On a week day at this hour he would already have begun to slake his thirst.

He is parched, he burns, he drags himself from group to group.

The wait is longer than he can stand.
Suddenly every one looks out to the street through the still open door.
A carriage is making its way towards the church; it has a green body and silver lamps.

The old coachman, whose great glove sways the slender scepter of a whip, is so adorned with overlapping capes that he suggests several men on the top of each other.

The black horse is prancing.
"He shines like a piano," says Benoit.
The Baroness is in the carriage.