"_Vous avez eu votre cafe? Eh bien alors--allons! pour passer chez
mon ami_ VESQUIER," says DAUBINET, at the same time signalling a
meandering fly-driver who, having pulled up near the Cathedral, is
sitting lazily on his box perusing a newspaper. He looks up, catches
sight of DAUBINET, nods, folds up the paper, sits on it, gives the
reins one shake to wake up the horse, and another, with a crack of
his whip, to set the sleepy animal in motion, and, the animal being
partially roused, he drives across the street to us. DAUBINET directs
him, and on we go, lumbering and rattling through the town, meeting
only one other _voiture_, whose driver appears infinitely amused at
his friend having obtained a fare. Some chaff passes between them,
which to me is unintelligible, and which DAUBINET professes not to
catch, but I fancy, whatever it is, it is not highly complimentary to
our _cocher's_ fares. In one quarter through which we drive, they are
setting up the booths and roundabouts for a Fair.
"They can't do much business here," I observe to my companion.
"Immense!" he replies.--"But there's no one about.
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