“Come along, Papa Reybert,” said Leger, “we are only waiting now for your great man.”
“Here he comes,” said the steward of Presles, pointing to Joseph Bridau.
Neither Georges nor Oscar recognized the illustrious artist, for his face had the worn and haggard lines that were now famous, and his bearing was that which is given by success. The ribbon of the Legion of honor adorned his black coat, and the rest of his dress, which was extremely elegant, seemed to denote an expedition to some rural fete.
At this moment a clerk, with a paper in his hand, came out of the office (which was now in the former kitchen of the Lion d’Argent), and stood before the empty coupe.
“Monsieur and Madame de Canalis, three places,” he said. Then, moving to the door of the interieur, he named, consecutively, “Monsieur Bellejambe, two places; Monsieur de Reybert, three places; Monsieur—your name, if you please?” he said to Georges.
“Georges Marest,” said the fallen man, in a low voice.
The clerk then moved to the rotunde, before which were grouped a number of nurses, country-people, and petty shopkeepers, who were bidding each other adieu. Then, after bundling in the six passengers, he called to four young men who mounted to the imperial; after which he cried: “Start!” Pierrotin got up beside his driver, a young man in a blouse, who called out: “Pull!” to his animals, and the vehicle, drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg Saint-Denis at a slow trot.
But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes. No stop was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through the valley of Montmorency.
It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.
“We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere Leger?” he said, pulling out a silver watch.