“There also is Rheims, l’Isle de Retter and de Stenay,” said the young count, anxious that the king should select that.

  “Ah, ah!” said the king, “it seems that is the route you prefer.”

  “Sire, it is not my opinion, but my father’s, and is founded on the fact that the country it passes is poor and almost a desert; consequently fewer precautions are required. He adds, that the Royal German, the best regiment in the service, the only one perhaps which has remained completely faithful, is stationed at Stenay, and can be your escort from Isle de Retter. Thus the danger of incurring suspicion by too great a movement of troops would be avoided.”

  “Yes,” said the king, “we would have to pass Rheims, where. I was crowned, and where the first comer might recognise me. No, my dear count, on that point I am resolved.”

  The king pronounced these words in so firm a voice, that Count Louis did not even dare to make another suggestion.

  “Then the king is resolved?”

  “On the road from Chalons to Verdun, there are troops in the little cities between Montmedy and Chalons. I do not see any inconvenience,” added the king, “even if the first detachment met me in this last city.”

  “Sire, when there it will be time enough to decide how far the regiments can venture. The king is, however, aware that there is not a post-station at Varennes.”

  “I am glad, count, to see that you are so well informed; it proves that you have seriously studied our plan. Do not be afraid, though, for we will contrive a way to find horses, both above and below that town — our engineer will decide on the spot.”

  “And now, sire, that nearly all is decided, will your majesty permit me to quote in my father’s name a few lines, from an Italian author, which seemed to him so appropriate to the situation in which the king is, that he bade me commit them to memory, that I might repeat them to you?”

  “What are they, sir?”

  “These — ’Delay is always injurious, and there is no circumstance entirely favourable in any undertaking; he who waits an opportunity perfectly favourable will never undertake anything, or if he does, it will turn out badly.’“

  “Yes, sir, the author is Machiavelli. I will pay attention, you may be sure, to the advice of the ambassador of the magnificent republic. But eh! I hear steps on the stairway. It is Gamain. Let us go to meet him, that he may not see that we have not been busied with aught but the drawer.”

  As he spoke the king opened the door of the stairway.

  It was high time, for with the lock in his hand Gamain stood on the last step.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  A Providence Watches Over Drunken Men.

  ON THAT DAY, about eight o’clock p.m., a man clad as a workman, and keeping his hand carefully on his vest pocket, as if on that night it contained a sum of money larger than workmen usually carry, left the Tuileries by the turning bridge, and inclining to the left, went entirely down one of the long aisles of trees which towards the Seine prolong that portion of the Champs Elysees formerly called the marble post, or the stone post, and now called Cours-la-Reine.

  At the first cabaret on the road, the man seemed to undergo a violent mental contest, whence he emerged victorious. The res in lite was whether he would enter the cabaret or not. He passed on.

  The temptation was renewed at the second, and at this moment a man who followed him like a shadow, though unseen, might have fancied he was about to yield, so much did he deviate from the straight line and incline towards that temple of Bacchus.

  This time, also, temperance triumphed, and it is probable that if a third cabaret had not been met with, the shadow would have had to return, and thus break a vow he seemed to have made. The workman continued his route, not fasting, for he seemed already to have taken a decent quantity of liquor, but yet had sufficient self-control for his legs to bear him in a line sufficiently straight for all ordinary purposes.

  Unfortunately, however, there was not only a third, but a fourth, fifth, and twentieth cabaret. The result was that the temptation was too often renewed, and the force of resistance not being in harmony with the power of temptation, he gave way at the third test.

  True it is, that by a kind of transaction with himself, the workman, who had so long and so fortunately combated the demon of wine, as he entered the cabaret, stood erect at the counter, and asked for but one chopin.

  The demon of wine, with which he had so long contended, seemed to be victoriously represented by the stranger who had followed him in the distance, taking care to remain unseen, but, however, never losing sight of his quarry.

  It was, without doubt, to enjoy this particularly agreeable prospect that he sat on the parapet, just opposite the tap where the man drank his chopin, and set out just five minutes after, having drunk his chopin, the man crossed the door to resume his journey.

  Who, however, can say when the lips once damped by wine will be dried? and who has not seen, as drunkards always do, that nothing excites the thirst so much as drinking? Scarcely had the ouvrier gone a hundred paces, than he felt such a thirst that he had to stop again, and on this occasion called, not for a chopin, but for a half-bottle.

  The shadow had followed him did not seem at all dissatisfied at the delay caused by this quenchless thirst, but stopped at the angle of the wall of the cabaret; and though the man sat down at his ease and drank a whole quart to settle the half-bottle and chopin, the benevolent shadow exhibited no impatience, contented, when he came out, to follow him as he had done before.

  About a hundred paces further on he had a new temptation and a ruder test to submit to: the ouvrier made a third halt, and this time, as his thirst continued to increase, he again asked for a bottle.

  The argus had again to wait half an hour, a thing he did with the greatest patience.

  Certainly, these five minutes, this half hour, successively lost, awakened something of remorse in the heart of the drinker. He took the precaution, before he set out again, to provide himself with an uncorked bottle, as he evidently did not wish to halt, but to continue on his journey drinking.

