"Now tell me about your other journey," said I to my guide, hoping to get at some explanation of the mystery.
"Oh, that is a journey never to forget! I'll remember that one for many a day! Ah, the old scoundrel! The old brigand! The sly old fox!"
"Voyons, come, tell me about it, mon garçon; the thought of it seems to put you in an ill temper."
"Ill temper! You better believe it does, and a good reason. It is not so much for the trick he played on me as for the mean way he did it,—and then to think of his having called me his good friend, the old monster! Son bon ami!
"You shall hear the whole story, monsieur.
"That ride was about three months ago. It was my turn next to ride. I was warming myself in the stable between my horses, for it was very cold. About eleven o'clock in the morning I heard click-clack, click-clack, a cracking of the whip for all the world as if for another hundred sous for the guide, and the voice of Jean Pierre all out of breath calling out, 'Two carriage horses!'
"'Bon,' said I, 'here is a good thing and it is my turn to go; 'so I went out to get a look at the traveller.
"Well, there stood a sort of an old gig with a leather apron, a thing we used to call a berlingot; the whole affair so covered and spattered with mud that you couldn't tell its colour.
"I said to myself: 'Good! 'Tis a doctor who is hurrying to see some one at the point of death.' But, saprejeu! What do I hear but the voice of the dying man himself calling out from the depths of the berlingot, calling as loud as it could call—half a cough—half a sniffle:
"'Ah, beggar of a postilion! Ah, miserable wretch! Do you mean to kill me tearing over the roads like this?'