He was roused from his reverie by the postilion shouting out to the guard of the mail, which was just before them on the road, to know when they were to take up the passenger who was to occupy the remaining seat in the calèche.
"Where will the Thirteenth meet us?" asked the man.
"At the inn at Schoneber," replied the guard.
The Thirteenth! The word made the painter's blood run cold. The horse-dealer and the sergeant, who had begun to doze in their respective corners, were also disturbed by the ill-omened sound.
"The Thirteenth! The Thirteenth!" muttered the Jew in his beard, still half asleep. "God forbid! Let's have no thirteenth!"
A company of travelling comedians, who occupied the mail, took up the word. "The Thirteenth is coming," said one.
"Somebody will die," cried another.
"Or we shall be upset and break our necks," exclaimed a third.
"No Thirteenth!" cried they all in chorus. "Drive on! drive on! he sha'n't get in!"
This was addressed to the postilion, who just then pulled up at the door of a village inn, and giving a blast with his horn, shouted loudly for his remaining passenger to appear.