The hotel du Lion d’Argent occupies a piece of land which is very deep for its width.  Though its frontage has only three or four windows on the faubourg Saint-Denis, the building extends back through a long court-yard, at the end of which are the stables, forming a large house standing close against the division wall of the adjoining property.  The entrance is through a sort of passage-way beneath the floor of the second story, in which two or three coaches had room to stand.  In 1822 the offices of all the lines of coaches which started from the Lion d’Argent were kept by the wife of the inn-keeper, who had as many books as there were lines.  She received the fares, booked the passengers, and stowed away, good-naturedly, in her vast kitchen the various packages and parcels to be transported.  Travellers were satisfied with this easy-going, patriarchal system.  If they arrived too soon, they seated themselves beneath the hood of the huge kitchen chimney, or stood within the passage-way, or crossed to the Cafe de l’Echiquier, which forms the corner of the street so named.

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.