The next day, at five in the afternoon, Antoine, anxious, no doubt, not
to be late, was in the courtyard of the Hôtel de la Poste, harnessing
the three horses which were to relay the mail-coach.
Shortly after, the coach rumbled into the courtyard at a gallop, and was
pulled up under the windows of a room close to the servants’ stairway,
which had seemed greatly to occupy Antoine’s attention. If any one had
paid attention to so slight a detail it might have been observed that
the window-curtain was somewhat imprudently drawn aside to permit the
occupant of the room to see the persons who got out of the coach. There
were three men, who, with the haste of famished travellers, made their
way toward the brilliantly lighted windows of the common room.
They had scarcely entered, when a smart postilion came down the kitchen
staircase, shod simply with thin pumps over which he intended to pull
his heavy riding-boots, These he received from Antoine, slipping five
louis into his hand at the same time, and turned for the man to throw
his riding cape over his shoulders, a protection rendered necessary by
the severity of the weather.
This completed, Antoine returned hastily to the stables and hid in the
darkest corner. As for the man who had taken his place, reassured no
doubt by the high collar of the cape that concealed half of his face,
he went straight to the horses which stood ready harnessed, slipped his
pistols into the holsters, and, profitting by the moment when the other
horses were being led into the stable by their postilion, he took a
gimlet, which might in case of need serve as a dagger, from his pocket,
and screwed the four rings into the woodwork of the coach, one into each
door, and the other two into the body of the coach. After which he
put the horses to with a rapidity and skill which bespoke in him a
man familiar from childhood with all the details of an art pushed to
extremes in our day by that honorable class of society which we call
“gentlemen riders.”
That done, he waited, quieting his restless horses by voice and whip,
judiciously combined, or used in turn.
Everyone knows the rapidity with which the meals of the unhappy beings
condemned to travel by mail are hurried through. The half-hour was not
up, when the voice of the conductor was heard, calling:
“Come, citizen travellers, take your places.”
Montbar placed himself close to the carriage door and recognized Roland
and the colonel of the 7th Chasseurs, perfectly, in spite of their
disguise, as they jumped into the coach, paying no attention whatever to
the postilion.
The latter closed the door upon them, slipped the padlock through
the two rings and turned the key. Then, walking around the coach, he
pretended to drop his whip before the other door, and, in stooping for
it, slipped the second padlock through the rings, deftly turned the key
as he straightened up, and, assured that the two officers were securely
locked in, he sprang upon his horse, grumbling at the conductor who had
left him to do his work. In fact the conductor was still squabbling with
the landlord over his bill when the third traveller got into his place
in the coupé.
“Are you coming this evening, to-night, or to-morrow morning, Père
François?” cried the pretended postilion, imitating Antoine as best he
could.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” answered the conductor; then,
looking around him: “Why, where are the travellers?” he asked.
“Here,” replied the two officers from the interior and the agent from
the coupé.
“Is the door properly closed?” persisted Père François.
“I’ll answer for that,” said Montbar.
“Then off you go, baggage!” cried the conductor, as he climbed into the
coupé and closed the door behind him.
The postilion did not wait to be told twice; he started his horses,
digging his spurs into the belly of the one he rode and lashing the
others vigorously. The mail-coach dashed forward at a gallop.
Montbar drove as if he had never done anything else in his life; as he
crossed the town the windows rattled and the houses shook; never did
real postilion crack his whip with greater science.
As he left Mâcon he saw a little troop of horse; they were the twelve
chasseurs told off to follow the coach without seeming to escort it.
The colonel passed his head through the window and made a sign to the
sergeant who commanded them.
Montbar did not seem to notice anything; but after going some four or
five hundred yards, he turned his head, while executing a symphony with
his whip, and saw that the escort had started.
“Wait, my babes!” said Montbar, “I’ll make you see the country.” And he
dug in his spurs and brought down his whip. The horses seemed to have
wings, and the coach flew over the cobblestones like the chariot of
thunder rumbling past. The conductor became alarmed.
“Hey, Master Antoine,” cried he, “are you drunk?”
“Drunk? fine drinking!” replied Montbar; “I dined on a beetroot salad.”
“Damn him! If he goes like that,” cried Roland, thrusting his head
through the window, “the escort can’t keep up.”
