Resting his elbow on the table, and with his hand to his brow, Caron sat deep in thought, his forefinger and thumb pressed against his closed eyelids.  From beyond the board Mademoiselle watched him anxiously and waited.  At last he looked up.

“I think I have it,” he announced, rising.  “You say that the men are drinking heavily.  That should materially assist us.”

She asked him what plan he had conceived, but he urged that time pressed; she should know presently; meanwhile, she had best return immediately to her carriage.  He went to the door to call Guyot, but she stayed him.

“No, no, Monsieur,” she exclaimed.  “I will not pass through the common-room again in that fellow’s company.  They are all in there, carousing, and ­and I dare not.”

As if to confirm her words, now that he held the door open, he caught some sounds of mirth and the drone of voices from below.

“Come with me, then,” said he, taking up one of the candles.  “I will escort you.”

Together they descended the narrow staircase, La Boulaye going first, to guide her, since two might not go abreast.  At the foot there was a door, which he opened, and then, at the end of a short passage ­in which the drone of voices sounded very loud and in particular one, cracked voice that was raised in song ­they gained the door of the common-room.  As La Boulaye pushed it open they came upon a scene of Bacchanalian revelry.  On a chair that had been set upon the table they beheld Mother Capoulade enthroned like a Goddess of Liberty, and wearing a Phrygian cap on her dishevelled locks.  Her yellow cheeks were flushed and her eyes watery, whilst hers was the crazy voice that sang.

Around the table, in every conceivable attitude of abandonment, sat Captain Charlot’s guard ­every man of the ten ­and with them the six men and the corporal of La Boulaye’s escort, all more or less in a condition of drunkenness.

“Le jour de gloire est arrive?” sang the croaking voice of Dame Capoulade, and there it stopped abruptly upon catching sight of La Boulaye and his companion in the doorway.  Mademoiselle shivered out of loathing; but La Boulaye felt his pulses quickened with hope, for surely all this was calculated to assist him in his purpose.

At the abrupt interruption of the landlady’s version of the “Marseillaise” the men swung round, and upon seeing the Deputy they sought in ludicrous haste to repair the disorder of their appearance.

“So!” thundered Caron.  “This is the watch you keep?  This is how you are to be trusted?  And you, Guyot,” he continued, pointing his finger at the man.  “Did I not bid you await my orders?  Is this how you wait?  You see that I am compelled to reconduct the Citoyenne myself, for I might have called you in vain all night.”

Guyot came forward sheepishly, and a trifle unsteady in his gait.

“I did not hear you call, Citizen,” he muttered.

“It had been a miracle if you had with this din,” answered La Boulaye.  “Here, take the Citoyenne back to her carriage.”

Obediently Guyot led the Citoyenne across the room and out into the courtyard, and the men, restrained by La Boulaye’s severe presence, dared scarcely so much as raise their eyes to her as she passed out.

“And now to your posts,” was Caron’s stern command.  “By my soul, if you were men of mine I would have you flogged for this.  Out with you!” And he pointed imperiously to the door.

“It is a bitter night, Citizen,” grumbled one of them.

“Do you call yourself soldiers, and does a touch of frost make cowards of you?  Outside, you old wives, at once!  I’ll see you at your post before I go to bed.”

And with that he set himself to drive them out, and they went, until none but his own half-dozen remained.  These he bade dispose themselves about the hearth, in which they very readily obeyed him.

On a side-table stood a huge steaming can which had attracted La Boulaye’s attention from the moment that he had entered the room.  He went to peer into this, and found it full almost to the brim of mulled red wine.

With his back to those in the room, so as to screen his actions, he had uncorked the phial as he was approaching the can.  Now, as he made pretence first to peer into it and then to smell its contents, he surreptitiously emptied the potion into it, wondering vaguely to himself whether the men would ever wake again if they had drunk it.  Slipping the phial into his sash he turned to Mother Capoulade, who had descended from the table and stood looking very foolish.

