The next day, at five in the afternoon, Antoine, anxious, no doubt, not to be late, was in the courtyard of the Hôtel de la Poste, harnessing the three horses which were to relay the mail-coach.  
Shortly after, the coach rumbled¹ into the courtyard at a gallop², and was pulled up under the windows of a room close to the servants’ stairway, which had seemed greatly to occupy Antoine’s attention. If any one had paid attention to so slight a detail it might have been observed that the window-curtain was somewhat imprudently drawn³ aside to permit the occupant of the room to see the persons who got out of the coach. There were three men, who, with the haste of famished⁴ travellers, made their way toward the brilliantly lighted windows of the common room.
 
They had scarcely entered, when a smart postilion came down the kitchen staircase, shod simply with thin pumps over which he intended to pull his heavy riding-boots, These he received from Antoine, slipping five louis into his hand at the same time, and turned for the man to throw his riding cape⁵ over his shoulders, a protection rendered necessary by the severity of the weather.
 
This completed, Antoine returned hastily to the stables and hid in the darkest corner. As for the man who had taken his place, reassured⁶ no doubt by the high collar of the cape that concealed⁷ half of his face, he went straight to the horses which stood ready harnessed, slipped his pistols into the holsters, and, profitting by the moment when the other horses were being led into the stable by their postilion, he took a gimlet, which might in case of need serve as a dagger⁸, from his pocket, and screwed the four rings into the woodwork of the coach, one into each door, and the other two into the body of the coach. After which he put the horses to with a rapidity and skill which bespoke⁹ in him a man familiar from childhood with all the details of an art pushed to extremes in our day by that honorable class of society which we call “gentlemen riders.”
 
That done, he waited, quieting his restless horses by voice and whip, judiciously¹⁰ combined, or used in turn.
 
Everyone knows the rapidity with which the meals of the unhappy beings condemned¹¹ to travel by mail are hurried through. The half-hour was not up, when the voice of the conductor was heard, calling:
 
“Come, citizen travellers, take your places.”
 
Montbar placed himself close to the carriage door and recognized Roland and the colonel of the 7th Chasseurs, perfectly¹², in spite of their disguise, as they jumped into the coach, paying no attention whatever to the postilion.
 
The latter closed the door upon them, slipped the padlock through the two rings and turned the key. Then, walking around the coach, he pretended to drop his whip before the other door, and, in stooping for it, slipped the second padlock through the rings, deftly¹³ turned the key as he straightened up, and, assured that the two officers were securely locked in, he sprang upon his horse, grumbling¹⁴ at the conductor who had left him to do his work. In fact the conductor was still squabbling with the landlord over his bill when the third traveller got into his place in the coupé.
 
“Are you coming this evening, to-night, or to-morrow morning, Père François?” cried the pretended postilion, imitating Antoine as best he could.
 
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” answered the conductor; then, looking around him: “Why, where are the travellers?” he asked.
 
“Here,” replied the two officers from the interior and the agent from the coupé.
 
“Is the door properly closed?” persisted Père François.
 
“I’ll answer for that,” said Montbar.
 
“Then off you go, baggage!” cried the conductor, as he climbed into the coupé and closed the door behind him.
 
The postilion did not wait to be told twice; he started his horses, digging his spurs into the belly¹⁶ of the one he rode and lashing¹⁷ 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 rattled¹⁸ and the houses shook; never did real postilion crack his whip with greater science.
 
As he left Mâcon 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 sergeant¹⁹ 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 rumbling¹⁵ 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!” shrieked²⁰ the conductor.
 
“No,” replied Montbar, “I don’t.”
 
“Well, he says that if you keep this up the es............