At ten o'clock the young girl gave the order to harness the horse. The journey to the next town was a long one; and they had to arrive in time to secure the best place in front of the town-hall.
"And the Captain? He hasn't had breakfast!" cried Castor.
"All the better," said she. "The Captain always eats too much. It will give his stomach a rest. Besides if any one wakes him he's always in a frightful temper. Let him sleep on."
They set out. The caravan moved along at the gentle pace of One-eyed Magpie, a lean old mare, but still strong and willing. They called her "One-eyed Magpie" because she had a piebald coat and had lost an eye. Heavy, perched on two high wheels, rocking, jingling like old iron, loaded with boxes, pots and pans, steps, barrels, and ropes, the caravan had recently been repainted. On both sides it bore the pompous inscription, "Dorothy's Circus, Manager's Carriage," which led one to believe that a file of wagons and vehicles was following at some distance with the staff, the properties, the baggage, and the wild beasts.
Saint-Quentin, whip in hand, walked at the head of the caravan. Dorothy, with the two small boys at her side, gathered flowers from the banks, sang choruses of marching songs with them, or told them stories. But at the end of half an hour, in the middle of some cross-roads, she gave the order: "Halt!"
"What is it?" asked Saint-Quentin, seeing that she was reading the directions on a sign-post.
"Look," she said.
"There's no need to look. It's straight on. I looked it up on our map."
"Look," she repeated. "Chagny. A mile and a half."
"Quite so. It's the village of our château of yesterday. Only to get to it we made a short cut through the woods."