As they entered the forest of Vincennes the position of beast, man, and master was as follows:—­The coachman, liberally soaked in the kitchen of the aristocrat of the Bourse, was perfectly tipsy, and slept soundly, while still holding the reins to deceive other wayfarers.  The footman, seated behind, was snoring like a wooden top from Germany—­the land of little carved figures, of large wine-vats, and of humming-tops.  The Baron had tried to think; but after passing the bridge at Gournay, the soft somnolence of digestion had sealed his eyes.  The horses understood the coachman’s plight from the slackness of the reins; they heard the footman’s basso continuo from his perch behind; they saw that they were masters of the situation, and took advantage of their few minutes’ freedom to make their own pace.  Like intelligent slaves, they gave highway robbers the chance of plundering one of the richest capitalists in France, the most deeply cunning of the race which, in France, have been energetically styled lynxes —­loups-cerviers.  Finally, being independent of control, and tempted by the curiosity which every one must have remarked in domestic animals, they stopped where four roads met, face to face with some other horses, whom they, no doubt, asked in horses’ language:  “Who may you be?  What are you doing?  Are you comfortable?”

When the chaise stopped, the Baron awoke from his nap.  At first he fancied that he was still in his friend’s park; then he was startled by a celestial vision, which found him unarmed with his usual weapon —­self-interest.  The moonlight was brilliant; he could have read by it —­even an evening paper.  In the silence of the forest, under this pure light, the Baron saw a woman, alone, who, as she got into a hired chaise, looked at the strange spectacle of this sleep-stricken carriage.  At the sight of this angel the Baron felt as though a light had flashed into glory within him.  The young lady, seeing herself admired, pulled down her veil with terrified haste.  The man-servant gave a signal which the driver perfectly understood, for the vehicle went off like an arrow.

The old banker was fearfully agitated; the blood left his feet cold and carried fire to his brain, his head sent the flame back to his heart; he was chocking.  The unhappy man foresaw a fit of indigestion, but in spite of that supreme terror he stood up.

“Follow qvick, fery qvick.—­Tam you, you are ashleep!” he cried.  “A hundert franc if you catch up dat chaise.”

At the words “A hundred francs,” the coachman woke up.  The servant behind heard them, no doubt, in his dreams.  The baron reiterated his orders, the coachman urged the horses to a gallop, and at the Barriere du Trone had succeeded in overtaking a carriage resembling that in which Nucingen had seen the divine fair one, but which contained a swaggering head-clerk from some first-class shop and a lady of the Rue Vivienne.

This blunder filled the Baron with consternation.