La Boulaye awakened betimes next morning. It may be that the matter on
his mind and the business that was toward aroused him; certainly it
was none of the sounds that are common to an inn at early morn, for the
place was as silent as a tomb.
Some seconds he remained on his back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling
and listening to the patter of the rain against his window. Then, as his
mind gathered up the threads of recollection, he leapt from his bed and
made haste to assume a garment or two.
He stood a moment at his casement, looking out into the empty courtyard.
From a leaden sky the rain was descending in sheets, and the gargoyle at
the end of the eaves overhead was discharging a steady column of water
into the yard. Caron shivered with the cold of that gloomy February
morning, and turned away from the window. A few moments later he was in
Tardivet's bedchamber, vigorously shaking the sleeping Captain.
“Up, Charlot! Awake!” he roared in the man's ear.
“What o'clock?” he asked with a yawn. Then a sudden groan escaped him,
and he put his hand to his head. “Thousand devils!” he swore, “what a
headache!”
But La Boulaye was not there on any mission of sympathy, nor did he
waste words in conveying his news.
“The coach is gone,” he announced emphatically.
“Coach? What coach?” asked the Captain, knitting his brows.
“What coach?” echoed La Boulaye testily. “How many coaches were there?
Why, the Bellecour coach; the coach with the treasure.”
At that Charlot grew very wide-awake. He forgot his headache and his
interest in the time of day.
“Gone?” he bellowed. “How gone? Pardieu, it is not possible!”
“Look for yourself,” was La Boulaye's answer as he waved his hand in the
direction of the window. “I don't know what manner of watch your men can
have kept that such a thing should have come about. Probably, knowing
you ill a-bed, they abused the occasion by getting drunk, and probably
they are still sleeping it off. The place is silent enough.”
But Tardivet scarcely heard him. From his window he was staring into the
yard below, too thunderstruck by its emptiness to even have recourse
to profanity. Stable door and porte-cochere alike stood open. He turned
suddenly and made for his coat. Seizing it, he thrust his hand in one
pocket after another. At last:
“Treachery!” he cried, and letting the garment fall to the ground, he
turned upon La Boulaye a face so transfigured by anger that it looked
little like the usually good-humoured countenance of Captain Tardivet
“My keys have been stolen. By St. Guillotine, I'll have the thief
hanged.”
“Did anybody know that the keys were in your pocket?” asked the
ingenuous Caron.
“I told you last night.”
“Yes, yes; I remember that. But did anybody else know?”
“The ostler knew. He saw me lock the doors.”
“Why, then, let us find the ostler,” urged Caron. “Put on some clothes
and we will go below.”
Mechanically Charlot obeyed him, and as he did so he gave his feelings
vent at last. From between set teeth came now a flow of oaths and
imprecations as steady as the flow of water from the gargoyle overhead.
At last they hastened down the stairs together, and in the common-room
they found the sleeping company much as La Boulaye had left it the night
before. In an access of rage at what he saw, and at the ample evidences
of the debauch that had reduced them to this condition, Charlot began by
kicking the chair from under Mother Capoulade. The noise of her fall and
the scream with which she awoke served to arouse one or two others, who
lifted their heads to gaze stupidly about them.
But Charlot was busy stirring the other slumberers. He had found a whip,
and with this he was now laying vigorously about him.
“Up, you swine!” he blazed at them. “Afoot, you drunken scum!”
His whip cracked, and his imprecations rang high and lurid. And La
Boulaye assisted him in his labours with kicks and cuffs and a tongue no
less vituperative.
At last they were on their feet--a pale, bewildered, shamefaced
company--receiving from the infuriated Charlot the news that whilst they
had indulged themselves in their drunken slumbers their prisoners had
escaped and carried off the treasure with them. The news was received
with a groan of dismay, and several turned to the door to ascertain
for themselves whether it was indeed exact. The dreary emptiness of the
rain-washed yard afforded them more than ample confirmation.
“Where is your pig of an ostler, Mother Capoulade?” demanded the angry
Captain.
Quivering with terror, she answered him that the rascal should be in the
shed by the stables, where it was his wont to sleep. Out into the rain,
despite the scantiness of his attire, went Charlot, followed closely by
La Boulaye and one or two stragglers. The shed proved empty, as Caron
could have told him--and so, too, did the stables. Here, at the spot
where Madame de Bellecour's coachman had been left bound, the Captain
turned to La Boulaye and those others that had followed him.
“It is the ostler's work,” he announced. “There was knavery and
treachery writ large upon his ugly face. I always felt it, and this
business proves how correct were my instincts. The rogue was bribed when
he discovered how things were with you, you greasy sots. But you, La
Boulaye,” he cried suddenly, “were you drunk, too?”
