ofs of Fersen: crack! crack! the
Glass-coach rattles, and every soul breathes lighter. But is Fersen on
the right road? Northeastward, to the Barrier of Saint-Martin and Metz
Highway, thither were we bound: and lo, he drives right Northward! The
royal Individual, in round hat and peruke, sits astonished; but right
or wrong, there is no remedy. Crack, crack, we go incessant, through the
slumbering City. Seldom, since Paris rose out of mud, or the Longhaired
Kings went in Bullock-carts, was there such a drive. Mortals on each
hand of you, close by, stretched out horizontal, dormant; and we alive
and quaking! Crack, crack, through the Rue de Grammont; across the
Boulevard; up the Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin,--these windows, all
silent, of Number 42, were Mirabeau's. Towards the Barrier not of
Saint-Martin, but of Clichy on the utmost North! Patience, ye royal
Individuals; Fersen understands what he is about. Passing up the Rue
de Clichy, he alights for one moment at Madame Sullivan's: "Did Count
Fersen's Coachman get the Baroness de Korff's new Berline?"--"Gone with
it an hour-and-half ago," grumbles responsive the drowsy Porter.--"C'est
bien." Yes, it is well;--though had not such hour-and half been lost,
it were still better. Forth therefore, O Fersen, fast, by the Barrier
de Clichy; then Eastward along the Outward Boulevard, what horses and
whipcord can do!

Thus Fersen drives, through the ambrosial night. Sleeping Paris is now
all on the right hand of him; silent except for some snoring hum;
and now he is Eastward as far as the Barrier de Saint-Martin; looking
earnestly for Baroness de Korff's Berline. This Heaven's Berline he
at length does descry, drawn up with its six horses, his own German
Coachman waiting on the box. Right, thou good German: now haste, whither
thou knowest!--And as for us of the Glass-coach, haste too, O haste;
much time is already lost! The august Glass-coach fare, six Insides,
hastily packs itself into the new Berline; two Bodyguard Couriers
behind. The Glass-coach itself is turned adrift, its head towards the
City; to wander whither it lists,--and be found next morning tumbled in
a ditch. But Fersen is on the new box, with its brave new hammer-cloths;
flourishing his whip; he bolts forward towards Bondy. There a third and
final Bodyguard Courier of ours ought surely to be, with post-horses
ready-ordered. There likewise ought that purchased Chaise, with the two
Waiting-maids and their bandboxes t