he house of a friend, and in this attire
he was to await the duchess below at the carriage.

At last, day broke and the hour of departure came. The horn of the
postilion resounded through the street. Through the midst of the
sleeping Austrian soldiers who occupied the antechamber through which
they were compelled to pass, Hortense walked, followed by her son loaded
with packages, in his livery. Their departure was witnessed by no one
except the sentinel on duty.

Day had hardly dawned. In the first carriage sat the duchess, with a
lady companion, and in front, on the box, her son, as a servant, at the
side of the postilion; in the second carriage her maid, behind her the
young Marquis Zappi.

As the sun arose and shone down upon the beautiful Easter day, Ancona
was already far behind, and Hortense knelt down at the side of Louis
Napoleon to thank God tearfully for having permitted her to succeed so
far in rescuing her son, and to entreat Him to be merciful in the
future. But there were still many dangers to be overcome; the slightest
accident might still betray them. The danger consisted not only in
having to pass through all the places where the Austrian troops were
stationed; General Geppert's pass was a sufficient protection against
any thing that might threaten them from this quarter.

The greatest danger was to be apprehended from their friends--from some
one who might accidentally recognize her son, and unintentionally
betray them.

They must pass through the grand-duchy of Tuscany, and there the
greatest danger menaced, for there her son was known to every one, and
every one might betray them. This part of the journey must therefore be
made, as far as possible, by night. The courier whom they had dispatched
in advance had everywhere ordered the necessary relays of horses; their
dismay was, therefore, great when they found no horses at the station
Camoscia, on the boundary of Tuscany, and were informed that several
hours must elapse before they could obtain any!

These hours of expectation and anxiety were fearful. Hortense passed
them in her carriage, breathlessly listening to the slightest noise that
broke upon the air.

Her son Louis had descended from the carriage, and seated himself on a
stone bench that stood in front of the miserable little station-house.
Worn out by grief and still weak from disease, indifferent to the
dangers that menaced from all sides, heedless of the night wind that
swept, wit