Georges, after shaking hands with his friend, got into the coach, handling with an air of great importance a portfolio which he placed beneath the cushion of the seat.  He took the opposite corner to that of Oscar, on the same seat.

“This Pere Leger troubles me,” he said.

“They can’t take away our places,” replied Oscar.  “I have number one.”

“And I number two,” said Georges.

Just as Pierrotin reappeared, having harnessed Bichette, the porter returned with a stout man in tow, whose weight could not have been less than two hundred and fifty pounds at the very least.  Pere Leger belonged to the species of farmer which has a square back, a protuberant stomach, a powdered pigtail, and wears a little coat of blue linen.  His white gaiters, coming above the knee, were fastened round the ends of his velveteen breeches and secured by silver buckles.  His hob-nailed shoes weighed two pounds each.  In his hand, he held a small reddish stick, much polished, with a large knob, which was fastened round his wrist by a thong of leather.

“And you are called Pere Leger?” asked Georges, very seriously, as the farmer attempted to put a foot on the step.

“At your service,” replied the farmer, looking in and showing a face like that of Louis XVIII., with fat, rubicund cheeks, from between which issued a nose that in any other face would have seemed enormous.  His smiling eyes were sunken in rolls of fat.  “Come, a helping hand, my lad!” he said to Pierrotin.

The farmer was hoisted in by the united efforts of Pierrotin and the porter, to cries of “Houp la! hi! ha! hoist!” uttered by Georges.

“Oh!  I’m not going far; only to La Cave,” said the farmer, good-humoredly.

In France everybody takes a joke.

“Take the back seat,” said Pierrotin, “there’ll be six of you.”

“Where’s your other horse?” demanded Georges.  “Is it as mythical as the third post-horse.”

“There she is,” said Pierrotin, pointing to the little mare, who was coming along alone.

“He calls that insect a horse!” exclaimed Georges.

“Oh! she’s good, that little mare,” said the farmer, who by this time was seated.  “Your servant, gentlemen.  Well, Pierrotin, how soon do you start?”

“I have two travellers in there after a cup of coffee,” replied Pierrotin.

The hollow-cheeked young man and his page reappeared.

“Come, let’s start!” was the general cry.

“We are going to start,” replied Pierrotin.  “Now, then, make ready,” he said to the porter, who began thereupon to take away the stones which stopped the wheels.

Pierrotin took Rougeot by the bridle and gave that guttural cry, “Ket, ket!” to tell the two animals to collect their energy; on which, though evidently stiff, they pulled the coach to the door of the Lion d’Argent.  After which manoeuvre, which was purely preparatory, Pierrotin gazed up the rue d’Enghien and then disappeared, leaving the coach in charge of the porter.