want to get out a moment."

Pierrotin hurried his horses through the village street of Moisselles,
at the end of which was the inn where all travellers stopped. This
short distance was done in silence.

"Where is that young fool going?" asked the count, drawing Pierrotin
into the inn-yard.

"To your steward. He is the son of a poor lady who lives in the rue de
la Cerisaie, to whom I often carry fruit, and game, and poultry from
Presles. She is a Madame Husson."

"Who is that man?" inquired Pere Leger of Pierrotin when the count had
left him.

"Faith, I don't know," replied Pierrotin; "this is the first time I
have driven him. I shouldn't be surprised if he was that prince who
owns Maffliers. He has just told me to leave him on the road near
there; he doesn't want to go on to Isle-Adam."

"Pierrotin thinks he is the master of Maffliers," said Pere Leger,
addressing Georges when he got back into the coach.

The three young fellows were now as dull as thieves caught in the act;
they dared not look at each other, and were evidently considering the
consequences of their fibs.

"This is what is called 'suffering for license sake,'" said Mistigris.