When, in the early part of November, 1830, the old man came to church on a rainy day in the new carriage, and gave his hand to Ursula to help her out, all the inhabitants flocked to the square,—as much to see the caleche and question the coachman, as to criticize the goddaughter, to whose excessive pride and ambition Massin, Cremiere, the post master, and their wives attributed this extravagant folly of the old man.
“A caleche! Hey, Massin!” cried Goupil. “Your inheritance will go at top speed now!”
“You ought to be getting good wages, Cabirolle,” said the post master to the son of one of his conductors, who stood by the horses; “for it is to be supposed an old man of eighty-four won’t use up many horse-shoes. What did those horses cost?”
“Four thousand francs. The caleche, though second-hand, was two thousand; but it’s a fine one, the wheels are patent.”
“Yes, it’s a good carriage,” said Cremiere; “and a man must be rich to buy that style of thing.”
“Ursula means to go at a good pace,” said Goupil. “She’s right; she’s showing you how to enjoy life. Why don’t you have fine carriages and horses, papa Minoret? I wouldn’t let myself be humiliated if I were you—I’d buy a carriage fit for a prince.”
“Come, Cabirolle, tell us,” said Massin, “is it the girl who drives our uncle into such luxury?”
“I don’t know,” said Cabirolle; “but she is almost mistress of the house. There are masters upon masters down from Paris. They say now she is going to study painting.”
“Then I shall seize the occasion to have my portrait drawn,” said Madame Cremiere.
In the provinces they always say a picture is drawn, not painted.