Yet at the outset this _capricieuse_ essayed to terrify us out of all assurance of self-confidence, and was the coquette to give us a bad quarter of an hour before she smiled on our suit. For at the very barrier occurred a _contretemps_ that, but for its happy adaptation by us to circumstance, threatened to put a short end to our fugitive romance. We assumed a breezy deportment, under the raking scrutiny of five or six patriot savages--mere arrogant _péagers_, down whose dirty faces the rain trickled sluggishly like oil. Foul straw was stuft into their clogs; over their shoulders, nipped with a skewer at the neck, were flung frowzy squares of sacking, in the hanging corners of which they held the flint-locks of their pieces for dryness’ sake. By the door of the village taxing-house, that stood hard by the barrier, a ferret-faced postilion--the only man of them all in boots--lounged, replaiting the lash of his whip and drawing the string through his mouth. “Graceless weather, citizens!” said I. A squinting _bonnet-rouge_ damned me for _un âne ennuyant_. “Keep thy breath,” said he, “for what is less obvious;” and he surlily demanded the production of our papers. “A good patriot,” growled another, “walks with his face to Paris.” “So many of them have their heads turned, it is true,” whispered Carinne. The squinting man wedged his eyes upon her. “What is that?” he said sharply--“some _mot de ralliement_? Be careful, my friends! I have the gift to look straight into the hearts of traitors!” It was patent, however, that he deceived himself. He snatched the papers rudely from me, and conned them all at cross-purposes. “_Sacré corps!_” he snapped--“what is thy accursed name?” “It is plain to read, citizen.” “For a mincing aristocrat, yes. But, for us--we read only between the lines.” “Read on them, then, the names of Citizen Tithon Riouffe and wife.” The indolent postilion spat the string from his lips, looked up suddenly, and came swiftly to the barrier. “How?” said he, “what name?” I repeated the words, with a little quaver in my voice. The man cockt his head evilly, his eyes gone into slits. “Oh, _le bon Dieu_!” he cried, in acrid tones, “but the assurance of this ragged juggler!” Carinne caught nervously at my hand. “I do not understand the citizen,” said I, in my truculent voice. “But I think, yes.” “That that is not the name on the passport?” “I know nothing of the passport. I know that thou art not Riouffe, and it is enough.” Squint-eyes croaked joyously. “Come!” he said; “here is a sop to the weather.” As for me, I could have whipped Gusman for his talk of a fortuitous resemblance. “I am Riouffe,” said I, stubbornly, “whatever thou mayst think.” “Well, it is said,” cried the postilion. He chirped shrilly like a ferret. “And, if thou art Riouffe, thou art a damned aristocrat; and how art thou the better for that?” “Bah!” I exclaimed. “What dost thou know of me, pig of a stable-boy?”