“You hear what he says!” shrieked the conductor.
“No,” replied Montbar, “I don’t.”
“Well, he says that if you keep this up the escort can’t follow.”
“Is there an escort?” asked Montbar.
“Of course; we’re carrying government money.”
“That’s different; you ought to have said so at first.”
But instead of slacking his pace the coach was whirled along as before;
if there was any change, it was for greater velocity than before.
“Antoine, if there’s an accident, I’ll shoot you through the head,”
shouted the conductor.
“Run along!” exclaimed Montbar; “everybody knows those pistols haven’t
any balls in them.”
“Possibly not; but mine have!” cried the police agent.
“That remains to be seen,” replied Montbar, keeping on his way at the
same pace without heed to these remonstrances.
On they went with the speed of lightning through the village of
Varennes, then through that of La Crêche and the little town of
Chapelle-de-Guinchay; only half a mile further and they would reach the
Maison-Blanche. The horses were dripping, and tossed the foam from their
mouths as they neighed with excitement.
Montbar glanced behind him; more than a mile back the sparks were flying
from the escort’s horses. Before him was the mountainous declivity. Down
it he dashed, gathering the reins to master his horses when the time
came.
The conductor had ceased expostulating, for he saw that the hand which
guided the horses was firm and capable. But from time to time the
colonel thrust his head through the window to look for his men.
Half-way down the slope Montbar had his horses under control, without,
however, seeming to check their course. Then he began to sing, at the
top of his voice, the “Réveil du Peuple,” the song of the royalists,
just as the “Marseillaise” was the song of the Jacobins.
“What’s that rogue about?” cried Roland, putting his head through the
window. “Tell him to hold his tongue, conductor, or I’ll put a ball
through his loins.”
Perhaps the conductor might have repeated Roland’s threat to Montbar,
but he suddenly saw a black line blocking the road. “Halt, conductor!”
thundered a voice the next moment.
“Postilion, drive over the bellies of those bandits!” shouted the police
agent.
“Drive on yourself!” said Montbar. “Do you suppose I’m going over the
stomachs of friends? Who-o-ah!”
The mail coach stopped as if by magic.
“Go on! go on!” cried Roland and the colonel, aware that the escort was
too far behind to help them.
“Ha! You villain of a postilion,” cried the police agent, springing out
of the coupé, and pointing his pistol at Montbar, “you shall pay for
this.”
The words were scarcely uttered when Montbar, forestalling him, fired,
and the agent rolled, mortally wounded, under the wheels of the coach.
His fingers, convulsed by death, touched the trigger and the pistol went
off, but the ball touched no one.
“Conductor,” shouted the two officers, “by all the powers of heaven,
open, open, open quickly!”
“Gentlemen,” said Morgan, advancing, “we are not attacking your persons,
we merely want the government money. Conductor! that fifty thousand
francs, and quickly too!”
Two shots from the interior made answer for the officers, who, after
vainly shaking the doors, were still more fruitlessly attempting to
force themselves through the windows. No doubt one of their shots took
effect, for a cry of rage was heard and a flash illuminated the road.
The colonel gave a sigh, and fell back against Roland. He was killed
outright.
Roland fired again, but no one replied to him. His pistols were both
discharged; locked in as he was he could not use his sabre, and he
howled with rage.
Meantime the conductor was forced, with a pistol at his throat, to
give up the money. Two men took the bags containing the fifty thousand
francs, and fastened them on Montbar’s horse, which his groom had
brought ready saddled and bridled, as if to a meet. Montbar kicked off
his heavy boots and sprang into the saddle.
“My compliments to the First Consul, Monsieur de Montrevel!” cried
Morgan. Then, turning to his companions, he cried: “Scatter which way
you will, you know the rendezvous for to-morrow night.”
“Yes, yes,” replied ten or a dozen voices.
And the band dispersed like a flock of birds, disappearing down the
valley into the shadow of the trees that lined the banks of the little
river and surrounded the Maison-Blanche.
At that moment the gallop of horses was heard, and the escort, alarmed
by the pistol shots, appeared on the crest of the hill and came down
the slope like an avalanche. But it came too late; it found only the
conductor sitting dazed by the roadside, the bodies of the colonel and
of Fouché’s agent, and Roland a prisoner, roaring like a lion gnawing at
the bars of its cage.