That it was, no doubt, a dark moment, but that he should emerge from it; that, after all, he held his destiny, however bad it might be, in his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought. At bottom, to tell the whole truth, he would have preferred not to go to Arras. Nevertheless, he was going thither. As he meditated, he whipped up his horse, which was proceeding at that fine, regular, and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half an hour. In proportion as the cabriolet advanced, he felt something within him draw back. At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. lay far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all the chilly figures of a winter’s dawn as they passed before his eyes, but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the evening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it, and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical, these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul. Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway, he said to himself, “And yet there are people there within who are sleeping!” The trot of the horse, the bells on the harness, the wheels on the road, produced a gentle, monotonous noise. These things are charming when one is joyous, and lugubrious when one is sad. It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front of the inn, to allow the horse a breathing spell, and to have him given some oats. The horse belonged, as Scaufflaire had said, to that small race of the Boulonnais, which has too much head, too much belly, and not enough neck and shoulders, but which has a broad chest, a large crupper, thin, fine legs, and solid hoofs—a homely, but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours, and had not a drop of sweat on his loins. He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel. “Are you going far in this condition?” said the man. He replied, with an air of not having roused himself from his reverie:— “Why?” “Have you come from a great distance?” went on the man. “Five leagues.” “Ah!” “Why do you say, ‘Ah?’” The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, with his eyes fixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:— “Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league.” He sprang out of the tilbury. “What is that you say, my friend?” “I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here!” The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub, so that the nut no longer held firm.