“We may feel particularly safe in the hands of these nymphs,” he observed _sotto voce_ to Gilbert, “for they did not, as you may have noticed, treat us to the eternal ‘citizen’ which I am getting so sick of.” Amid laughter they helped to put in the stout Percheron horse. The baskets and a good-sized roll of Mamers cloth were stowed away under the seats, together with a vociferous duck which had not been sold; and, with the eldest sister and Château-Foix seated in front, and Louis with the younger behind, also facing the horse, the equipage rattled out of the market-place. It attracted little attention. A swain, somewhat the worse for drink, who stood in a by-street, and requested the fair charioteer to tell him with whom she had taken up now, narrowly escaped destruction, the shaft catching him with some force and sending him into the gutter, wherein he sat, still repeating his query to the world in general. “That was my second cousin, Michel,” observed the younger sister to Louis. And she added, somewhat unnecessarily: “He was drunk.” The Percheron horse did not exert himself unduly up hills, and the miles rolled past but slowly. The sun was very hot, but the vehicle contained a large faded green umbrella, which the cousins held in turn over the heads of their respective partners. The heat, the hard seat, and the jogging made Gilbert feel tired and sleepy, but Louis kept up an animated conversation with both damsels at once. Occasionally he declared that the captive duck was biting large pieces out of his legs, a witticism which had enormous success. But in the end, despite the hilly road and the horse-flies, they reached the turning to Saint-Ouen. Great were the leave-takings; but the white caps, with many a backward turn, dwindled at last along the side road. “Goddesses with the machine!” yawned Louis. “Good heavens! how thirsty I am!” “No wonder,” retorted the Marquis. “And yet you complain of my talking too much to M. Maillard, a really intelligent man.” “I was paying our fare,” said Louis, yawning again. “One had to do something. Would you rather have kissed them? Let’s get into the wood; this sun makes one damned sleepy.” He thrust his arm into Gilbert’s, and pulled him into the shade. The road to Sillé-le-Guillaume lay through the heart of the forest—a matter of some four miles, so they had been told. It was now six o’clock; there was more than enough time to get to Sillé by dusk—time enough, in fact, to push on to Evron some eight miles beyond, had either of them had the inclination to do so. But, as Louis pointed out with some eloquence, the most sensible thing to do would be to lie down and rest in the wood. He was obviously tired, and Gilbert himself confessed to feeling weary. So they left the main road and plunged along a by-path until, finding a suitable tree, they threw themselves down beneath it.