"A philosopher endures such disasters, in fortune, in love, or in pleasure," said Dubourg; "but there are things against which even philosophy cannot prevail; as, for instance, being attacked and murdered by brigands on the highroad."
These words made Ménard shudder; his face lengthened, his expression became anxious, and he turned to Dubourg, whose features wore a gloomy look in which there was nothing reassuring.
"Such affairs are, in truth, very unpleasant for travellers. They say, monsieur le baron, that travelling is very dangerous in Italy. You have travelled so much, that you can probably tell us."
"Unquestionably there are brigands in Italy, Monsieur Ménard. The peculiarity of that country is that the roads are most dangerous at noon, for no one but the brigands dares to face the hot sun at that time of day. However, if there are highway robbers in the Apennines and in Germany and England, unfortunately there's no lack of them in France. It's quite as dangerous now to travel in France."
"What! in France, monsieur le baron? I thought that the roads were perfectly safe."
"Then you don't read the papers, Monsieur Ménard?"
"Very rarely."
"If you did, you would see that the forests of Sénart, Bondy, Fontainebleau, and even Villers-Cotterets, all have their bands of robbers."
"Mon Dieu!"
"Unfortunately, the villains are becoming more savage day by day. They used to content themselves with robbing you, but now they beat you with clubs, and you're lucky if you leave their hands alive."