“What is this?” he demanded angrily.

“It was a last cup of wine for the men,” she faltered.  “The night is bitterly cold, Citizen,” she added, by way of excusing herself.

“Bah!” snarled Caron, and for a moment he stood there as if deliberating.  “I am minded to empty it into the kennel,” he announced.

“Citizen!” cried the woman, in alarm.  “It is good wine, and I have spiced it.”

“Well,” he relented, “they may have it.  But see that it is the last to-night.”

And with that he strode across the room, and with a surly “Good-night” to his men, he mounted the stairs once more.

He waited perhaps ten minutes in the chamber above, then he went to the casement, and softly opened the window.  It was as he expected.  With the exception of the coach standing in the middle of the yard, and just discernible by the glow of the smouldering fire they had built there but allowed to burn low, the place was untenanted.  Believing him to have retired for the night, the men were back again in the more congenial atmosphere of the hostelry, drinking themselves no doubt into a stupor with that last can of drugged wine.  He sat down to quietly mature his plans, and to think out every detail of what he was about to do.  At the end of a half-hour, silence reigning throughout the house, he rose.  He crept softly into Charlot’s chamber and possessed himself of the Captain’s outer garments.  These he carried back to the sitting-room, and extracted from the coat pocket two huge keys tied together with a piece of string.  He never doubted that they were the keys he sought, one opening the stable door and the other the gates of the porte-cochère.

He replaced the garments, and then to make doubly sure, he waited yet ­in a fever of impatience ­another half-hour by his watch.

It wanted a few minutes to midnight when, taking up his cloak and a lantern he had lighted, he went below once more.  In the common-room he found precisely the scene he had expected.  Both Charlot’s men and his own followers lay about the floor in all conceivable manner of attitudes, their senses locked deep in the drunken stupor that possessed them.  Two or three had remained seated, and had fallen across the table, when overcome.  Of these was Mother Capoulade, whose head lay sideways on her curled arms, and from whose throat there issued a resonant and melodious snore.  Most of the faces that La Boulaye could see were horribly livid and bedewed with sweat, and again it came into his mind to wonder whether he had overdone things, and they would wake no more.  On the other hand, an even greater fear beset him, that the drug might have been insufficient.  By way of testing it, he caught one fellow who lay across his path a violent kick in the side.  The man grunted in his sleep, and stirred slightly, to relapse almost at once into his helpless attitude, and to resume his regular breathing, which the blow had interrupted.

La Boulaye smiled his satisfaction, and without further hesitancy passed out into the yard.  He had yet a good deal to say to Mademoiselle, but he could not bring himself to speak to her before her mother, particularly as he realised how much the Marquise might be opposed to him.  He opened the carriage door.

“Mademoiselle,” he called softly, “will you do me the favour to alight for an instant?  I must speak to you.”

“Can you not say what you have to say where you are?” came the Marquise’s voice.

“No, Madame,” answered La Boulaye coldly, “I cannot.”

“Oh, it is ‘Madame’ and ‘Mademoiselle’ now, eh?  What have you done to the man, child, to have earned us so much deference.”

“May I remind Mademoiselle,” put in La Boulaye firmly, “that time presses, and that there is much to be done?”

“I am here, Monsieur” she answered, as without more ado, and heedless of her mother’s fresh remarks, she stepped from the carriage.

La Boulaye proffered his wrist to assist her to alight, then reclosed the door, and led her slowly towards the stable.

“Where are the soldiers?” she whispered.

“Every soul in the inn is asleep,” he answered.  “I have drugged them all, from the Captain down to the hostess.  The only one left is the ostler, who is sleeping in one of the outhouses here.  Him you must take with you, not only because it is not possible to drug him as well, but also because the blame of your escape must rest on someone, and it may as well rest on him as another.”

“But why not on you?” she asked.

“Because I must remain.”

“Ah!” It was no more than a breath of interrogation, and her face was turned towards him as she awaited an explanation.

