The equipage presented various fantastic resemblances to decrepit old men who have gone through a goodly number of catarrhs and apoplexies and whom death respects; it moaned as it rolled, and squeaked spasmodically. Like a traveller overtaken by sleep, it rocked alternately forward and back, as though it tried to resist the violent action of two little Breton horses which dragged it along a road which was more than rough. This monument of a past era contained three travellers, who, on leaving Ernee, where they had changed horses, continued a conversation begun with the driver before reaching the little town. “What makes you think the Chouans are hereabouts?” said the coachman. “The Ernee people tell me that Commandant Hulot has not yet started from Fougeres.” “Ho, ho, friend driver!” said the youngest of the travellers, “you risk nothing but your own carcass! If you had a thousand francs about you, as I have, and were known to be a good patriot, you wouldn’t take it so easy.” “You are pretty free with your tongue, any way,” said the driver, shaking his head. “Count your lambs, and the wolf will eat them,” remarked another of the travellers. This man, who was dressed in black, seemed to be about forty years old, and was, probably, the rector of some parish in the neighborhood. His chin rested on a double fold of flesh, and his florid complexion indicated a priest. Though short and fat, he displayed some agility when required to get in or out of the vehicle. “Perhaps you are both Chouans!” cried the man of the thousand francs, whose ample goatskin, covering trousers of good cloth and a clean waistcoat, bespoke a rich farmer. “By the soul of Saint Robespierre! I swear you shall be roughly handled.” He turned his gray eyes from the driver to his fellow-travellers and showed them a pistol in his belt. “Bretons are not afraid of that,” said the rector, disdainfully. “Besides, do we look like men who want your money?” Every time the word “money” was mentioned the driver was silent, and the rector had wit enough to doubt whether the patriot had any at all, and to suspect that the driver was carrying a good deal. “Are you well laden, Coupiau?” he asked. “Oh, no, Monsieur Gudin,” replied the coachman. “I’m carrying next to nothing.” The priest watched the faces of the patriot and Coupiau as the latter made this answer, and both were imperturbable. “So much the better for you,” remarked the patriot. “I can now take measures to save my property in case of danger.” Such despotic assumption nettled Coupiau, who answered gruffly: “I am the master of my own carriage, and so long as I drive you--” “Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?” said the other, sharply interrupting him. “Neither the one nor the other,” replied Coupiau. “I’m a postilion, and, what is more, a Breton,--consequently, I fear neither Blues nor nobles.” “Noble thieves!” cried the patriot, ironically.