ked another of the
travellers.

This man, who was dressed in black, seemed to be about forty years old,
and was, probably, the rector of some parish in the neighborhood.
His chin rested on a double fold of flesh, and his florid complexion
indicated a priest. Though short and fat, he displayed some agility when
required to get in or out of the vehicle.

"Perhaps you are both Chouans!" cried the man of the thousand francs,
whose ample goatskin, covering trousers of good cloth and a clean
waistcoat, bespoke a rich farmer. "By the soul of Saint Robespierre! I
swear you shall be roughly handled."

He turned his gray eyes from the driver to his fellow-travellers and
showed them a pistol in his belt.

"Bretons are not afraid of that," said the rector, disdainfully.
"Besides, do we look like men who want your money?"

Every time the word "money" was mentioned the driver was silent, and the
rector had wit enough to doubt whether the patriot had any at all, and
to suspect that the driver was carrying a good deal.

"Are you well laden, Coupiau?" he asked.

"Oh, no, Monsieur Gudin," replied the coachman. "I'm carrying next to
nothing."

The priest watched the faces of the patriot and Coupiau as the latter
made this answer, and both were imperturbable.

"So much the better for you," remarked the patriot. "I can now take
measures to save my property in case of danger."

Such despotic assumption nettled Coupiau, who answered gruffly: "I am
the master of my own carriage, and so long as I drive you--"

"Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?" said the other, sharply
interrupting him.

"Neither the one nor the other," replied Coupiau. "I'm a postilion, and,
what is more, a Breton,--consequently, I fear neither Blues nor nobles."

"Noble thieves!" cried the patriot, ironically.

"They only take back what was stolen from them," said the rector,
vehemently.

The two men looked at each other in the whites of their eyes, if we
may use a phrase so colloquial. Sitting back in the vehicle was a third
traveller who took no part in the discussion, and preserved a deep
silence. The driver and the patriot and even Gudin paid no attention
to this mute individual; he was, in truth, one of those uncomfortable,
unsocial travellers who are found sometimes in a stage-coach, like a
patient calf that is being carried, bound, to the nearest market. Such
travellers begin by filling their legal space, and end by sleeping,
without the small