“I have given it much thought, Suzanne, and unless someone remains to cover, as it were, your retreat, I am afraid that your flight might be vain, and that you would run an overwhelming risk of recapture.  You must remember the resourcefulness of this fellow, Tardivet, and his power in the country here.  If he were to awake to the discovery that I had duped him, he would be up and after us, and I make little doubt that it would not be long ere he found the scent and ran us to earth.  Tomorrow I shall discover your flight and the villainy of the ostler, and I shall so organise the pursuit that you shall not be overtaken.”

There was a moment’s pause, during which La Boulaye seemed to expect some question.  But none came, so he proceeded: 

“Your original intention was to make for Prussia, where you say that your father and your brother are awaiting you.”

“Yes, Monsieur.  Beyond the Moselle ­at Treves.”

“You must alter your plans,” said he shortly.  “Your mother, no doubt, will insist upon repairing thither, and I will see that the road is left open for her escape.  At Soignies you, Suzanne, can hire yourself a berline, that will take you back to France.”

“Back to France?” she echoed.

“Yes, back to France.  That is the unlikeliest road on which to think of pursuing you, and thus you will baffle Charlot.  Let your mother proceed on her journey to Prussia, but tell her to avoid Charleroi, and to go round by Liege.  Thus only can she hope to escape Tardivet’s men that are patrolling the road from France.  As for you, Suzanne, you had best go North as far as Oudenarde, so as to circumvent the Captain’s brigands on that side.  Then make straight for Roubaix, and await me at the ’Hotel des Cloches.’”

“But, Monsieur, I shudder at the very thought of re-entering France.”

“As Mademoiselle de Bellecour, a proscribed aristocrat, that is every reason for your fears.  But I have given the matter thought and I can promise you that as the Citoyenne La Boulaye, wife of the Citizen-deputy Caron La Boulaye, you will be as safe as I should be myself, if you are questioned, and, in response, you will find nothing but eagerness to serve you on every hand.”

She spoke now of the difficulties her mother would make, but he dismissed the matter by reminding her that her mother could not detain her by force.  Again she alluded to her dowry, but that also he dismissed, bidding her leave it behind.  Her family would need the money, to be realised by the jewels.  As for herself, he assured her that as his wife she would not want, and showed her how idle was her dread of living in France.

“And now, Mademoiselle,” he said, more briskly, “let us see to this ostler.”

He opened the door of the outhouse, and uncovering his lantern he raised it above his head.  Its yellow light revealed to them a sleeper on the straw in a corner.  La Boulaye entered and stirred the man with his foot.

The fellow sat up blinking stupidly and dragging odd wisps of straw from his grey hair.

“What’s amiss?” he grunted.

As briefly as might be La Boulaye informed him that he was to receive a matter of five hundred francs if he would journey into Prussia with the ci-devant Marquise de Bellecour.

Five hundred francs?  It was a vast sum, the tenth of which had never been his at any one time of his wretched life.  For five hundred francs he would have journeyed into Hades, and La Boulaye found him willing enough to go to Prussia, and had no need to resort to the more forcible measures he had come prepared to employ.

Accompanied by the ostler, they now passed to the stables, and when La Boulaye had unlocked the door and cut the bonds that pinioned the Marquis’s coachman, they got the horses, and together they harnessed them as quietly as might be.

Then working with infinite precaution, and as little sound as possible, they brought them out into the yard and set them in the shafts of the carriage.  The rest was easy work, and a quarter of an hour later the heavy vehicle rumbled through the porte-cochère and started on its way to Soignies.

La Boulaye dropped the keys into a bucket and went within.  In the common-room nothing had changed, and the men lay about precisely as he had left them.  Reassured, he went above and took a peep at the Captain, whom he found snoring lustily.

Satisfied that all was well, Caron passed quietly to his own chamber, and with an elation of soul such as had never been his since boyhood, he fell asleep amid visions of Suzanne and the new life he was to enter upon in her sweet company.