File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (ebook reader browser TXT) 📖

At least twenty young men of Tarascon were volunteer guides to the armed force.

“Then,” said the marquis, “we are surrounded?”

“Not a single chance for escape,” groaned St. Jean.

“We shall see about that, Jarnibleu!” cried the marquis. “Ah, we are not the strongest, but we can be the most adroit. Attention! Louis, my son, you and La Verdure go down to the stable, and mount the fastest horses; then as quietly as possible station yourselves, you, Louis, at the park gate, and you, La Verdure, at the outer gate. Upon the signal I shall give you by firing a pistol, let every door be instantly opened, while Louis and Verdure dash through the gates, and make the gendarmes pursue them.”

“I will make them fly,” said La Verdure.

“Listen. During this time, Gaston, aided by St. Jean, will scale the park wall, and hasten along the river to the cabin of Pilorel, the fisherman. He is an old sailor of the republic, and devoted to our house. He will take Gaston in his boat; and, when they are once on the Rhone, there is nothing to be feared save the wrath of God. Now go, all of you: fly!”

Left alone with his son, the old man slipped the jewelry into a silk purse, and, handing them once more to Gaston, said, as he stretched out his arms toward him:

“Come here, my son, and let me embrace you, and bestow my blessing.”

Gaston hesitated.

“Come,” insisted the old man in broken tones, “I must embrace you for the last time: I may never see you again. Save yourself, save your name, Gaston, and then—you know how I love you, my son: take back the jewels. Come.”

For an instant the father and son clung to each other, overpowered by emotion.

But the continued noise at the gates now reaches their ears.

“We must part!” said M. de Clameran, “go!” And, taking from his desk a little pair of pistols, he handed them to his son, and added, with averted eyes, “You must not be captured alive, Gaston!”

Gaston did not immediately descend to the park.

He yearned to see Valentine, and give her one last kiss before leaving France, and determined to persuade Pilorel to stop the boat as they went by the park of La Verberie.

He hastened to his room, placed the signal in the window so that Valentine might know he was coming, and waited for an answering light.

“Come, M. Gaston,” entreated old St. Jean, who could not understand the strange conduct. “For God’s sake make haste! your life is at stake!”

At last he came running down the stairs, and had just reached the vestibule when a pistol-shot, the signal given by the marquis, was heard.

The loud swinging open of the large gate, the rattling of the sabres of the gendarmes, the furious galloping of many horses, and a chorus of loud shouts and angry oaths, were next heard.

Leaning against the window, his brow beaded with cold perspiration, the Marquis de Clameran breathlessly awaited the issue of this expedient, upon which depended the life of his eldest son.

His measures were excellent, and deserved success. As he had ordered, Louis and La Verdure dashed out through the gate, one to the right, the other to the left, each one pursued by a dozen mounted men. Their horses flew like arrows, and kept far ahead of the pursuers.

Gaston would have been saved, but for the interference of fate; but was it fate, or was it malice?

Suddenly Louis’s horse stumbled, and fell to the ground with his rider. The gendarmes rode up, and at once recognized the second son of M. de Clameran.

“This is not the assassin!” they cried. “Let us hurry back, else he will escape!”

They returned just in time to see, by the uncertain light of the moon peeping from behind a cloud, Gaston climbing the garden wall.

“There is our man!” exclaimed the corporal. “Keep your eyes open, and gallop after him!”

They spurred their horses, and hastened to the spot where Gaston had jumped from the wall.

On a wooded piece of ground, even if it be hilly, an agile man, if he preserves his presence of mind, can escape a number of horsemen. The ground on this side of the park was favorable to Gaston. He found himself in an immense madder-field; and, as is well known, as this valuable root must remain in the ground three years, the furrows are necessarily ploughed very deep. Horses cannot even walk over its uneven surface; indeed, they can scarcely stand steadily upon it.

This circumstance brought the gendarmes to a dead halt.

Four rash hussars ventured in the field, but they and their beasts were soon rolling between hillocks.

Jumping from ridge to ridge, Gaston soon reached a large field, freshly ploughed, and planted with young chestnuts.

As his chances of escape increased, the excitement grew more intense. The pursuers urged each other on, and called out to head him off, every time they saw Gaston run from one clump of trees to another.

Being familiar with the country, young De Clameran was confident of eluding his pursuers. He knew that the next field was a thistle-field, and was separated from the chestnut by a long, deep ditch.

He resolved to jump into this ditch, run along the bottom, and climb out at the farther end, while they were looking for him among the trees.

But he had forgotten the swelling of the river. Upon reaching the ditch, he found it full of water.

Discouraged but not disconcerted, he was about to jump across, when three horsemen appeared on the opposite side.

They were gendarmes who had ridden around the madder-field and chestnut-trees, knowing they could easily catch him on the level ground of the thistle-field.

At the sight of these three men, Gaston stood perplexed.

He should certainly be captured if he attempted to run through the field, at the end of which he could see the cabin of Pilorel the ferryman.

To retrace his steps would be surrendering to the hussars.

At a little distance on his right was a forest, but he was separated from it by a road upon which he heard the sound of approaching horses. He would certainly be caught there.

Foes in front of him, foes behind him, foes on the right of him! What was on his left?

On his left was the surging, foaming river.

What hope was left? The circle of which he was the centre was fast narrowing.

Must he, then, fall