“Not I,” answered the Deputy.
“Then, name of a name, how came that lumbering coach to leave the yard
without awakening you?”
“You ask me to explain too much,” was La Boulaye's cool evasion. “I have
always accounted myself a light sleeper, and I could not have believed
that such a thing could really have taken place without disturbing me.
But the fact remains that the coach has gone, and I think that instead
of standing here in idle speculation as to how it went, you might find
more profitable employment in considering how it is to brought back
again. It cannot have gone very far.”
If any ray of suspicion had begun to glimmer in Charlot's brain, that
suggestion of La Boulaye's was enough to utterly extinguish it.
They returned indoors, and without more ado Tardivet set himself to plan
the pursuit. He knew, he announced, that Prussia was their destination.
He had discovered it at the time of their capture from certain papers
that he had found in a portmanteau of the Marquise's. He discussed
the matter with La Boulaye, and it was now that Caron had occasion to
congratulate himself upon his wisdom in having elected to remain behind.
The Captain proposed to recall the fifty men that were watching the
roads from France, and to spread them along the River Sambre, as far as
Liege, to seek information of the way taken by the fugitives. As soon
as any one of the parties struck the trail it was to send word to the
others, and start immediately in pursuit.
Now, had Charlot been permitted to spread such a net as this, the
Marquise must inevitably fall into it, and Caron had pledged his word
that she should have an open road to Prussia. With a map spread upon the
table he now expounded to the Captain how little necessity there was
for so elaborate a scheme. The nearest way to Prussia was by Charleroi,
Dinant, and Rochefort, into Luxembourg, and--he contended--it was not
only unlikely, but incredible, that the Marquise should choose any but
the shortest road to carry her out of Belgium, seeing the dangers that
must beset her until the frontiers of Luxembourg were passed.
“And so,” argued La Boulaye, “why waste time in recalling your men?
Think of the captives you might miss by such an act! It were
infinitely better advised to assume that the fugitives have taken the
Charleroi-Dinant road, and to despatch, at once, say, half-a-dozen men
in pursuit.”
Tardivet pondered the matter for some moments.
“Yom are right,” he agreed at last. “If they have resolved to continue
their journey, a half-dozen men should suffice to recapture them. I will
despatch these at once...”
La Boulaye looked up at that.
“If they have resolved to continue their journey?” he echoed. “What else
should they have resolved?”
Tardivet stroked his reddish hair and smiled astutely.
“In organising a pursuit,” said he, “the wise pursuer will always put
himself in the place of the fugitives, and seek to reason as they would
probably reason. Now, what more likely than that these ladies, or their
coachman, or that rascally ostler, should have thought of doubling back
into France? They might naturally argue that we; should never think of
pursuing them in that direction. Similarly placed, that is how I should
reason, and that is the course I should adopt, making for Prussia
through Lorraine. Perhaps I do their intelligences too much honour--yet,
to me, it seems such an obvious course.”'
La Boulaye grew cold with apprehension. Yet impassively he asked:
“But what of your men who are guarding the frontiers?”
“Pooh! A detour might circumvent them. The Marquise might go as far
north as Roubaix or Comines, or as fair south as Rocroy, or even
Charlemont. Name of a name, but it is more than likely!” he exclaimed,
with sudden conviction. “What do you say, Caron?”
“That you rave,” answered La Boulaye coldly.
“Well, we shall see. I will despatch a message to my men, bidding
them spread themselves as far north as Comiines and as far south as
Charlemont. Should the fugitives have made such a detour as I suggested
there will be ample time to take them.”
La Boulaye still contemned the notion with a fine show of indifference,
but Tardivet held to his purpose, and presently despatched the
messengers as he had proposed. At that Caron felt his pulses quickening
with anxiety for Mademoiselle. These astute measures must inevitably
result im her capture--for was it not at Roubaix that he had bidden her
await him? There was but one thing to be done, to ride out himself to
meet her along the road from Soignies to Oudenarde, and to escort
her into France. She should go ostensibly as his prisoner, and he was
confident that not all the brigands of Captain Tardivet would suffice to
take her from him.
Accordingly, he announced his intention of resuming his interrupted
journey, and ordered his men to saddle and make ready. Meanwhile, having
taken measures to recapture the Marquise should she have doubled back
into France, Charlot was now organising an expedition to scour the
road to Prussia, against the possibility of her having adhered to her
original intention of journeying that way. Thus he was determined to
take no risks, and leave her no loophole of escape.
