“My friend,” he said to the stableman, “is there a wheelwright here?” “Certainly, sir.” “Do me the service to go and fetch him.” “He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!” Master Bourgaillard, the wheelwright, was standing on his own threshold. He came, examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken. “Can you repair this wheel immediately?” “Yes, sir.” “When can I set out again?” “To-morrow.” “To-morrow!” “There is a long day’s work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir?” “In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest.” “Impossible, sir.” “I will pay whatever you ask.” “Impossible.” “Well, in two hours, then.” “Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.” “The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?” “How so?” “You are a wheelwright?” “Certainly, sir.” “Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once.” “A spare wheel?” “Yes.” “I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.” “In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.” “Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.” “Try, nevertheless.” “It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but a poor country here.” “Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?” The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders. “You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one, I would not let it to you!” “Well, sell it to me, then.” “I have none.” “What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see.” “We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,” added the wheelwright, “an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month—never, that is to say. I might let that to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it pass—and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses.” “I will take two post-horses.” “Where is Monsieur going?” “To Arras.” “And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?” “Yes, of course.” “By taking two post-horses?” “Why not?” “Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o’clock to-morrow morning?” “Certainly not.” “There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses—Monsieur has his passport?” “Yes.”