more than he rode—he found more occasions than those of nature, to fall back to the rear of his carriage; till by frequent coming and going, it had so happen’d, that all his wine had leak’d out at the legal vent of the borrachio, before one half of the journey was finish’d.
Man is a creature born to habitudes. The day had been sultry—the evening was delicious—the wine was generous—the Burgundian hill on which it grew was steep—a little tempting bush over the door of a cool cottage at the foot of it, hung vibrating in full harmony with the passions—a gentle air rustled distinctly through the leaves—“Come—come, thirsty muleteer—come in.”
—The muleteer was a son of Adam ; I need not say a word more. He gave the mules, each of ’em, a sound lash, and looking in the abbess’s and Margarita’s faces (as he did it)—as much as to say “here I am”—he gave a second good crack—as much as to say to his mules, “get on”⸺so slinking behind, he enter’d the little inn at the foot of the hill.
The muleteer, as I told you, was a little, joyous, chirping fellow, who thought not of tomorrow, nor of what had gone before, or what was to follow it, provided he got but his scantling of Burgundy, and a little chitchat along with it; so entering into a long conversation, as how he was chief gardener to the convent of Andoüillets , etc. etc. , and out of friendship for the abbess and Mademoiselle Margarita , who was only in her noviciate, he had come along with them from the confines of Savoy , etc. etc. —and as how she had got a white swelling by her devotions—and what a nation of herbs he had procured to mollify her humours, etc. etc. , and that if the waters of Bourbon did not mend that leg—she might as well be lame of both— etc. etc. etc. —He so contrived his story, as absolutely to forget the heroine of it—and with her the little novice, and what was a more ticklish point to be forgot than both—the two mules; who being creatures that take advantage of the world, inasmuch as their parents took it of them—and they not being in a condition to