If you see a postilion pressing
his horses and refusing a glass of wine, question the conductor and he
will tell you, snuffing the air while his eye gazes far into space,
"The 'Competition' is ahead."--"We can't get in sight of her," cries
the postilion; "the vixen! she wouldn't stop to let her passengers
dine."--"The question is, has she got any?" responds the conductor.
"Give it to Polignac!" All lazy and bad horses are called Polignac.
Such are the jokes and the basis of conversation between postilions
and conductors on the roofs of the coaches. Each profession, each
calling in France has its slang.
"Have you seen the 'Ducler'?" asked Minoret.
"Monsieur Desire?" said the postilion, interrupting his master. "Hey!
you must have heard us, didn't our whips tell you? we felt you were
somewhere along the road."
Just then a woman dressed in her Sunday clothes,--for the bells were
pealing from the clock tower and calling the inhabitants to mass,--a
woman about thirty-six years of age came up to the post master.
"Well, cousin," she said, "you wouldn't believe me-- Uncle is with
Ursula in the Grand'Rue, and they are going to mass.
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