"So much the better for you," remarked the patriot. "I can now take
measures to save my property in case of danger."
Such despotic assumption nettled Coupiau, who answered gruffly: "I am
the master of my own carriage, and so long as I drive you--"
"Are you a patriot, or are you a Chouan?" said the other, sharply
interrupting him.
"Neither the one nor the other," replied Coupiau. "I'm a postilion,
and, what is more, a Breton,--consequently, I fear neither Blues nor
nobles."
"Noble thieves!" cried the patriot, ironically.
"They only take back what was stolen from them," said the rector,
vehemently.
The two men looked at each other in the whites of their eyes, if we
may use a phrase so colloquial. Sitting back in the vehicle was a
third traveller who took no part in the discussion, and preserved a
deep silence. The driver and the patriot and even Gudin paid no
attention to this mute individual; he was, in truth, one of those
uncomfortable, unsocial travellers who are found sometimes in a
stage-coach, like a patient calf that is being carried, bound, to the
nearest market. Such travellers begin by filling their legal space,
and end by sleeping, without the smallest respect for their fellow-
beings, on a neighbor's shoulder. The patriot, Gudin, and the driver
had let him alone, thinking him asleep, after discovering that it was
useless to talk to a man whose stolid face betrayed an existence spent
in measuring yards of linen, and an intellect employed in selling them
at a good percentage above cost.
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