“Horses?” repeated the waiter blandly. “Monsieur said nothing about horses.”
M. Gombard dropped his knife and fork with a clatter, and looked round at the man.
“What use can the chaise be to me without horses?” he said. “Does it go by steam, or do you expect me to carry it on my head?”
“Assuredly not, monsieur; that would be of the last impossibility,” replied the waiter demurely.
“The aborigines of Cabicol are idiots, apparently,” observed M.
Gombard, still looking straight at the man, but with a broad, speculative stare, as if he had been a curious stone or an unknown variety of dog.
“Yes, monsieur,” said the waiter, with ready assent. If a traveller had declared the aborigines of Cabicol to be buffaloes, he would have assented just as readily; he did not care a dry pea for the aborigines, whoever they might be; he did not know them even by sight, so why should he stand up for them? Besides, every traveller represented a tip, and he was not a man to quarrel with his bread and butter.
“What’s to be done?” said M. Gombard. “I must have horses; where am I to get them?”
“I doubt that there is a horse in the town to-day which can be placed at monsieur’s disposal. This is the grand market day at Luxort, and everybody is gone there, and to-morrow the beasts will be too tired to start for a fresh journey; but on Friday I dare say monsieur could find a pair, if he does not mind waiting till then.”
“There is nothing at the present moment I should mind much more, nothing that could be more disagreeable to me,” said M. Gombard.