"You shall just fly along, monsieur," replied Jean Pierre, cracking his whip noisily.

They traversed the town at a gallop and soon reached the highway, but they had gone only a couple of hundred yards when the postilion checked his horses abruptly, and, turning in his saddle, seemed to be waiting for something.

The traveller, surprised at this sudden stop, lowered one of the windows, and asked:

"Well, what's the matter?"

"What's the matter?"

"Yes."

"I've no idea, I'm sure."

"You don't know?"

"I'm sure I don't."

"But why did you stop?"

"Because you called to me to stop."

"I did?"

"Yes, and so I stopped."

"You are mistaken, I didn't call you."

"Yes, you did, monsieur."

"But I tell you I didn't. So go on, and try to make up for the time you have lost."

"You needn't worry about that. I'll drive like mad now. I don't mean there shall be a piece of the carriage left when we get to the next station."

And he again started his horses off at a gallop. But at the end of two hundred yards there was another sudden pause.

"What's the matter now?" demanded the traveller. "Is anything the matter with your harness?" he reiterated, seeing the postilion busying himself with his saddle-girth, uttering the most frightful oaths all the while.

There was no reply but another long string of furious imprecations, however.

"Is your horse disabled?"

Another string of oaths was the only answer.

"At least tell me what is the matter, my boy."

"Oh, never mind, monsieur, I've fixed everything all right now."

"Well, try to keep it all right, then."

"We shall fly along the road like birds, now, never fear, bourgeois,"

responded the youth, springing into the saddle and cracking his whip furiously.

The shades of night were falling, a few stars were already visible in the western horizon, but in the distance one could still dimly discern, by reason of the chalky character of the soil, a steep hill bordered by tall elm-trees.

The post-chaise flew swiftly along for about ten minutes, then the pace slackened, a trot succeeded the gallop, a walk succeeded the trot, and then the vehicle stopped short again.

This time Jean Pierre jumped down and examined one of the Friar's feet with great apparent solicitude.

"_Mille tonnerres!_ one of my horses has gone lame!" he cried.

"Gone lame?" repeated the traveller, with unruffled calmness, though these numerous delays were certainly enough to try the patience of a saint. "Gone lame, did you say?"

"Yes, frightfully lame," answered Jean Pierre, still holding up the horse's foot.

"But how did he happen to go lame so suddenly, my boy?"

"The devil take me if I know."

"Shall we have to stay here?"

"No, bourgeois, there's no danger of that. If I could only see what has made the horse go lame, but it is getting so dark--"

"Yes, and you must be sure not to forget to light the lanterns at our next stopping-place."

"Ah! I can feel what it is with my finger. There is a stone crowded in between the shoe and the frog. If I can only loosen it everything will be all right again."

"Try then, my boy, for really this is getting very tiresome," replied the still calm voice of the traveller.

Inwardly chuckling over the success of his ruse, the postilion continued to loudly curse the stone he was ostensibly endeavouring to remove, until he thought the two strangers must have had plenty of time to reach the appointed spot, after which he uttered a cry of triumph. "The accursed stone is out at last!" he exclaimed. "Now we shall just fly along again."

And again the vehicle started off at a rapid trot. Though night had really come now, thanks to the clearness of the air and the innumerable stars, it was not very dark. On reaching the foot of the hill the postilion stopped his panting horses, and, after springing to the ground, approached the carriage door, and said:

"This is such a steep hill, bourgeois, that I always walk up to make it easier for my horses."

"Very well, my boy," replied the occupant of the vehicle, tranquilly.

The postilion walked along beside his horses for a few seconds, then gradually slackened his pace, thus allowing them to get a short distance ahead of him. Just then, Russell and Pietri emerged from behind a clump of bushes on the roadside, and approached the postilion. The latter, as he walked along, had removed his braided jacket, red waistcoat, and top-boots. The Englishman, who had likewise divested himself of his outer apparel, slipped on the jacket, plunged his feet into the high boots, and seized the hat, after which the postilion, smiling at what he considered an excellent joke, handed his whip to Russell, remarking:

"It is too dark for the gentleman to see anything, so when you mount my horse I'll get up on the rack behind, with your companion."

"Yes, and when we reach the next station I will get down, and you can put on your own clothes again, and I mine. And now here is the twenty francs I promised you."

And slipping a gold piece in Jean Pierre's hand, Russell quickened his pace, and, overtaking the horses about twenty yards from the top of the hill, began to walk along beside them.

It was now too dark for the traveller to perceive the subst.i.tution that had just been effected, but as the carriage reached the summit of the hill the occupant leaned out and said to the supposed postilion:

"Don't forget to put on the brake, my lad."