Then, without troubling himself about his cart and vegetables, which he left in his servant’s charge, the ex-marketman, who was none other than our old acquaintance Montbar, turned his horse’s head toward the Monnet woods, and set out at a gallop. His mount was not a miserable post hack, like that on which Roland was riding. On the contrary, it was a blooded horse, so that Montbar easily overtook the two riders, and passed them on the road between the woods of Monnet and Polliat. The horse, except for a short stop at Saint-Cyr-sur-Menthon, did the twenty-eight or thirty miles between Bourg and Mâcon, without resting, in three hours. Arrived at Mâcon, Montbar dismounted at the Hôtel de la Poste, the only one which at that time was fitted to receive guests of distinction. For the rest, from the manner in which Montbar was received it was evident that the host was dealing with an old acquaintance. “Ah! is it you, Monsieur de Jayat?” said the host. “We were wondering yesterday what had become of you. It’s more than a month since we’ve seen you in these parts.” “Do you think it’s as long as that, friend?” said the young man, affecting to drop his r’s after the fashion of the day. “Yes, on my honor, that’s so! I’ve been with friends, the Trefforts and the Hautecourts. You know those gentlemen by name, don’t you?” “By name, and in person.” “We hunted to hounds. They’re finely equipped, word of honor! Can I breakfast here this morning?” “Why not?” “Then serve me a chicken, a bottle of Bordeaux, two cutlets, fruit--any trifle will go.” “At once. Shall it be served in your room, or in the common room?” “In the common room, it’s more amusing; only give me a table to myself. Don’t forget my horse. He is a fine beast, and I love him better than I do certain Christians, word of honor!” The landlord gave his orders. Montbar stood before the fire, his coat-tails drawn aside, warming his calves. “So you still keep to the posting business?” he said to the landlord, as if desirous of keeping up the conversation. “I should think so!” “Then you relay the diligences?” “Not the diligences, but the mail-coaches.” “Ah! tell me--I want to go to Chambéry some of these days--how many places are there in the mail-coach?” “Three; two inside, and one out with the courier.” “Do I stand any chance of finding a vacant seat?” “It may happen; but the safest way is to hire your own conveyance.” “Can’t I engage a place beforehand?” “No; for don’t you see, Monsieur de Jayat, that if travellers take places from Paris to Lyons, they have the first right.” “See, the aristocrats!” said Montbar, laughing. “Apropos of aristocrats, there is one behind me posting here. I passed him about a mile the other side of Polliat. I thought his hack a little wind-broken.” “Oh!” exclaimed the landlord, “that’s not astonishing; my brothers in the business have a poor lot of horses.” “Why, there’s our man!” continued Montbar; “I thought I had more of a lead of him.”