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 attitude, 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
assist 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 snatching 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