A Start in Life | Page 5

In the early days of the autumn of 1822, on a Saturday morning,
Pierrotin was standing, with his hands thrust into his pockets through
the apertures of his blouse, beneath the porte-cochere of the Lion
d'Argent, whence he could see, diagonally, the kitchen of the inn, and
through the long court-yard to the stables, which were defined in black
at the end of it. Daumartin's diligence had just started, plunging heavily
after those of the Touchards. It was past eight o'clock. Under the
enormous porch or passage, above which could be read on a long sign,
"Hotel du Lion d'Argent," stood the stablemen and porters of the
coaching-lines watching the lively start of the vehicles which deceives
so many travellers, making them believe that the horses will be kept to
that vigorous gait.
"Shall I harness up, master?" asked Pierrotin's hostler, when there was
nothing more to be seen along the road.
"It is a quarter-past eight, and I don't see any travellers," replied
Pierrotin. "Where have they poked themselves? Yes, harness up all the
same. And there are no parcels either! Twenty good Gods! a fine day
like this, and I've only four booked! A pretty state of things for a
Saturday! It is always the same when you want money! A dog's life,

and a dog's business!"
"If you had more, where would you put them? There's nothing left but
the cabriolet," said the hostler, intending to soothe Pierrotin.
"You forget the new coach!" cried Pierrotin.
"Have you really got it?" asked the man, laughing, and showing a set of
teeth as white and broad as almonds.
"You old good-for-nothing! It starts to-morrow, I tell you; and I want at
least eighteen passengers for it."
"Ha, ha! a fine affair; it'll warm up the road," said the hostler.
"A coach like that which runs to Beaumont, hey? Flaming! painted red
and gold to make Touchard burst with envy! It takes three horses! I
have bought a mate for Rougeot, and Bichette will go finely in unicorn.
Come, harness up!" added Pierrotin, glancing out towards the street,
and stuffing the tobacco into his clay pipe. "I see a lady and lad over
there with packages under their arms; they are coming to the Lion
d'Argent, for they've turned a deaf ear to the coucous. Tiens, tiens!
seems to me I know that lady for an old customer."
"You've often started empty, and arrived full," said his porter, still by
way of consolation.
"But no parcels! Twenty good Gods! What a fate!"
And Pierrotin sat down on one of the huge stone posts which protected
the walls of the building from the wheels of the coaches; but he did so
with an anxious, reflective air that was not habitual with him.
This conversation, apparently insignificant, had stirred up cruel
anxieties which were slumbering in his breast. What could there be to
trouble the heart of Pierrotin in a fine new coach? To shine upon "the
road," to rival the Touchards, to magnify his own line, to carry
passengers who would compliment him on the conveniences due to the

progress of coach-building, instead of having to listen to perpetual
complaints of his "sabots" (tires of enormous width),--such was
Pierrotin's laudable ambition; but, carried away with the desire to
outstrip his comrade on the line, hoping that the latter might some day
retire and leave to him alone the transportation to Isle-Adam, he had
gone too far. The coach was indeed ordered from Barry, Breilmann,
and Company, coach-builders, who had just substituted square English
springs for those called "swan-necks," and other old-fashioned French
contrivances. But these hard and distrustful manufacturers would only
deliver over the diligence in return for coin. Not particularly pleased to
build a vehicle which would be difficult to sell if it remained upon their
hands, these long-headed dealers declined to undertake it at all until
Pierrotin had made a preliminary payment of two thousand francs. To
satisfy this precautionary demand, Pierrotin had exhausted all his
resources and all his credit. His wife, his father-in-law, and his friends
had bled. This superb diligence he had been to see the evening before at
the painter's; all it needed now was to be set a-rolling, but to make it
roll, payment in full must, alas! be made.
Now, a thousand francs were lacking to Pierrotin, and where to get
them he did not know. He was in debt to the master of the Lion
d'Argent; he was in danger of his losing his two thousand francs
already paid to the coach-builder, not counting five hundred for the
mate to Rougeot, and three hundred for new harnesses, on which he
had a three-months' credit. Driven by the fury of despair and the
madness of vanity, he had just openly declared that the new coach