Mario was vanquished by this exaggerated flattery, and, spurring his horse, rode away toward Briantes at a gallop.
Aristandre followed him, and was to return to the marquis as soon as he had escorted the child back to the château.
The night, like the preceding one, was decidedly mild for the season. The sky, sometimes overcast, sometimes swept clear by gusts of warm air, was very dark when the young horseman and his attendant galloped into the ravine and rode under the venerable trees of the village.
As they rapidly ascended one of the narrow undulating roads, lined with hedges, which served the purposes of streets between the thirty or forty firesides of which the village consisted, Mario's horse, which was leading, shied and snorted with terror.
"What is that?" said the child, sitting like a rock in his saddle. "A drunken man asleep in the road? Pick him up, Aristandre, and take him to his family."
"Monsieur le comte," replied the coachman, who had instantly dismounted, "if he is drunk, you might say he is dead drunk, for he doesn't move any more than a stone."
"Shall I help you?" said the child, dismounting.
He went nearer and tried to distinguish the features of the man, who answered none of Aristandre's questions.
"He may belong hereabout," said the coachman with his accustomed stolidity; "I don't know him; but what I do know is that he is dead or the next thing to it."
"Dead!" cried the child; "right here, in the middle of the village! and no one thinks of helping him!"