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Cycling downtown and returning by cab seems to have been a common practice in Paris. A couple of contemporary postcards show cabs transporting bicycles.
Source:
Comes in Handy when the Housewife Grows Tired of Pedaling. Photo by V. Gribayédoff.
Outing magazine, vol. XLIII no. 3, December, 1903, p. 246.
Vance Thompson's Cab Drivers / 5
The Paris Cabman / 4
About forty-five thousand horses pull the cabs of Paris. The average life is a little less than three years. They come up from the country – three year olds – from the meadows of Calvados and the fields of Normandy, from Limousin and Finisterre and the Gironde. Chained and strapped into the thills of the breakers' carts they are driven about the city until they are broken to the city sights and sounds – to the horrible steam tram, with its discordant clamor; to the electric tram, that leaves behind it a trail of electric sparks; to passing regiments and processions and, notably, to the policeman with the white wand. Then, being bit-broke, whip-broke, city-broke and heart-broke, he is ready for the fiacre. He goes on until he breaks his knees – and longer, even – until he has worked out his average of three years. All of which tends to make for melancholy. Cocotte has long been a favorite topic for sentimentalists. Childless women, and men who do not smoke have spent, doubtless, too much ink and tears over the Paris cab-horse. My interest is on the human side of things. As for Cocotte, her end is useful but ignoble. Last year Paris ate 14,840 horses – just about the annual number of horses used up in the fiacres. (In addition the good Parisians ate 257 asses and 40 mules, but that has nothing to do with the case.) I used to wish that I were an honest fellow of four shins, but not in Paris – not in Paris!