It was past eight o'clock.

Under the enormous porch or passage, above which could be read on a long sign, "Hotel du Lion d'Argent," stood the stablemen and porters of the coaching-lines watching the lively start of the vehicles which deceives so many travellers, making them believe that the horses will be kept to that vigorous gait.
"Shall I harness up, master ?" asked Pierrotin's hostler, when there was nothing more to be seen along the road.
"It is a quarter-past eight, and I don't see any travellers," replied Pierrotin.

"Where have they poked themselves?
Yes, harness up all the same.

And there are no parcels either! Twenty good Gods! a fine day like this, and I've only four booked! A pretty state of things for a Saturday! It is always the same when you want money! A dog's life, and a dog's business!" "If you had more, where would you put them?
There's nothing left but the cabriolet," said the hostler, intending to soothe Pierrotin.
"You forget the new coach!" cried Pierrotin.
"Have you really got it ?" asked the man, laughing, and showing a set of teeth as white and broad as almonds.
"You old good-for-nothing! It starts to-morrow, I tell you; and I want at least eighteen passengers for it." "Ha, ha! a fine affair; it'll warm up the road," said the hostler.
"A coach like that which runs to Beaumont, hey?
Flaming! painted red and gold to make Touchard burst with envy! It takes three horses! I have bought a mate for Rougeot, and Bichette will go finely in unicorn.
Come, harness up!" added Pierrotin, glancing out towards the street, and stuffing the tobacco into his clay pipe.

"I see a lady and lad over there with packages under their arms; they are coming to the Lion d'Argent, for they've turned a deaf ear to the coucous.