“Well, sell it to me, then.”
“I have none.”
“What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see.”
“We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,” added the wheelwright, “an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month—never, that is to say. I might let that to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it pass—and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses.”
“I will take two post-horses.”
“Where is Monsieur going?”
“To Arras.”
“And Monsieur wishes to reach there today?”
“Yes, of course.”
“By taking two post-horses?”
“Why not?”
“Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Certainly not.”
“There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses—Monsieur has his passport?”
“Yes.”