It was as follows. I had taken my place at St
Quentin to go to Paris; but all the diligences being filled, the _bureau_
expedited a _caleche_ to convey me as far as Compiegne, there to meet the
Paris diligence at nine the next morning. It was a very dark cold night,
and snowed very hard.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock at night, half way between St Quentin and
Compiegne, the axle tree of the carriage broke; we were at least two miles
from any village one way and three the other; but a lone house was close to
the spot where the accident happened. We had, therefore, the choice of
going forward or backward, the postillion and myself helping the carriage
on with our hands, or to take refuge at the lone house till dawn of day. I
preferred the latter; we knocked several times at the door of the lone
house, but the owner refused to admit us, saying that he was sure we were
_gens de mauvaise vie_, and that he would shoot us if we did not go away.
The postillion and I then determined on retrograding two miles, the
distance of the nearest village, and remaining there till morning. We
arrived there with no small difficulty and labour, for it snowed very fast
and heavily, and it required a good deal of bodily exertion to push on the
carriage.
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