rend the air like musket-shots, the red waistcoats of the postilions appear, the horses neigh! the master takes off his cap and waves it, he is seen. The best mounted postilion, the one who was bringing back two dapple-gray road horses, sets spurs to his near-horse, outstrips five great coach horses, the Minorets of the stable, three carriage horses, and arrives in front of the master.
“Have you seen la Dueler?”
On the highroads, coaches are given rather fanciful names; they say la Caillard, la Dueler—the coach from Nemours to Paris—le Grand-Bureau. Every fresh undertaking is called la Concurrence. At the time of the Lecomtes’ enterprise, their carriages were called la Comtesse. “Caillard has not overtaken la Comtesse, but the Grand-Bureau has fairly taken the shine out of her all the same! La Caillard and the Grand-Bureau have sunk les Françaises—the French stage coaches.” If you see the postilion going at a breakneck speed and refusing a glass of wine, question the guard; he will answer, sniffing the wind and looking into space: “La Concurrence is ahead!”—“And we do not see it!” says the postilion.—“The villain, he can’t have allowed the passengers to eat!” “Has he any?” replies the guard. “Then whip up Polignac!” All bad horses are called Polignac. Such are the jokes and the stock of conversation between the postilions and guards on top of the coaches. Every profession has its slang in France.
“Did you look inside la Dueler?”
