The travellers allowed the leather dealer plenty of time, in order not to overtake Madame Florimont. The proprietor of a small carriole offered to drive them whereever they chose to go, representing himself as a public carrier, and assuring them that his vehicle was in condition to take them to Naples, which journey it had made at least fifteen times.
Although the carriole bore no resemblance to the berline of an ordinary carrier, our travellers made the best of it; but before entering, Bertrand satisfied himself that there were no women inside. A dress terrified him; he would not even have left his master alone with a nurse.
The vehicle contained no other passengers save an honest peasant of some fifty years, whom Bertrand scrutinized a long while, to make sure that he was not a woman disguised, while Auguste took his seat, laughing at his companion’s fears.
“Are you going to Italy too, my good man?” Auguste asked the peasant.
“Oh, nenni, monsieur,” was the reply; “I ain’t going so far as that; I’m only just going to my sister’s, who lives a short three leagues out of Lyon; she’s marrying her youngest son Eustache, my nephew.”
“Oho! so you’re going to a wedding? That’s delightful! A wedding’s great fun.”
“Oh, yes, monsieur; for we be all great jokers to our place! and sly dogs!”
“One can see that by looking at you.”
“And the way we drink—it’s a regular benediction!”
“That’s very good,” said Bertrand; “so you have good wines, do you?”