The coachman only replied by swearing like a trooper, and whipping up his jaded horses. Then, keeping close to the wall, he strained his eyes in trying to read the numbers of the houses, by the aid of his carriage lamps.
After some moments, the coach again stopped. “I have passed No. 50, and here is a little door with a portico,” said the coachman. “Is that the one?”
“Yes,” said the voice. “Now go forward some twenty yards, and then stop.”
“Well! I never—”
“Then get down from your box, and give twice three knocks at the little door we have just passed—you understand me?—twice three knocks.”
“Is that all you give me to drink?” cried the exasperated coachman.
“When you have taken me back to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where I live, you shall have something handsome, if you do but manage matters well.”
“Ha! now the Faubourg Saint-Germain! Only that little bit of distance!” said the driver, with repressed rage. “And I who have winded my horses, wanted to be on the boulevard by the time the play was out. Well, I’m blowed!” Then, putting a good face on his bad luck, and consoling himself with the thought of the promised drink-money, he resumed: “I am to give twice three knocks at the little door?”
“Yes; three knocks first—then pause—then three other knocks. Do you understand?”
“What next?”