Having come neither to buy nor sell horses, we felt crushed, and hoped for the deluge. I proposed to re-enter the train and let it take us whither it would—it mattered not. H.C. calmly suggested suicide.
"What is to be done?" he groaned. "The man refuses to take us to the Hôtel d'Europe. He is not sober; it is useless to argue with him."
"The fair again," laughed the official. "It is responsible for everything just now, and Bretons are not the most sober people at the best of times. Still, if you wish to go to the Hôtel d'Europe, the man must take you. There is no other conveyance and he is bound to do so. But I warn you that it will be full, or the omnibus would have been here."
Turning to the man, he threatened to report him, gave him his orders, and said he should inquire on the morrow how they had been carried out. We struggled into the omnibus, which was already fairly packed with men who looked very much like horsedealers, the surly driver slammed the door, and the station-master politely bowed us away.
The curtain dropped upon Act I.; Comedy or Tragedy as the event might prove.
It soon threatened to be Tragedy. The omnibus tore down a steep hill as if the horses as well as the driver had been indulging, swayed from side to side and seemed every moment about to overturn. Now the passengers were all thrown to the right of the vehicle, now to the left, and now they all collided in the centre. The enraged driver was having his revenge upon us, and we repented our boldness in trusting our lives in his hands. But the sturdy Bretons accepted the situation so calmly that we felt there must still be a chance of escape.
So it proved. In due time it drew up at the Hôtel d'Europe with the noise of an artillery waggon, and out came M. Hellard, the landlord. His appearance, with his white hair and benevolent face, was sufficient to recommend him, to begin with. We felt we had done wisely, and made known our wants.
"I am very sorry," he replied, "but, gentlemen, I am quite full. There is not a vacant room in the hotel from roof to basement."
"Put us anywhere," we persisted, for it would never do to be beaten at last: "the coal-cellar; a couple of cupboards; anything; but don't send us away."
The landlord looked puzzled. He had a tall, fine presence and a handsome face; not in the least like a Frenchman. "I assure you that I have neither hole nor corner nor cupboard at your disposal," he declared. "I have sent away a dozen people in the last hour who arrived by the last train. Why did you not send me word you were coming?"