You think a good deal of this horse; your consider him an excellent one and he cost you twelve hundred francs.  When a man has the honor of being the father of a family, he thinks as much of twelve hundred francs as you think of this horse.  You see at once the frightful amount of your extra expenses, in case Coco should have to lie by.  For two days you will have to take hackney coaches to go to your business.  You wife will pout if she can’t go out:  but she will go out, and take a carriage.  The horse will cause the purchase of numerous extras, which you will find in your coachman’s bill,—­your only coachman, a model coachman, whom you watch as you do a model anybody.

To these thoughts you give expression in the gentle movement of the whip as it falls upon the animal’s ribs, up to his knees in the black dust which lines the road in front of La Verrerie.

At this moment, little Adolphe, who doesn’t know what to do in this rolling box, has sadly twisted himself up into a corner, and his grandmother anxiously asks him, “What is the matter?”

“I’m hungry,” says the child.

“He’s hungry,” says the mother to her daughter.

“And why shouldn’t he be hungry?  It is half-past five, we are not at the barrier, and we started at two!”

“Your husband might have treated us to dinner in the country.”

“He’d rather make his horse go a couple of leagues further, and get back to the house.”

“The cook might have had the day to herself.  But Adolphe is right, after all:  it’s cheaper to dine at home,” adds the mother-in-law.

“Adolphe,” exclaims your wife, stimulated by the word “cheaper,” “we go so slow that I shall be seasick, and you keep driving right in this nasty dust.  What are you thinking of?  My gown and hat will be ruined!”

“Would you rather ruin the horse?” you ask, with the air of a man who can’t be answered.

“Oh, no matter for your horse; just think of your son who is dying of hunger:  he hasn’t tasted a thing for seven hours.  Whip up your old horse!  One would really think you cared more for your nag than for your child!”

You dare not give your horse a single crack with the whip, for he might still have vigor enough left to break into a gallop and run away.

“No, Adolphe tries to vex me, he’s going slower,” says the young wife to her mother.  “My dear, go as slow as you like.  But I know you’ll say I am extravagant when you see me buying another hat.”

Upon this you utter a series of remarks which are lost in the racket made by the wheels.

“What’s the use of replying with reasons that haven’t got an ounce of common-sense?” cries Caroline.

You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to the horse, to avoid an accident.

“That’s right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you’ll be rid of us.  Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger.  See how pale he is!”