Tardivet would have set himself at the head of the six horsemen of
this expedition, but that La Boulaye interfered, and this time to some
purpose. He assured the Captain that he was still far from recovered,
and that to spend a day in the saddle might have the gravest of
consequences for him.
“If the occasion demanded it,” he concluded, “I should myself urge you
to chance the matter of your health. But the occasion does not. The
business is of the simplest, and your men can do as much without you as
they could with you.”
Tardivet permitted himself to be persuaded, and Caron had again good
cause to congratulate himself that he had remained behind to influence
him. He opined that the men, failing to pick up the trail at Charleroi,
would probably go on as far as Dinant before abandoning the chase; then
they would return to Boisvert to announce their failure, and by that
time it would be too late to reorganise the pursuit. On the other hand,
had Tardivet accompanied them, upon failing to find any trace of the
Marquise at Charleroi, La Boulaye could imagine him pushing north along
the Sambre, and pressing the peasantry into his service to form an
impassable cordon.
And so, having won his way in this at least, and seen the six men set
out under the command of Tardivet's trusted Guyot, Caron took his leave
of the Captain. He was on the very point of setting out when a courier
dashed up to the door of the “Eagle,” and called for a cup of wine. As
it was brought him he asked the hostess whether the Citizen-deputy La
Boulaye, Commissioner to the army of Dumouriez, had passed that way.
Upon being informed that the Deputy was even then within the inn, the
courier got down from his horse and demanded to be taken to him.
The hostess led him into the common-room, and pointed out the Deputy.
The courier heaved a sigh of relief, and removing his sodden cloak he
bade the landlady get it dried and prepare him as stout a meal as her
hostelry afforded.
“Name of a name!” he swore, as he pitched his dripping hat into a
corner. “But it is good to find you at last, Citizen-deputy? I had
expected to meet you at Valenciennes. But as you were not there, and as
my letters were urgent, I have been compelled to ride for the past six
hours through that infernal deluge. Enfin, here you are, and here is my
letter--from the Citizen-deputy Maximilien Robespierre--and here I'll
rest me for the next six hours.”
Bidding the fellow by all means rest and refresh himself, La Boulaye
broke the seal, and read the following:
Dear Caron,
My courier should deliver you this letter as you are on the Point
of reentering France, on your return from the mission which you
have discharged with so much glory to yourself and credit to me
who recommended you for the task. I make you my compliments on
the tact and adroitness you have employed to bring this stubborn
Dumouriez into some semblance of sympathy with the Convention.
And now, my friend, I have another task for you, which you can
discharge on your homeward journey. You will make a slight detour,
passing into Artois and riding to the Chateau d'Ombreval, which is
situated some four miles south of Arras. Here I wish you not only
to Possess yourself of the person of the ci-devant Vicomte
d'Ombreval, bringing him to Paris as your Prisoner, but further,
to make a very searching investigation of that aristocrat's papers,
securing any documents that you may consider of a nature
treasonable to the French Republic, One and Indivisible.
The letter ended with the usual greetings and Robespierre's signature.
La Boulaye swore softly to himself as he folded the epistle.
“It seems,” he muttered to Charlot, “that I am to turn catch-poll in the
service of the Republic.”
“To a true servant of the Nation,” put in the courier, who had overheard
him, “all tasks that may tend to the advancement of the Republic should
be eagerly undertaken. Diable! Have not I ridden in the rain these six
hours past?”
La Boulaye paid no heed to him; he was too inured to this sort of
insolence since the new rule had levelled all men. But Charlot turned
slowly to regard the fellow.
He was a tall man of rather slender stature, but indifferently dressed
in garments that were splashed from head to foot with mud, and from
which a steam was beginning to rise as he stood now with his back to the
fire. Charlot eyed him so narrowly that the fellow shifted his position
and dropped his glance in some discomfort. His speech, though rough of
purport, had not been ungentle of delivery. But his face was dirty--the
sure sign of an ardent patriot--his hair hung untidy about his face,
and he wore that latest abomination of the ultra-revolutionist, a dense
black beard and moustache.
“My friend,” said Charlot, “although we are ready to acknowledge you our
equal, we should like you to understand that we do not take lessons in
duty even from our equals. Bear you that in mind if you seek to have a
peaceful time while you are here, for it so happens that I am
quartered at this inn, and have a more important way with me than this
good-natured Deputy here.”
The fellow darted Charlot a malevolent glance.
“You talk of equality and you outrage equality in a breath,” he growled.
“I half suspect you of being a turncoat aristocrat.” And he spat
ostentatiously on the ground.