  It was a prudent resolution, and one which did not delay him much, taking into consideration the curves and zig-zags which were the result of every approach of the bottle to his lips.

  By an adroitly combined curve, he passed the barrier of Passy without any trouble; vessels carrying liquids, it is well known, not being liable to any octroi out of Paris.

  A hundred paces from the barrier our man had occasion to congratulate himself on his ingenious precaution, for from that place cabarets became rarer, until at last there were none.

  What was that to our philosopher? Like the sage of old, he carried about with him, not only his fortune, but his joy.

  We say his joy, since, after getting half through his bottle, our traveller began to sing, and no one will deny but that song and laughter are the great means by which man exhibits joy.

  The shadow appeared fully satisfied with the music, which it seemed to repeat in a low tone, and with an expression of pleasure which showed that it took great interest in it. But, unfortunately, the joy was ephemeral and the song short. The joy lasted just as long as the wine did; and when at last the empty bottle was pressed again and again to no purpose, the song changed into growls, which, becoming more and more deep, ended in imprecations.

  These imprecations were addressed to unknown persecutors, of whom, as he staggered, our traveller complained.

  “Base people,” said he, “to give poisoned wine to an old friend and to a master-workman! Pah! let him but send to me to fix his locks, and I will tell him: ‘Bon soir, your majesty; let your majesty fix your own locks. Sire, you cannot make a lock as easily as you can a decree.’ Catch me doing any such thing again; I care nothing about your keys, springs, and tumblers, only catch me there again, that is all. The villain! They certainly have poisoned me.”

  Having spoken these words, he was overcome by the force of the poison, and fell headlong, three times, on the road, which fortunately was covered with a soft cushion of mud.

  Our friend, on the two first occasions, arose without assistance. The operation was difficult, but was accomplished safely. The third time, after desperate efforts, he was forced to confess that the effort was beyond his power, and with a sigh, not unlike a groan, he seemed determined for that night to sleep on our common mother, earth.

  At this point of discouragement and weakness, the shadow which had accompanied him from the Place Louis XV. with so much perseverance, and which had, in the distance, witnessed those abortive efforts to rise which we have sought to describe, approached him, went around him, and called a fiacre which chanced to pass.

  “My friend,” said he to the driver, “my companion is ill; take these six livres, and put the poor devil inside your carriage, and take him to the inn at the Pont de Sevres. I will ride with you.”

  There was nothing strange in one of the two riding with the driver, as both seemed very common men. Therefore, with the touching confidence people of that class have in each other, the driver said, “Six francs, where are they?”

  “Here they are, my friend,” said the other, who did not seem in the least annoyed, at the same time giving the coachman a crown.

  “All right, sir,” said the Automedon, softened by a sight of the king’s effigy.

  “Take up this poor devil, put him inside, shut the doors carefully, and try to make your two nags last until we reach the Pont de Sevres, and we will act then to you as you act to us.”

  “Very well,” said the driver, “that is the way to talk. Be easy, I know what is what. Get on the box and keep our peacocks from cutting up capers. Dame! they already smell the stable, and are anxious to get into it.”

  Without making any remark, the generous stranger did as he was directed, and the driver, carefully as he could, lifted up the drunken man and placed him between the seats, shut the door, got on the box, whipped up the horses, which at the melancholy gait hack horses acquire so easy passed the little hamlet of Pont de Jour, and in an hour reached the inn of the Pont de Sevres.

  In the interior of this inn, after ten minutes devoted to the unpacking of Gamain, whom the reader has doubtless recognised before now, we will find the worthy locksmith, master over masters, seated at the same table with the same armourer we described in the opening of this history.

  The host of the cabaret of the Pont de Sevres had gone to bed, and the least ray of light passed through the blinds, when the first knock of the philanthropist who had rescued Gamain sounded on the door.

  The blows were so long and frequent that there was no possibility for the inmates of the cabaret, sleepy as they were, to resist so violent an attack.

  Sleepy, and slumbering, and growling, the keeper of the house came to open the door himself, and in his own mind determined to give them a pretty scolding for so disturbing him, for, as he said, “the game was not worth the candle.”

  It seemed, however, that the game was worth the candle, for at the first word spoken by the man who knocked so irreverently, the innkeeper took off his cap, and bowing in a most reverent, and in his costume most ridiculous manner, introduced Gamain and his escort into the little room where we previously have seen him, sipping his favourite vin de Burgogne.

  Both driver and horses had done as well as they could, the one using his whip and the others their legs, which the stranger rewarded with a twenty-four sous piece for drink, in addition to the six livres he had already given.

  Then, having seen Gamain firmly deposited in a chair, with his head on a table in front of him, he hastened to make the innkeeper bring two bottles of wine and a pitcher of water, and opened the blinds for the purpose of purifying the mephitic air of the house.

  The host, after having himself brought two bottles of wine and a pitcher of water, the first promptly, but the latter after some delay, retired, and left his two guests together.

