"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 mouths as they neighed with excitement.
Montbar glanced behind him; more than a mile back the sparks were flying from the escort's horses. Before him was the mountainous declivity. Down it he dashed, gathering the reins to master his horses when the time came.
The conductor had ceased expostulating, for he saw that the hand which guided the horses was firm and capable. But from time to time the colonel thrust his head through the window to look for his men.
Half-way down the slope Montbar had his horses under control, without, however, seeming to check their course. Then he began to sing, at the top of his voice, the "Reveil du Peuple," the song of the royalists, just as the "Marseillaise" was the song of the Jacobins.
"What's that rogue about?" cried Roland, putting his head through the window. "Tell him to hold his tongue, conductor, or I'll put a ball through his loins."
Perhaps the conductor might have repeated Roland's threat to Montbar, but he suddenly saw a black line blocking the road. "Halt, conductor!"
thundered a voice the next moment.
"Postilion, drive over the bellies of those bandits!" shouted the police agent.
"Drive on yourself!" said Montbar. "Do you suppose I'm going over the stomachs of friends? Who-o-ah!"
The mail coach stopped as if by magic.
"Go on! go on!" cried Roland and the colonel, aware that the escort was too far behind to help them.
"Ha! You villain of a postilion," cried the police agent, springing out of the coupe, and pointing his pistol at Montbar, "you shall pay for this."
The words were scarcely uttered when Montbar, forestalling him, fired, and the agent rolled, mortally wounded, under the wheels of the coach.
His fingers, convulsed by death, touched the trigger and the pistol went off, but the ball touched no one.
"Conductor," shouted the two officers, "by all the powers of heaven, open, open, open quickly!"
"Gentlemen," said Morgan, advancing, "we are not attacking your persons, we merely want the government money. Conductor! that fifty thousand francs, and quickly too!"
Two shots from the interior made answer for the officers, who, after vainly shaking the doors, were still more fruitlessly attempting to force themselves through the windows. No doubt one of their shots took effect, for a cry of rage was heard and a flash illuminated the road.
The colonel gave a sigh, and fell back against Roland. He was killed outright.
Roland fired again, but no one replied to him. His pistols were both discharged; locked in as he was he could not use his sabre, and he howled with rage.
Meantime the conductor was forced, with a pistol at his throat, to give up the money. Two men took the bags containing the fifty thousand francs, and fastened them on Montbar's horse, which his groom had brought ready saddled and bridled, as if to a meet. Montbar kicked off his heavy boots and sprang into the saddle.
"My compliments to the First Consul, Monsieur de Montrevel!" cried Morgan. Then, turning to his companions, he cried: "Scatter which way you will, you know the rendezvous for to-morrow night."
"Yes, yes," replied ten or a dozen voices.
And the band dispersed like a flock of birds, disappearing down the valley into the shadow of the trees that lined the banks of the little river and surrounded the Maison-Blanche.
At that moment the gallop of horses was heard, and the escort, alarmed by the pistol shots, appeared on the crest of the hill and came down the slope like an avalanche. But it came too late; it found only the conductor sitting dazed by the roadside, the bodies of the colonel and of Fouche's agent, and Roland a prisoner, roaring like a lion gnawing at the bars of its cage.
CHAPTER XLIII. LORD GRENVILLE'S REPLY
While the events we have just recorded were transpiring, and occupying the minds and newspapers of the provinces, other events, of very different import, were maturing in Paris, which were destined to occupy the minds and newspapers of the whole world.
Lord Tanlay had returned, bringing the reply of his uncle, Lord Grenville. This reply consisted of a letter addressed to M. de Talleyrand, inclosing a memorandum for the First Consul. The letter was couched in the following terms:
DOWNING STREET, February 14, 1800
Sir--I have received and placed before the King the letter which you transmitted to me through my nephew, Lord Tanlay.
His Majesty, seeing no reason to depart from the long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign states, directs me to forward you in his name the official reply which is herewith inclosed.
I have the honor to be, with the highest esteem, your very humble and obedient servant, GRENVILLE.
The letter was dry; the memorandum curt. Moreover, the First Consul's letter to King George was autographic, and King George, not "departing from the long-established customs of Europe in treating with foreign States," replied by a simple memorandum written by a secretary.
True, the memorandum was signed "Grenville." It was a long recrimination against France; against the spirit of disorder, which disturbed the nation; against the fears which that spirit of disorder inspired in all Europe; and on the necessity imposed on the sovereigns of Europe, for the sake of their own safety, to repress it. In short, the memorandum was virtually a continuation of the war.
The reading of such a dictum made Bonaparte's eyes flash with the flame which, in him, preceded his great decisions, as lightning precedes thunder.
"So, sir," said he, turning to Lord Tanlay, "this is all you have obtained?"
"Yes, citizen First Consul."