The Son of Monte-Cristo The Son Of Monte Cristo Part 30

"Yes--I have them."

"Then let us start at once."

Caillette, without the smallest hesitation, sprang on Fanfar's horse.

"And you, Bobichel?"

"Don't be troubled about me!"

"Hark!" cried Fanfar.

They listened, and heard distinctly the tread of horses in the distance.

"The police!" said Bobichel.

"They have lost no time, at all events!" And Gudel laughed. "But we have the advantage, and I know a cross-road which will cut off a good bit."

The two horses stepped gingerly out of Schwann's premises, and when once on the high road dashed madly forward. The inn was wrapped in silence and almost in darkness--only one room was lighted, the one where the Marquis sat, impatient and anxious. He, too, heard the horses galloping.

His plan had succeeded, then. In a few minutes the house would be surrounded.

A group of hors.e.m.e.n suddenly appeared on the Square. Robeccal and Cyprien were with them.

When Robeccal went away, he had taken the precaution to leave a window open on the lower floor, which Schwann had not discovered in making his rounds for the night.

Robeccal entered through this window and opened the door.

Schwann was aroused by footsteps below, and rushed down the stairs.

Seeing the police in uniform, he uttered an exclamation.

"The police in my house!" he cried.

"I ask your pardon, sir," answered the Brigadier of police, "but there was urgent need. In the name of the king!"

Schwann repeated the words with a sigh.

"You have conspirators lodging here--enemies of the monarchy!"

"You are greatly mistaken, Brigadier--"

"Not so. Their names are Gudel and Fanfar."

Schwann laughed. "That is ridiculous!" he said.

"That may be, but I have orders to arrest these men! Where are they?"

"I will show you!" said Robeccal, quickly. The door of the chamber was locked.

"Break it in!" cried Robeccal.

"Wait! Law before all else." And standing in a military att.i.tude, the Brigadier shouted: "In the name of the king, open!"

As may be supposed, there was no reply. Then, with his shoulder, the Brigadier burst it open.

"Gone!" roared Robeccal, and looking round he quickly espied the improvised rope at the window, and flew down the stairs.

Cyprien drew the Brigadier aside. "Spare no exertion. The fate of France depends on you, now!" he said.

The Brigadier became immensely important on hearing these words. He took a lantern and hunted for traces of the fugitives.

"This way!" cried Robeccal, "they have made their escape toward the forest."

"I know every inch of the forest," answered the Brigadier, waving his sword, as if he were about to attack an enemy.

Cyprien stood biting his lips. Could it be that Fanfar was to escape him now? The police rode off at a rapid pace, and Cyprien felt that they must overtake the fugitives.

About two miles from the village the road wound round a hill, on one side of which was a deep precipice. Day was breaking, and Robeccal, who of course had joined in the pursuit, rose in his stirrups in hopes to see some sign of the men they were pursuing.

Suddenly one of the horses fell, then the one behind meeting with the same obstacle, fell also, until five out of the seven were on the ground.

"It is a rope!" cried the Brigadier, "a rope stretched across the road--the rascals!"

The men who were in their saddles leaped to the ground and endeavored to a.s.sist their comrades, one of whom had a leg broken.

Robeccal stamped with rage.

"Halloo!" cried a voice, "you had best meddle with honest people again!" And Bobichel, standing on the side of the road, danced with glee.

"You shall pay for that!" shouted Robeccal, and s.n.a.t.c.hing a pistol from the belt of one of the police, he fired at Bobichel.

The clown flung out his arms. "They are saved, at all events!" he shouted, as he disappeared, falling into the abyss at his feet.

Fanfar and Gudel were far away. Poor Bobichel!

CHAPTER XXIII.

FRANCE--1824.

The 29th of February, 1824, was a Sunday, and a fete day. At that time the Carnival was in full blast, and the streets were crowded with curious spectators. A carriage drew up before a fashionable restaurant in the Palais Royal. The carriage was driven by a coachman wearing a powdered wig, and the horses were magnificent. Three young men with cigars in their mouths descended from the carriage, and took the path that led to the garden.

They were wrapped in Venetian cloaks and each wore on his shoulder knots of ribbon, different in hue, and each concealed his face under a white satin mask, to which mask the police made no objection, as it was a sign of high birth and n.o.bility.

These young men laughed when they found they were to pa.s.s through a double row of spectators, to whose jokes they replied in kind.

Lights were beginning to twinkle among the trees when they established themselves at a table in the cafe.