In the comfortable civilisation of France, the stage-coach usually begins where the railroad ends; and however remote a destination or tedious a journey, an ultimate and safe arrival is reasonably certain. This was the reflection which cheered the traveller when he began to search for Senez, an ancient city of the Romans which was christianised in the early centuries and enjoyed the rank of Bishopric until the Revolution of '89. In spite of this dignified rank and the tenacity of an ancient foundation, it lies so far from modern ken that even worthies who live fifty miles away could only say that “Senez is not much of a place, but it doubtless may be found ten—perhaps fifteen—or even twenty kilometres behind the railroad.”
“If Monsieur alighted at Barrême, probably the mail for Senez would be left there too. And where letters go, some man or beast must carry them, and one could always follow.”
With these vague directions, the traveller set gaily out for Barrême, where a greater than he had spent one bleak March night on the anxious journey from Elba to Paris. The town shows no trace of Napoleon's hurried visit. It looks a mere sleepy hamlet, and when the traveller left the train he had already decided to push his journey onward.
“To Senez?” A man stepped up in answer to his inquiry. “Certainly there was a way to get there, the mail-coach started in an hour. And a hotel? A very good hotel—not Parisian perhaps, but hot food, a bottle of good wine, and a clean bed. Could one desire more on this earth?”
The traveller thought not, and left the station—to stand transfixed before the most melancholy conveyance that ever bore the high-sounding name of “mail-coach.” A little wagon in whose interior six thin persons might have crowded, old windows shaking in their frames, the remains of a coat of yellow paint, and in front a seat which a projecting bit of roof protected from the sun,—this was the mail-coach of Senez, drawn by a dejected, small brown mule, ragged with age, and a gaunt white horse who towered above him. To complete the equipage, this melancholy pair were hitched with ropes.
In due course of time the driver came, hooked an ancient tin box marked “Lettres” to the dash-board, threw in a sacking-bag, and cap in hand, invited the traveller to mount with him “where there was air.” The long whip cracked authoritatively, the postilion, a beautiful black dog, jumped to the roof, and the mail-coach of Senez, with rattle and creak, started on its scheduled run.
“Houp-là, thou bag of lazy bones done up in a brown skin! Ho-là, thou whited sepulchre, thinkest thou I will get out and carry thee? Take this and that.”
“THE MAIL-COACH OF SENEZ.” [To List]