If the post of Auray had arrived, we should have started at once for
Belle-Isle; but they were waiting for it. Transient sailors with bare
arms and open shirts sat in the kitchen of the inn, drinking to pass
away the time.
"At what time is the post due here in Auray?"
"That depends; usually at ten o'clock," replied the innkeeper.
"No, at eleven," put in a man.
"At twelve," said M. de Rohan.
"At one."
"At half-past one."
"Sometimes it doesn't reach here until two o'clock."
"It isn't very regular!"
We were aware of that; it was already three. We could not start before
the arrival of this ill-fated messenger, which brings Belle-Isle the
despatches from _terra firma_, so we had to resign ourselves. Once in a
while some one would get up, go to the door, look out, come back, and
start up again. Oh! he will not come to-day.--He must have stopped on
the way.--Let's go home.--No, let's wait for him.--If, however, you are
tired of waiting gentlemen.... After all, there may not be any
letters.... No, just wait a little longer.--Oh! here he comes!--But it
was some one else, and the dialogue would begin all over again.
At last we heard the beating of tired hoofs on the cobblestones, the
tinkling of bells, the cracking of a whip and a man's voice shouting:
"Ho! Ho! Here's the post! Here's the post!"
The horse stopped in front of the door, hunched its back, stretched its
neck, opened its mouth, disclosed its teeth, spread its hind legs and
rose on its hocks.
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