"Oh, father managed all that. He sent this morning to M. Bradamanti, to ask him to give me leave to go in the country,—the country,—the country," sang or rather screamed the amiable scion of M. Bras Rouge, beating time most melodiously on the window-panes.
"Will you leave off, you young rascal, or are you going to break my window? Oh, here comes a coach!"
"Oh! oh! oh!" shrieked the urchin; "it is my dear Chouette! Oh, how nice the ride in a coach!"
And, looking through the window, they saw reflected upon the red blind of the opposite glass the hideous profile of the Borgnesse. She beckoned to Tortillard, who ran out to her. The coachman descended from his box, and opened the door; Tortillard sprang into the vehicle, which instantly drove off.
Another person beside the Chouette was in the carriage. In the farther corner, and wrapped in an old cloak with a furred collar, his features shrouded by a black silk cap pulled down over his brows, sat the Schoolmaster. His inflamed lids formed a horrible contrast with the white globeless space beneath; and this fearful spectacle was rendered still more hideous by the action of the severe cold upon his seamed and frightful countenance.
"Now, small boy, squat yourself down on the pins of my man; you'll serve to keep him warm," said the Borgnesse to Tortillard, who crouched like a dog close to the feet of the Schoolmaster and the Chouette.
"Now, then, my coves," said the driver, "on we go to the 'ken' at Bouqueval, don't we, La Chouette? You shall see whether I can 'tool a drag' or not."
"And keep your pads on the move, my fine fellow; for we must get hold of the girl to-night."
"All right, my blind un; we'll go the pace."
"Shall I give you a hint?" said the Schoolmaster.