Whereafter the oaths sounded more muffled, while there was a scampering down from the high altitude of the coachman's box and a confused murmur of voices.
It was then close on eight o'clock: Lyons was distant still some dozen miles or so—and the night by now was darker than pitch.
M. le Comte, roused from fitful slumbers and trying to gather his wandering wits, put his head out of the window: "What is it, Pierre?" he called out loudly. "What has happened?"
"It's this confounded ditch, M. le Comte," came in a gruff voice from out the darkness. "I didn't know the bridge had entirely broken down. This sacré government will not look after the roads properly."
"Are you there, Maurice?" called the Comte.
But strangely enough there came no answer to his call. M. de St. Genis must have fallen back some little distance in the rear, else he surely would have heard something of the clatter, the shouts and the swearing which were attending the present unfortunate contretemps.
"Maurice! where are you?" called the Comte again. And still no answer.
Pierre was continuing his audible mutterings. "Darkness as black as——": then he shouted with a yet more forcible volley of oaths: "Jean! you oaf! get hold of the off mare, can't you? And you, what's your name, you fool? ease the near gelding. Heavens above, what dolts!"
"Stop a moment," cried M. le Comte, "wait till the ladies can get out. This pulling and lurching is unbearable."
"Ease a moment," commanded Pierre stolidly. "Go to the near door, Jean, and help the master out of the carriage."