Belle Rose: A Romance of the Cloak and Sword — page 224: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

208 WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. Belle-Rose got up and dressed. An officer was waiting for him outside the somber fortress; near him were two soldiers of the mounted police. The postilion was in the saddle. The officer was the same one who had arrested him in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice, at Monsieur Mériset’s. One of the guards was Bouletord. The ex- cannoneer saluted Belle-Rose with a smile. ‘‘We have played quits or double, and I have won,’’ he said to him. Belle-Rose was passing without replying, when, raising his eyes, he saw on horseback, in the costume of a pos- tilion, the honest Déroute, who was cracking his whip and had just raised a bandage which he had applied to his face so as not to be recognized. Accry of surprise came near bursting from the lips of the prisoner, but the sergeant placed a finger upon his lips, and Belle-Rose leaped upon the step of the carriage. “Eh said he to Bouletord, ‘‘it is another game which begins. ”’ The officer sat down beside Belle-Rose. The two guards placed themselves upon the front seat, and Déroute bran- dished his whip. ‘*Kh! comrades, ’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘pass your arms through the straps, the road is bad, there will be some jolting.’”’ ‘‘What the devil is he talking about?’’ murmured the officer; ‘‘the road is smooth as a floor, and it has not rained for a month.”’ Belle-Rose said nothing and passed his arm through a strap, which he clasped tightly. Evidently the advice was for him. The duchess’ gold had done wonders. Déroute had made drunk ten postilions before discovering the one who was to drive the prisoner’s chaise. As to this one, he had not been able to resist the offer of a purse in which the louis shone between the silken meshes. His philosophy had deemed that a blue vest laced with silver, a pair of buckskin pants, great boots, and the honor of driving a prisoner of state were not worth two thousand livres. The carriage set out in the direction of the Barriére d’Enfer; at some leagues from there, slightly beyond Villejuif, an obstacle forced the carriage to stop. A tree had fallen upon one side of the road; on the other side was an immovable wagon. “‘Eh, man with the wagon!’’ cried Déroute, ‘‘make way for the servants of the king.’”’ The man with the chariot poked his head out of the hay, gaped, stretched out his arms, and went to sleep again, comicbooks.com —