The so-called _coupe_ was so small, warm and low,
that the three unfortunate occupants of it, a stout gentleman, a nun,
and myself, were so closely wedged in that we could not stir a limb,
whilst the narrow slice of landscape before us was hidden by the driver
and two other passengers, all three of whom smoked incessantly. There
were several equally unfortunate travellers packed in the body of the
carriage, and others outside on the top of the luggage, all arriving at
their destination feeling much as if they had been subjected to the
bastinado! Nothing could be worse, and whilst the heat was intense for
the first part of the journey, the latter part was bitterly cold, yet it
was impossible to move one's arm in order to draw on a wrap. Cold, heat,
cramp, and dejection are the portion of those who trust themselves to
the accursed _Messageries du Jura_.
My sufferings were alleviated by the nun, who managed to extract some
fruit from her basket and handed me a pear and a peach. I had said so
many hard things about nuns during my life, that I hesitated, but the
fleshly temptation was too strong, and I greedily accepted the drop of
water held out in the desert. To my great relief afterwards, I found
that my companion was not occupied in cooking up theology for the
detriment of others, but in the far more innocent task of making soups
and sauces.
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