“No! they’re dogs! harpies!  Suppose I appeal to Monsieur Moreau, the steward at Presles? he is such a kind man,” thought Pierrotin, struck with a new idea.  “Perhaps he would take my note for six months.”

At this moment a footman in livery, carrying a leather portmanteau and coming from the Touchard establishment, where he had gone too late to secure places as far as Chambly, came up and said:—­

“Are you Pierrotin?”

“Say on,” replied Pierrotin.

“If you would wait a quarter of an hour, you could take my master.  If not, I’ll carry back the portmanteau and try to find some other conveyance.”

“I’ll wait two, three quarters, and throw a little in besides, my lad,” said Pierrotin, eyeing the pretty leather trunk, well buckled, and bearing a brass plate with a coat of arms.

“Very good; then take this,” said the valet, ridding his shoulder of the trunk, which Pierrotin lifted, weighed, and examined.

“Here,” he said to his porter, “wrap it up carefully in soft hay and put it in the boot.  There’s no name upon it,” he added.

“Monseigneur’s arms are there,” replied the valet.

“Monseigneur!  Come and take a glass,” said Pierrotin, nodding toward the Cafe de l’Echiquier, whither he conducted the valet.  “Waiter, two absinthes!” he said, as he entered.  “Who is your master? and where is he going?  I have never seen you before,” said Pierrotin to the valet as they touched glasses.

“There’s a good reason for that,” said the footman.  “My master only goes into your parts about once a year, and then in his own carriage.  He prefers the valley d’Orge, where he has the most beautiful park in the neighborhood of Paris, a perfect Versailles, a family estate of which he bears the name.  Don’t you know Monsieur Moreau?”

“The steward of Presles?”

“Yes.  Monsieur le Comte is going down to spend a couple of days with him.”

“Ha! then I’m to carry Monsieur le Comte de Serizy!” cried the coach-proprietor.

“Yes, my land, neither more nor less.  But listen! here’s a special order.  If you have any of the country neighbors in your coach you are not to call him Monsieur le comte; he wants to travel ‘en cognito,’ and told me to be sure to say he would pay a handsome pourboire if he was not recognized.”

“So!  Has this secret journey anything to do with the affair which Pere Leger, the farmer at the Moulineaux, came to Paris the other day to settle?”

“I don’t know,” replied the valet, “but the fat’s in the fire.  Last night I was sent to the stable to order the Daumont carriage to be ready to go to Presles at seven this morning.  But when seven o’clock came, Monsieur le comte countermanded it.  Augustin, his valet de chambre, attributes the change to the visit of a lady who called last night, and again this morning,—­he thought she came from the country.”

“Could she have told him anything against Monsieur Moreau?—­the best of men, the most honest of men, a king of men, hey!  He might have made a deal more than he has out of his position, if he’d chosen; I can tell you that.”