  The stranger, as we have seen, had taken care to renew the air; then, before the window was closed, had placed a fiacon beneath the dilated nostrils of the locksmith, who snored as men do in that state of drunkenness, and who, could they hear themselves, would certainly be cured of their mad love of wine. The sovereign wisdom of the Most High does not, however, permit drunkards to hear themselves.

  “The wretch — he has poisoned me — he has poisoned me.”

  The armourer was pleased to see that Gamain was still under the influence of the same idea, and placed the flacon again beneath his nostrils, which, restoring some strength to the worthy son of Noah, permitted him to complete the last phrase, by adding to the words he had already pronounced two other words, which were the more horrible, as they signified a total abuse of confidence and want of heart:

  “To poison a friend — a friend!”

  “Fortunately,” said the armourer, “I was there with the antidote.”

  “Yes, indeed,” murmured Gamain.

  “But as one dose is not enough for such a person,” continued the stranger, “take another.’

  He poured into half a glass of water four or five drops of the fluid in the flacon, which was only a solution of ammonia.

  He then placed the glass close to Gamain’s lips.

  “Ah!” said he, “this is to be drunken with the mouth; I like it better than with the nose.”

  He swallowed the contents of the glass. Scarcely had he done so, however, than he opened his mouth wide, and sneezed violently twice.

  “Robber! what have you given me? Puh! Puh!”

  “I have given you a liquid which will save your life.”

  “Ah!” said he, “if it saves my life, you were right to give it me. But if you call it liquor, you are damnably mistaken.”

  He sneezed again, opening his mouth and expanding his eyes, like a mute of old Greek tragedy.

  The stranger took advantage of this pantomime to shut, not the window, but the blinds.

  This was not without advantage, for Gamain began to open his eyes for the second or third time. During this movement, convulsive as it was, Gamain had looked around him, and with that sentiment of profound remembrance which drunkards have of the walls of a room, he recognised those which surrounded him.

  In fact, in the many trips he was obliged to make to Paris, it was seldom that Gamain did not stop at the Pont de Sevres. This pause might almost be considered a necessity, the cabaret being half way. This recollection had a great effect. It restored the confidence of the locksmith, by proving to him that he was in the company of friends.

  “Ah, ha!” said he, “I am half way, it seems.”

  “Yes, thanks to me,” said the armourer.

  “How, thanks to you?” said Gamain, looking from inanimate to living things, “thanks to you? who are you?”

  “My dear Gamain, that proves to me that you have a bad memory.”

  “Wait a bit, wait a bit; it seems to me that I have seen you before. But where was it? That is the thing.”

  “Where? look around you, and the objects may, perhaps, arouse some recollections. When is another thing. Think, or it may he necessary to administer to you another dose of the antidote, to enable you to tell me.”

  “No, I thank you, I have had enough of your antidote, and since I am saved a little, I will he content with that. Where did I see you? — where did I see you? Why here.”

  “All right.”

  “When did I see you? — wait; on the morning when I came from doing some work in Paris. It really seems I have luck with those enterprises.”

  “Very well, and now what am I?”

  “What are you? — a man who paid for my liquor. Consequently you are a good fellow. Give me your hand.”

  “With especial pleasure, as between a master locksmith and a master armourer there is but one step.”

  “Ah! well! There it is. I remember now. Yes, it was on the 6th of October, on the day of the king’s return to Paris. We even talked of him on that day.”

  “And I found your conversation very interesting, Master Gamain; on that account I am anxious to enjoy it again, and since memory has returned to you, if I am not indiscreet, tell me what you were doing, about an hour ago, stretched at your length in the street, within twenty feet of a carriage, which would have cut you in two if I had not passed by. Have you any troubles that you wish thus to commit suicide?”

  “I commit suicide? My God! What was I doing there in the middle of the road? Are you sure I was there?”

  “Parbleu! look at yourself.”

  Gamain looked at his coat. “Ah!” said he, “Madame Gamain will scold not a little. She told me not to put on my new coat. “Put on your old jacket, it is good enough for the Tuileries.’“

  “How, the Tuileries?” said the stranger; “had you come from the Tuileries when I saw you?”

  Gamain scratched his head, as if to rake up his ideas, which were not yet in order.

  “Yes, I came from the Tuileries; what of that, though? Everybody knows I was the king’s master. All know I served M. Veto.”

  “How, M. Veto? Whom do you call M. Veto?”

  “Ah! good: you know they give that name to the king. Where did you come from, anyhow? From China?”

  “Bah! I attend to my business, and do not attend to politics.”

  “You are very lucky. I do busy myself in politics, or rather I am forced to do so.” Gamain looked up to heaven and sighed.

  “Bah!” said the stranger. “Have you been called to Paris to do some work for the person of whom you spoke when we first met?”

  “Exactly. Only at that time I did not know whither I was going, for my eyes were bandaged; but this time I went with them opened.”

  “You had no trouble, then, in recognising the Tuileries?”

  “The Tuileries!” said Gamain, echoing his words, “who told you I went to the Tuileries?”

  “You, just now. How do I know you came from the Tuileries? Why, you told me so yourself.”

  “True,” said Gamain, speaking to himself; “how could he know, unless I told him myself?”