Monsieur, j'ai deux mots a vous dire;
Messieurs les marechaux, dont j'ai commandement,
Vous mandent de venir les trouver promptement,
Monsieur.--_Le Misanthrope_.
That evening Morton arrived at the post house at ----. He was alone,
his companion of the morning, whose route lay in another direction,
having left him long before. At the head of the ancient staircase, the
host welcomed him with a "good night," and ushered him into a large,
low, wooden room, where some thirty men and women were smoking,
eating, and lounging among the tables and benches. Old Germans talked
over their beer pots, and puffed at their pipes; young ones laughed
and bantered with the servant girls. A Frenchman, _en route_ for
Laibach, gulped down his bowlful of soup, sprang to the window when he
heard the postilion's horn, bounded back to finish his tumbler of
wine, then seized his cane, and dashed out in hot haste. A small, prim
student strutted to the window to watch him, pipe in hand, and an
amused grin on his face; then turned to roar for more beer, and joke
with the girl who brought it.
Morton sat alone, incensed, disturbed, anxious. He had resolved to go
no farther without taking measures to secure his own safety; and a day
or two, he hoped, would place him out of the reach of danger.
Meanwhile, what with his horror at the villany which had duped him,
his anger with himself at being duped, and the consciousness that the
hundred-handed despotism of Austria might at any moment close its
gripe upon him, the condition of his mind was far from enviable.
As he surveyed the noisy groups around him, three men appeared at the
door. Morton sipped his wine, and watched them uneasily out of the
corner of his eye. One of them was a military officer; another was a
tall man in a civil dress; the third was the conductor of the
diligence in which Morton had travelled all day. The conductor looked
towards him significantly; the tall man inclined his head, as a token
that he understood the sign. Then approaching, hat in hand, he said
very courteously, in French,--
"Pardon, monsieur; I regret that I must give you some little trouble.
I have a carriage below; will you have the goodness to accept a seat
in it?"
"To go whither?" demanded Morton, in alarm.
"To the office of police, monsieur."
The Austrian Briareus had clutched him at last.