"Excuse me sir; I had to execute a commission for a fine gentleman." . . . . "And what is that to me,--your fine gentleman? I'm in a hurry. Come, get on the box." . . . . "One minute, 'squire; I have promised this gentleman to execute his commission, and do it I will." "Ah, you refuse to go! Take care! if you don't start immediately, you shall hear from the lieutenant of police--I give you warning." "All right, I shall have to pass a night in the lock-up, if you choose,--you have the right to put me there; but I will keep my promise to this young gentleman." After new entreaties and new threats, seeing that he made no impression on the obstinacy of the coachman, the big man clothed in black, who was the steward of the Princess of Rohan-Soubise, seated himself, growling. "But," cried the peevish Madelaine, pulling Sicard by the sleeve, "are you ever going to say what you have to say to my husband?" And she pointed to Landry, who had looked on the whole scene with open mouth. "This is the story," said the coachman; "I was passing, an hour ago, through a street in the Faubourg St. Honoré. It rained in torrents. I saw, under the porch of the Hotel Pompadour, a young man who had taken shelter there. He was so lovely . . . one would have taken him for a good angel . . . Although it is the middle of winter, he had on a poor coat of brown cloth trimmed with black lace!!!" "A coat of brown cloth with black trimmings! That is our coat!" cried Dame Landry; "that is to say, it is _Monsieur le Charmant_; it is that cursed marquis; he has only that coat which we have made him on credit . . . it is easy enough to recognize him." "Yes, faith, if ever any one deserved to wear embroidered coats, it is surely he, for as sure as my name is Jerome Sicard, I never saw any one who looked more like a good angel". . . "Bah, go away with your good angel! . . . Has he given you money to bring to us? Where are the three hundred livres that he has owed us for more than a year?" "Money! Goodness gracious! No, indeed, he has not sent it! Who would have the heart to ask it of him? I took him to the Palais Marchand for nothing." . . . "Well, wife"--said the tailor, with a triumphant air. "Hold your tongue, you fool . . . he has cheated this coachman as he has bewitched and cheated you . . . another proof that he is a rogue."