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‘In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.’
‘Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.’
‘Try, nevertheless.’
‘It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels.
We are but a poor country here.’
‘Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?’
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the
tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.
‘You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I
had one, I would not let it to you!’
‘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 to-day?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘By taking two post-horses?’
‘Why not?’
‘Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives