Had the conversation with the wheelwright taken place in an inn-room, it would probably have not been heard by any one,--matters would have remained in this state, and we should probably not have had to record any of the following events; but the conversation took place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably produces a crowd, for there are always people who only ask to be spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright, some passers-by stopped around, and a lad to whom no one paid any attention, after listening for some moments, ran off. At the instant when the traveller made up his mind to turn back, this boy returned, accompanied by an old woman. "Sir," the woman said, "my boy tells me that you wish to hire a conveyance?" This simple remark, made by an old woman led by a child, made the perspiration pour down his back. He fancied he saw the hand which had let him loose reappear in the shadow behind him, ready to clutch him again. He replied,-- "Yes, my good woman, I want to hire a gig." And he hastily added, "But there is not one in the town." "Yes there is," said the old woman. "Where?" the wheelwright remarked. "At my house," the old crone answered. He gave a start, for the fatal hand had seized him again. The poor woman really had a sort of wicker-cart under a shed. The wheelwright and the ostler, sorry to see the traveller escape them, interfered:-- "It was a frightful rattle-trap, and had no springs,--it is a fact that the inside seats were hung with leathern straps--the rain got into it--the wheels were rusty, and ready to fall to pieces--it would not go much farther than the tilbury--the gentleman had better not get into it,"--and so on. All this was true; but the rattle-trap, whatever it might be, rolled on two wheels, and could go to Arras. He paid what was asked, left the tilbury to be repaired against his return, had the horse put into the cart, got in, and went his way. At the moment when the cart moved ahead, he confessed to himself that an instant before he had felt a sort of joy at the thought that he could not continue his journey. He examined this joy with a sort of passion, and found it absurd. Why did he feel joy at turning back? After all, he was making this journey of his free will, and no one forced him to do so. And assuredly nothing could happen, except what he liked. As he was leaving Hesdin, he heard a voice shouting to him, "Stop, stop!" He stopped the cart with a hurried movement in which there was something feverish and convulsive that resembled joy. It was the old woman's boy. "Sir," he said, "it was I who got you the cart." "Well?" "You have given me nothing." He who gave to all, and so easily, considered this demand exorbitant, and almost odious. "Oh, it's you, scamp," he said; "well, you will not have anything."