having now three or four hours before him he had best fortify
himself against the fatigues of the morrow by a sound sleep and a
good supper. A waiter opened the door.
"My friend," said Andrea, "I have been dining at
Saint-Jean-au-Bois, and expected to catch the coach which passes by
at midnight, but like a fool I have lost my way, and have been
walking for the last four hours in the forest. Show me into one of
those pretty little rooms which overlook the court, and bring me a
cold fowl and a bottle of Bordeaux." The waiter had no suspicions;
Andrea spoke with perfect composure, he had a cigar in his mouth,
and his hands in the pocket of his top coat; his clothes were
fashionably made, his chin smooth, his boots irreproachable; he
looked merely as if he had stayed out very late, that was all.
While the waiter was preparing his room, the hostess arose; Andrea
assumed his most charming smile, and asked if he could have No. 3,
which he had occupied on his last stay at Compiegne. Unfortunately,
No. 3 was engaged by a young man who was travelling with his
sister. Andrea appeared in despair, but consoled himself when the
hostess assured him that No. 7, prepared for him, was situated
precisely the same as No. 3, and while warming his feet and
chatting about the last races at Chantilly, he waited until they
announced his room to be ready.
Andrea had not spoken without cause of the pretty rooms looking
out upon the court of the Bell Tavern, which with its triple
galleries like those of a theatre, with the jessamine and clematis
twining round the light columns, forms one of the prettiest
entrances to an inn that you can imagine. The fowl was tender, the
wine old, the fire clear and sparkling, and Andrea was surprised to
find himself eating with as good an appetite as though nothing had
happened. Then he went to bed and almost immediately fell into that
deep sleep which is sure to visit men of twenty years of age, even
when they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to ownwhen they are torn with remorse. Now, here we are obliged to own
that Andrea ought to have felt remorse, but that he did not. This
was the plan which had appealed to him to afford the best chance of
his security. Before daybreak he would awake, leave the inn after
rigorously paying his bill, and reaching the forest, he would,
under pretence of making studies in painting, test the hospitality
of some peasants, procure himself the dress of a woodcutter and a
hatchet, casting off the lion's skin to assume that of the woodman;
then, with his hands covered with dirt, his hair darkened by means
of a leaden comb, his complexion embrowned with a preparation for
which one of his old comrades had given him the recipe, he
intended, by following the wooded districts, to reach the nearest
frontier, walking by night and sleeping in the day in the forests
and quarries, and only entering inhabited regions to buy a loaf
from time to time.
Once past the frontier, Andrea proposed making money of his
diamonds; and by uniting the proceeds to ten bank-notes he always
carried about with him in case of accident, he would then find
himself possessor of about 50,000 livres, which he philosophically
considered as no very deplorable condition after all. Moreover, he
reckoned much on the interest of the Danglars to hush up the rumor
of their own misadventures. These were the reasons which, added to
the fatigue, caused Andrea to sleep so soundly. In order that he
might awaken early he did not close the shutters, but contented
himself with bolting the door and placing on the table an unclasped
and long-pointed knife, whose temper he well knew, and which was
never absent from him. About seven in the morning Andrea was
awakened by a ray of sunlight, which played, warm and brilliant,
upon his face. In all well-organized brains, the predominating idea
— and there always is one — is sure to be the last thought before
sleeping, and the first upon waking in the morning. Andrea had
scarcely opened his eyes when his predominating idea presentedscarcely opened his eyes when his predominating idea presented
itself, and whispered in his ear that he had slept too long. He
jumped out of bed and ran to the window. A gendarme was crossing
the court. A gendarme is one of the most striking objects in the
world, even to a man void of uneasiness; but for one who has a
timid conscience, and with good cause too, the yellow, blue, and
white uniform is really very alarming.
"Why is that gendarme there?" asked Andrea of himself. Then, all
at once, he replied, with that logic which the reader has,
doubtless, remarked in him, "There is nothing astonishing in seeing
a gendarme at an inn; instead of being astonished, let me dress
myself." And the youth dressed himself with a facility his valet de
chambre had failed to rob him of during the two months of
fashionable life he had led in Paris. "Now then," said Andrea,
while dressing himself, "I'll wait till he leaves, and then I'll
slip away." And, saying this, Andrea, who had now put on his boots
and cravat, stole gently to the window, and a second time lifted up
the muslin curtain. Not only was the first gendarme still there,
but the young man now perceived a second yellow, blue, and white
uniform at the foot of the staircase, the only one by which he
could descend, while a third, on horseback, holding a musket in his
fist, was posted as a sentinel at the great street door which alone
afforded the means of egress.
The appearance of the third gendarme settled the matter, for a
crowd of curious loungers was extended before him, effectually
blocking the entrance to the hotel. "They're after me!" was
Andrea's first thought. "The devil!" A pallor overspread the young
man's forehead, and he looked around him with anxiety. His room,
like all those on the same floor, had but one outlet to the gallery
in the sight of everybody. "I am lost!" was his second thought;
and, indeed, for a man in Andrea's situation, an arrest meant the
assizes, trial, and death, — death without mercy or delay. For a