Luc returned to the coach.
“Will you not have a glass of wine, Monsieur?” asked the man in the frieze coat. “It is a bitter night for spring.”
The Marquis declined pleasantly.
“I suppose we are near the dawn?” he added.
“I think it will be light before the next stage, Monsieur.”
They mounted the step, entered, and closed the door. A heavy smell of oil hung in the air, and the lamp burnt raggedly. From without came the clink of glasses and money, voices, and the stamp of feet.
Luc was roused from the exaltation of his inner thoughts by the question—
“How far are you travelling, Monsieur?”
“To Paris.”
“Ah, a long way.”