I plunged on the straight road; the rocky walls seemed to straighten themselves. Emma was prattling.
At first the car hummed cheerfully. However, I was not slow in repenting that I had paid so little attention to it. With a sudden jerk it slowed down; then several more, and its progress was soon no more than a succession of abrupt jumps.
I have said, with regard to this car, that it was the perfection of automatism—pedals and handles reduced to the minimum. Such a machine presents only one drawback. It must be perfectly in order before setting out, for once en route, one has no more influence on it, except to quicken the pace, or to moderate it, but not to fortify it by dosing and repairs.
The prospect of a halt spoiled my good humor.
Meanwhile, the car pursued its jumpy course, and I could not prevent myself laughing.
This manner of advancing recalled to me, in a comical way, the walks I had taken in this very place, with Klotz-Lerne, and the capricious way in which my sham uncle would stop, and then set off again.
Hoping that it was merely a passing indisposition of the machine,—too much oil, for example,—I let the engine run on, and endeavored to find out by the noise it made, which of its functions was defective, and every now and again caused those inequalities of power transmission, which grew more marked at every pause, and some of which were so accentuated, indeed, that we were almost motionless for a second.
My absurd comparison became clearer to me, and that amused me.
“Just like that blackguardly Professor,” I said to myself. “It is amusing!”
“What is the matter?” said my fellow-traveler. “You are not looking cheerful.”