocket, so he resigned himself, and beat his ass to make him gallop once more.