It has been waiting for
near an hour, while one went to pack a knapsack, and t'other hurried
over his toilette and coffee; but now it is filled from end to end
with merry folk in summer attire, the coachman cracks his whip, and
amid much applause from round the inn door off we rattle at a
spanking trot. The way lies through the forest, up hill and down
dale, and by beech and pine wood, in the cheerful morning sunshine.
The English get down at all the ascents and walk on ahead for
exercise; the French are mightily entertained at this, and keep coyly
underneath the tilt. As we go we carry with us a pleasant noise of
laughter and light speech, and some one will be always breaking out
into a bar or two of opera bouffe. Before we get to the Route Ronde
here comes Desprez, the colourman from Fontainebleau, trudging across
on his weekly peddle with a case of merchandise; and it is 'Desprez,
leave me some malachite green'; 'Desprez, leave me so much canvas';
'Desprez, leave me this, or leave me that'; M. Desprez standing the
while in the sunlight with grave face and many salutations. The next
interruption is more important.
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