“Monsieur and Madame de Canalis, three places,” he said.  Then, moving to the door of the interieur, he named, consecutively, “Monsieur Bellejambe, two places; Monsieur de Reybert, three places; Monsieur —­your name, if you please?” he said to Georges.

“Georges Marest,” said the fallen man, in a low voice.

The clerk then moved to the rotunde, before which were grouped a number of nurses, country-people, and petty shopkeepers, who were bidding each other adieu.  Then, after bundling in the six passengers, he called to four young men who mounted to the imperial; after which he cried:  “Start!” Pierrotin got up beside his driver, a young man in a blouse, who called out:  “Pull!” to his animals, and the vehicle, drawn by four horses brought at Roye, mounted the rise of the faubourg Saint-Denis at a slow trot.

But no sooner had it got above Saint-Laurent than it raced like a mail-cart to Saint-Denis, which it reached in forty minutes.  No stop was made at the cheese-cake inn, and the coach took the road through the valley of Montmorency.

It was at the turn into this road that Georges broke the silence which the travellers had so far maintained while observing each other.

“We go a little faster than we did fifteen years ago, hey, Pere Leger?” he said, pulling out a silver watch.

“Persons are usually good enough to call me Monsieur Leger,” said the millionaire.

“Why, here’s our blagueur of the famous journey to Presles,” cried Joseph Bridau.  “Have you made any new campaigns in Asia, Africa, or America?”

“Sacrebleu!  I’ve made the revolution of July, and that’s enough for me, for it ruined me.”

“Ah! you made the revolution of July!” cried the painter, laughing.  “Well, I always said it never made itself.”

“How people meet again!” said Monsieur Leger, turning to Monsieur de Reybert.  “This, papa Reybert, is the clerk of the notary to whom you undoubtedly owe the stewardship of Presles.”

“We lack Mistigris, now famous under his own name of Leon de Lora,” said Joseph Bridau, “and the little young man who was stupid enough to talk to the count about those skin diseases which are now cured, and about his wife, whom he has recently left that he may die in peace.”

“And the count himself, you lack him,” said old Reybert.

“I’m afraid,” said Joseph Bridau, sadly, “that the last journey the count will ever take will be from Presles to Isle-Adam, to be present at my marriage.”

“He still drives about the park,” said Reybert.

“Does his wife come to see him?” asked Leger.

“Once a month,” replied Reybert.  “She is never happy out of Paris.  Last September she married her niece, Mademoiselle du Rouvre, on whom, since the death of her son, she spends all her affection, to a very rich young Pole, the Comte Laginski.”

“To whom,” asked Madame Clapart, “will Monsieur de Serizy’s property go?”