alking about her as we left the room; he must have come in directly
afterwards, and not until he had learnt all about her, had he spoken of
the business which necessitated his departure at dawn of day, and made
his arrangements with both landlord and ostler for the possession of the
keys of the stable and _porte-cochere_. In short, there was no doubt as
to the murderer, even before the arrival of the legal functionary who
had been sent for by the surgeon; but the word on the paper chilled
every one with terror. Les Chauffeurs, who were they? No one knew, some
of the gang might even then be in the room overhearing, and noting down
fresh objects for vengeance. In Germany, I had heard little of this
terrible gang, and I had paid no greater heed to the stories related
once or twice about them in Carlsruhe than one does to tales about
ogres. But here in their very haunts, I learnt the full amount of the
terror they inspired. No one would be legally responsible for any
evidence criminating the murderer. The public prosecutor shrank from the
duties of his office. What do I say? Neither Amante nor I, knowing far
more of the actual guilt of the man who had killed that poor sleeping
young lady, durst breathe a word. We appeared to be wholly ignorant of
everything: we, who might have told so much. But how could we? we were
broken down with terrific anxiety and fatigue, with the knowledge that
we, above all, were doomed victims; and that the blood, heavily dripping
from the bed-clothes on to the floor, was dripping thus out of the poor
dead body, because, when living, she had been mistaken for me.

At length Amante went up to the landlord, and asked permission to leave
his inn, doing all openly and humbly, so as to excite neither ill-will
nor suspicion. Indeed, suspicion was otherwise directed, and he willingly
gave us leave to depart. A few days afterwards we were across the Rhine,
in Germany, making our way towards Frankfort, but still keeping our
disguises, and Amante still working at her trade.

On the way, we met a young man, a wandering journeyman from Heidelberg.
I knew him, although I did not choose that he should know me. I asked
him, as carelessly as I could, how the old miller was now? He told me he
was dead. This realization of the worst apprehensions caused by his long
silence shocked me inexpressibly. It seemed as though every prop gave
way from under me. I had been talking to Amante only that very day of
the safety a