“As you lost your arm,” replied the son of Czerni-Georges, curtly.
“Then you must have shared in some brilliant action,” remarked Oscar, with a sarcasm not unmixed with bitterness.
“Parbleu! I’ve too many—shares! that’s just what I wanted to sell.”
By this time they had arrived at Saint-Leu-Taverny, where all the passengers got out while the coach changed horses. Oscar admired the liveliness which Pierrotin displayed in unhooking the traces from the whiffle-trees, while his driver cleared the reins from the leaders.
“Poor Pierrotin,” thought he; “he has stuck like me,—not far advanced in the world. Georges has fallen low. All the others, thanks to speculation and to talent, have made their fortune. Do we breakfast here, Pierrotin?” he said, aloud, slapping that worthy on the shoulder.
“I am not the driver,” said Pierrotin.
“What are you, then?” asked Colonel Husson.
“The proprietor,” replied Pierrotin.
“Come, don’t be vexed with an old acquaintance,” said Oscar, motioning to his mother, but still retaining his patronizing manner. “Don’t you recognize Madame Clapart?”
It was all the nobler of Oscar to present his mother to Pierrotin, because, at that moment, Madame Moreau de l’Oise, getting out of the coupe, overheard the name, and stared disdainfully at Oscar and his mother.