CHAPTER II. THE LIVING-WAGON IN THE STORM

A week after the events depicted, a living-wagon drawn by four horses and conducted by two postboys, left Pont-a-Mousson, a pretty town between Nancy and Metz. Nothing like this caravan, as show people style the kind, had ever crossed the bridge, though the good folks see theatrical carts of queer aspect.

The body was large and painted blue, with a baron’s insignia, surmounting a J. and a B., artistically interlaced. This box was lighted by two windows, curtained with muslin, but they were in the front, where a sort of driver’s cab hid them from the vulgar eye. By these apertures the inmate of the coach could talk with outsiders. Ventilation was given this case by a glazed skylight in the “dickey,” or hind box of the vehicle, where grooms usually sit. Another orifice completed the oddity of the affair by presenting a stovepipe, which belched smoke, to fade away in the wake as the whole rushed on.

In our times one would have simply imagined that it was a steam conveyance and applauded the mechanician who had done away with horses.

The machine was followed by a led horse of Arab extraction, ready saddled, indicating that one of the passengers sometimes gave himself the pleasure and change of riding alongside the vehicle.

At St. Mihiel the mountain ascent was reached. Forced to go at a walk, the quarter of a league took half an hour.

Toward evening the weather turned from mild and clear to tempestuous. A cloud spread over the skies with frightful rapidity and intercepted the setting sunbeams. All of a sudden the cloud was stripped by a lightning flash, and the startled eye could plunge into the immensity of the firmament, blazing like the infernal regions. The vehicle was on the mountain side when a second clap of thunder flung the rain out of the cloud; after falling in large drops, it poured hard.

The postboys pulled up. “Hello!” demanded a man’s voice from inside the conveyance, “what are you stopping for?”

“We are asking one another if we ought to go on,” answered one postillion with the deference to a master who had paid handsomely.

“It seems to me that I ought to be asked about that. Go ahead!”

But the rain had already made the road downward slippery.

“Please, sir, the horses won’t go,” said the elder postillion.

“What have you got spurs for?”

“They might be plunged rowels deep without making the balky creatures budge; may heaven exterminate me if–”

The blasphemy was not finished, as a dreadful lightning stroke cut him short. The coach was started and ran upon the horses, wh