“Suspect what you will, but voice no suspicions here, else you'll become
acquainted with the mighty short methods of Charlot Tardivet. And as for
aristocrats, my friend, there are none so rabid as the newly-converted.
I wonder how long it is since you became a patriot?”
Before the fellow could make any answer the corporal in command of
La Boulaye's escort entered to inform Caron that the men were in the
saddle.
At that the Deputy hurriedly took his leave of Tardivet, and wrapping
his heavy cloak tightly about him he marched out into the rain, and
mounted.
A few moments later they clattered briskly out of Boisvert, the thick
grey mud flying from their horses' hoofs as they went, and took the
road to France. For a couple of miles they rode steadily along under the
unceasing rain and in the teeth of that bleak February wind. Then at a
cross-road La Boulaye unexpectedly called a halt.
“My friends,” he said to his escort, “we have yet a little business to
discharge in Belgium before we cross the frontier.”
With that he announced his intention of going North, and so briskly did
he cause them to ride, that by noon--a short three hours after quitting
Boisvert--they had covered a distance of twenty-five miles, and brought
up their steaming horses before the Hotel de Flandres at Leuze.
At this, the only post-house in the place, La Boulaye made inquiries
as to whether any carriage had arrived from Soignies that morning, to
receive a negative answer. This nowise surprised him, for he hardly
thought that Mademoiselle could have had time to come so far. She must,
however, be drawing nearer, and he determined to ride on to meet her.
From Leuze to Soignies is a distance of some eight or nine leagues by a
road which may roughly be said to be the basis of a triangle having its
apex at Boisvert.
After his men had hurriedly refreshed themselves, La Boulaye ordered
them to horse again, and they now cantered out, along this road, to
Soignes. But as mile after mile was covered without their coming upon
any sign of such a carriage as Mademoiselle should be travelling in, La
Boulaye almost unconsciously quickened the pace until in the end they
found themselves careering along as fast as their jaded horses would
bear them, and speculating mightily upon the Deputy's odd behaviour.
Soignies itself was reached towards four o'clock, and still they had not
met her whom La Boulaye expected. Here, in a state of some wonder and
even of some anxiety, Caron made straight for the Auberge des Postes.
Bidding his men dismount and see to themselves and their beasts, he
went in quest of the host, and having found him, bombarded him with
questions.
In reply he elicited the information that at noon that day a carriage
such as he described had reached Soignies in a very sorry condition. One
of the wheels had come off on the road, and although the Marquise's men
had contrived to replace it and to rudely secure it by an improvised
pin, they had been compelled to proceed at a walk for some fifteen miles
of the journey, which accounted for the lateness of their arrival at
Soignies. They had remained at the Auberge des Postes until the wheel
had been properly mended, and it was not more than an hour since they
had resumed their journey along the road to Liege.
“But did both the citoyennes depart?” cried La Boulaye, in amazement,
and upon receiving an affirmative reply it at once entered his mind that
the Marquise must have influenced her daughter to that end--perhaps
even employed force.
“Did there appear to be any signs of disagreement between them?” was his
next question.
“No, Citizen, I observed nothing. They seemed in perfect accord.”
“The younger one did not by any chance inquire of you whether it would
be possible to hire a berline?” asked Caron desperately.
“No,” the landlord answered him, with wondering eyes. “She appeared as
anxious as her mother for the repairing of the coach in which they came,
that they might again depart in it.”
La Boulaye stood a moment in thought, his brows drawn together, his
breathing seeming suspended, for into his soul a suspicion had of a
sudden been thrust--a hideous suspicion. Abruptly he drew himself up
to the full of his active figure, and threw back his head, his resolve
taken.
“Can I have fresh horses at once?” he inquired. “I need eight.”
The landlord thoughtfully scratched his head.
“You can have two at once, and the other six in a half-hour.”
“Very well,” he answered. “Saddle me one at once, and have the other
seven ready for my men as soon as possible.”
And whilst the host sent the ostler to execute the order, Caron called
for a cup of wine and a crust of bread. Munching his crust he entered
the common-room where his men were at table with a steaming ragout
before them.
“Garin,” he said to the corporal, “in a half-hour the landlord will
be able to provide you with fresh horses. You will set out at once to
follow me along the road to Liege. I am starting immediately.”
Garin, with the easy familiarity of the Republican soldier, bade him
take some thought of his exhausted condition, and snatch at least the
half-hour's rest that was to be theirs. But La Boulaye was out of the
room before he had finished. A couple of minutes later they heard a
clatter of departing hoofs, and La Boulaye was gone along the road too
Liege in pursuit of the ladies of Bellecour.