“Sir,” said Abbé Coignard, “would it not be better to get that poor fellow out of the midst of these horses wherein he is entangled?”
We all went to work with a will, and when the horses were freed and raised we were able to discover the extent of the damage done. One of the springs was broken, one of the wheels also, and one of the horses lame.
“Fetch a smith,” ordered M. d’Anquetil.
“There is no smith in the neighbourhood,” was the postboy’s reply.
“A mechanic of some kind.”
“There is none.”
“A saddler.”
“There is no saddler.”
We looked round. To the west the vineyards extended to the horizon their long peaceful lines. On the hill smoke came out of a chimney near a steeple. On the other side, the Saone, veiled by a light mist, lost itself slowly in the calm running of her flowing waters. The shadows of the poplars elongated themselves on the banks. The shrill cry of a bird pierced the deep silence.
“Where are we?” asked M. d’Anquetil.