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THE HOTEL DE LA POSTE.
That same morning, about six o'clock, at the cold gray breaking of a February day, a rider, spurring a post-hack and preceded by a postilion who was to lead back the horse, left Bourg by the road to Macon or Saint-Julien.
We say Macon _or_ Saint-Julien, because about three miles from the capital of Bresse the road forks; the one to the right keeping straight on to Saint-Julien, the other, which deviates to the left, leading to Macon.
When the rider reached this bifurcation, he was about to take the road leading to Macon, when a voice, apparently coming from beneath an upset cart, implored his pity.

The rider called to the postilion to see what the matter was.
A poor market-man was pinned down under a load of vegetables.

He had evidently attempted to hold up the cart just as the wheel, sinking into the ditch, overbalanced the vehicle.

The cart had fallen on him, but fortunately, he said, he thought no limbs were broken, and all he wanted was to get the cart righted, and then he could recover his legs.
The rider was compassionate to his fellow being, for he not only allowed the postilion to stop and help the market-man, but he himself dismounted, and with a vigor one would hardly have expected from so slight a man, he assisted the postilion not only to right the cart, but to replace it on the roadbed.