For some time back we have had the
sound of cannon in our ears; and now, a little past Franchard, we
find a mounted trooper holding a led horse, who brings the wagonette
to a stand. The artillery is practising in the Quadrilateral, it
appears; passage along the Route Ronde formally interdicted for the
moment. There is nothing for it but to draw up at the glaring cross-
roads and get down to make fun with the notorious Cocardon, the most
ungainly and ill-bred dog of all the ungainly and ill-bred dogs of
Barbizon, or clamber about the sandy banks. And meanwhile the
doctor, with sun umbrella, wide Panama, and patriarchal beard, is
busy wheedling and (for aught the rest of us know) bribing the too
facile sentry. His speech is smooth and dulcet, his manner dignified
and insinuating. It is not for nothing that the Doctor has voyaged
all the world over, and speaks all languages from French to
Patagonian. He has not come borne from perilous journeys to be
thwarted by a corporal of horse. And so we soon see the soldier's
mouth relax, and his shoulders imitate a relenting heart. 'EN
VOITURE, MESSIEURS, MESDAMES,' sings the Doctor; and on we go again
at a good round pace, for black care follows hard after us, and
discretion prevails not a little over valour in some timorous spirits
of the party.
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