Jean. Three horses trotted abreast, with
the clatter of hoofs on the granite setts, and the yellow, uproarious
machine jolted violently behind them, fantastic, lighted up, perfectly
empty, and with the driver apparently asleep on his swaying perch above
that amazing racket. I flattened myself against the wall and gasped. It
was a stunning experience. Then after staggering on a few paces in
the shadow of the fort, casting a darkness more intense than that of a
clouded night upon the canal, I saw the tiny light of a lantern standing
on the quay, and became aware of muffled figures making toward it from
various directions. Pilots of the Third Company hastening to embark.
Too sleepy to be talkative, they step on board in silence. But a few low
grunts and an enormous yawn are heard. Somebody even ejaculates: "_Ah!
Coquin de sort!_" and sighs wearily at his hard fate.
The patron of the Third Company (there were five companies of pilots
at that time, I believe) is the brother-in-law of my friend Solary
(Baptistin), a broad-shouldered, deep chested man of forty, with a keen,
frank glance which always seeks your eyes.
He greets me by a low, hearty "_He, l'ami. Comment va_?" With his clipped
mustache and massive open face, energetic and at the same time placid
in expression, he is a fine specimen of the southerner of the calm
type.
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