"Fichtre! the bill of fare will have to be long then."
"Here, my boy," said the count, putting a twenty-franc piece into Chicotin's hand; "here is something for your supper; I propose to treat you, for Georget is quite capable of starting off without any money."
"Thanks, monsieur, we will have a little spree, eh, Georget?—Why, where is he? Out on the road already! Bless my soul! he is capable of making me run all the way to Paris."
Georget was going at the speed of a Basque; Chicotin succeeded in overtaking him, however, and said as he trotted along beside him:
"We'll take a carriage at Vincennes. I have some money, for Monsieur Malberg gave me twenty francs; there's a fine man for you!"
"Why take a carriage? we can go faster on foot."
"Oh, no! not much! and even if we could, is it worth while to use ourselves up and arrive in Paris sick, or to be sick to-morrow? And besides, what hurry is there now? You are sure to find her,—she won't fly away."
"Ah! you are not in love, Chicotin! you don't know what it is to go back to the girl you love; and it seems to me that I have been away from her for years."
"Ah! there's a coucou.—I say, driver, two seats for Paris!"
"On the box, if that suits you?"