bles
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 Outer Boulevard, what horses and whipcord can
do!

{128} 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 of 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 Body-guard
Couriers behind. The Glass-coach itself is turned adrift, its head
towards the City, to wander where 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, to be; whom
also her Majesty could not travel without. Swift, thou deft Fersen,
and may the Heavens turn it well!

Once more, by Heaven's blessing, it is all well. Here is the sleeping
hamlet of Bondy; Chaise with Waiting-women; horses all ready, and
postilions with their churn-boots, impatient in the dewy dawn. Brief
harnessing done, the postilions with their churn-boots vault into the
saddles; brandish circularly their little noisy whips. Fersen, under
his jarvie-surtout, bends in lowly silent reverence of adieu; royal
hands wave speechless inexpressible response; Baroness de Korff's
Berline, with {129} the Royalty of France, bounds off; for ever, as it
proved. Deft Fersen dashes obliquely northward, through the country,
towards Bougret; gains Bougret, finds his German coachman and chariot
waiting there; cracks off, and drives undiscovered into unknown space.
A deft active man, we say; what he undertook to do is nimbly and
successfully done.

And so the Royalty of France is actually fled? This precious night,
the shortest of the year, it flies, and drives! _Baro