"Hang it all! and it is twenty leagues?" M. Madeleine took from his pocket the paper on which he had pencilled the figures; they were "5, 6, 8 1/2." "You see," he said, "total, nineteen and a half, or call them twenty leagues." "M. le Maire," the Fleming continued, "I can suit you. My little white horse--you may have seen it pass sometimes--is an animal from the Bas Boulonnais, and full of fire. They tried at first to make a saddle-horse of it, but it reared and threw everybody that got on its back. It was supposed to be vicious, and they did not know what to do with it; I bought it and put it in a gig. That was just what it wanted; it is as gentle as a maid and goes like the wind. But you must not try to get on its back, for it has no notion of being a saddle-horse. Everybody has his ambition, and it appears as if the horse had said to itself,--Draw, yes; carry, no." "And it will go the distance?" "At a trot, and under eight hours, but on certain conditions." "What are they?" "In the first place, you will let it breathe for an hour half way; it will feed, and you must be present while it is doing so, to prevent the ostler stealing the oats, for I have noticed that at inns oats are more frequently drunk by the stable-boys than eaten by the horses." "I will be there." "In the next place, is the gig for yourself, sir?" "Yes." "Do you know how to drive?" "Yes." "Well, you must travel alone and without luggage, in order not to overweight the horse." "Agreed." "I shall expect thirty francs a day, and the days of rest paid for as well,--not a farthing less; and you will pay for the horse's keep." M. Madeleine took three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the table. "There are two days in advance." "In the fourth place, a cabriolet would be too heavy for such a journey, and tire the horse. You must oblige me by travelling in a little tilbury I have." "I consent." "It is light, but it is open." "I do not care." "Have you thought, sir, that it is now winter?" M. Madeleine made no answer, and the Fleming continued,-- "That it is very cold?" Monsieur Madeleine was still silent. "That it may rain?" The Mayor raised his head and said,-- "The tilbury and the horse will be before my door at half-past four to-morrow morning." "Very good, sir," Scaufflaire answered; then scratching with his thumb-nail a stain in the wood of his table, he continued, with that careless air with which the Flemings so cleverly conceal their craft,-- "Good gracious! I have not thought of asking where you are going? Be kind enough to tell me, sir." He had thought of nothing else since the beginning of the conversation, but somehow he had not dared to ask the question. "Has your horse good legs?" said M. Madeleine. "Yes, M. le Maire; you will hold it up a little in going down-hill. Are there many hills between here and the place you are going to?"