She looked up and down the road helplessly. There were several other wagons approaching, all going in the same direction—cityward. She realized that they were country people, farmers, taking their vegetables and flowers to the markets.
The first one to reach her was driven by a buxom-looking young woman, wearing a plaid shawl. Grace hailed her. "Will you be so good, Madame, as to take me to Paris?"
The woman glanced at her shrewdly. "I have a heavy load, Mademoiselle," she replied. Her voice was cold, uninterested.
"I will pay you five francs—"
The words had barely left Grace's lips, before the woman had pulled up her horse. "Five francs, Mademoiselle? That is another matter. Get in."
Grace clambered up beside the woman and glanced down the road ahead. The canvas-covered wagon was still in sight—mounting a hill some three or four hundred yards ahead.
The woman looked at her curiously, noting her dress, her hands, her shoes. "You are not of the country, Mademoiselle," she remarked, pleasantly.
"No. I belong in Paris." She turned to her companion. "I should like to return there as quickly as possible."
"My Susette does not care to go above a walk," the woman remarked, gazing at her horse, plodding along with mechanical steps, as though utterly unconcerned as to whether or not they ever reached Paris. The wagon ahead was now out of sight, over the brow of the hill.
"Would you like to make a louis?" Grace took a gold piece from her purse and held it in the sunlight. It glistened brightly.