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the coupe and closed the door behind him. The postilion did not wait to be told twice; he started his horses, digging his spurs into the belly of the one he rode and lashing 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 rattled and the houses shook; never did real postilion crack his whip with greater science. As he left Macon 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 sergeant 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 rumbling 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!" 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 mouth
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