the
coupe 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 Macon 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 Creche 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
mouth