CHAPTER 233: FREEDOM AT MIDNIGHT: II

After blowing out the lights, the two fugitives opened the door to a dressing room that led to a side staircase down to the courtyard. Eugénie went first, carrying the heavy trunk by one handle while Louise struggled to lift the other side with both hands.

The courtyard was empty. The clock struck midnight. The doorman hadn’t gone to bed yet, but Eugénie could see through the window of his lodge that he was sleeping soundly in his armchair.

She set down the trunk, gestured for Louise to hide in the shadows near the gate, then positioned herself in the full light of the courtyard lamp.

"Gate!" she called out in her best masculine voice, rapping sharply on the window.

The doorman woke and started toward the gate. When he saw what appeared to be a young gentleman impatiently striking his boot with a riding crop, he opened the gate immediately.

Louise slipped through the narrow opening like a snake. Eugénie, outwardly calm despite her racing heart, followed.

A porter happened to be passing by. They paid him to carry their trunk to 36 Rue de la Victoire and walked behind him. His presence comforted Louise, though Eugénie remained as confident as any warrior from ancient stories.

When they reached the address, Eugénie had the porter set down the trunk, paid him, and knocked on the shuttered window. He left.

The shutter belonged to a laundress they’d warned earlier, who was still awake. She opened the door.

"Let the porter get the post-coach from the carriage house," Eugénie instructed, "and bring horses from the stable. Here’s five francs for his trouble."

"I admire you," Louise whispered. "I almost respect you."

The laundress watched in bewilderment but said nothing, they’d promised her twenty gold coins.

Fifteen minutes later, the porter returned with a driver and horses. Within minutes, everything was harnessed and ready, the trunk secured with cord and straps.

"Here’s the passport," the driver said. "Which way are we headed, young sir?"

"Fontainebleau," Eugénie replied in her masculine voice.

"What?" Louise whispered in confusion.

"Throwing them off our trail," Eugénie murmured. "That woman we gave twenty gold coins to might betray us for forty. We’ll change direction soon."

The coach was luxuriously fitted for sleeping. Eugénie leaped inside without even touching the step.

"You’re always right," the music teacher said, settling beside her friend.

Fifteen minutes later, the driver cracked his whip as they passed through the city barrier at Saint-Martin Gate.

"Ah," Louise sighed with relief. "We’re out of the city."

"Yes, my dear. The abduction is complete," Eugénie replied with satisfaction.

"And without violence," Louise added.

"I’ll use that as a defense if anyone asks," Eugénie joked.

Her words were lost in the rumble of wheels over cobblestones as they left the city behind. Monsieur Danglars no longer had a daughter.

Now let’s leave the young women traveling toward Brussels and return to Andrea Cavalcanti, whose rise to fortune had been so rudely interrupted.

Despite his youth, Andrea was clever and quick-thinking. When the first whispers of trouble reached the party, he’d slowly edged toward the door, slipped through several rooms, and vanished.

But there’s one detail we haven’t mentioned yet. One of the rooms he passed through held the bride’s wedding gifts on display, diamond jewelry, cashmere shawls, expensive lace, English veils, all the treasures that make young women’s hearts race.

As Andrea passed through, he proved himself not just clever but practical. He helped himself to the most valuable items.

Armed with this stolen wealth, Andrea jumped from a window with a lighter heart, intending to slip past the police. Tall, well-built like an ancient warrior, and strong as an athlete, he walked for fifteen minutes with no clear destination, driven only by the need to get away before they caught him.

He found himself at the end of Rue Lafayette and stopped, breathless and panting. He was completely alone. On one side stretched the vast emptiness of the Saint-Lazare area. On the other, the city lay dark and silent.

"Will they capture me?" he gasped. "No, not if I’m faster than they are! It’s just a race now."

At that moment, he spotted a cab at the top of the street. The driver, smoking his pipe, was slowly making his way toward his usual stopping point.

"Hey, friend!" Andrea called.

"What do you want, sir?" the driver asked.

"Is your horse tired?"

"Tired? Yeah, exhausted, he’s done nothing all day! Four terrible fares, barely seven francs total, and I owe the owner ten."

"I’ll add twenty francs to your seven."

"With pleasure, sir! Twenty francs is serious money. What do you need?"

"Something very simple, if your horse isn’t too tired."

"I told you, he’ll run like the wind! Just tell me where to go."

"Toward Louvres."

"Ah, I know it, they serve excellent sweetened rum there."

"Exactly! I’m trying to catch up with a friend. We’re hunting tomorrow at Chapelle-en-Serval. He was supposed to wait here with a two-wheeled carriage until eleven-thirty. It’s midnight now, so he must have gotten tired of waiting and left ahead."

"Makes sense."

"Think you can overtake him?"

"Nothing I’d like better."

"If you don’t catch him before Bourget, I’ll give you twenty francs. If not before Louvres, thirty."

"And if we do catch him?"

"Forty," Andrea said after a brief hesitation, knowing he could safely promise money he’d never pay.

"Deal!" the driver said. "Hop in, and we’re off!"

Andrea climbed into the cab, which rushed through the streets and out past the city barrier. They never caught up with the imaginary friend, but Andrea kept asking pedestrians and innkeepers about a green two-wheeled carriage with a bay horse.

Since green carriages were common on the northern roads, people constantly reported seeing one just ahead, five hundred steps, two hundred steps, one hundred steps away. But whenever they caught up to one, it was never his "friend."

Once, an elegant carriage pulled by two post-horses passed them at high speed.

"Ah," Andrea thought bitterly, "if only I had that carriage, those horses, and the passport that goes with them!"

He sighed deeply. The carriage contained Eugénie Danglars and Louise d’Armilly, though he didn’t know it.

"Hurry, hurry!" Andrea urged. "We have to catch him!"

The exhausted horse galloped desperately until they reached Louvres, the animal steaming with sweat.

"I’m not going to catch my friend," Andrea said, "but I’ll kill your horse if we continue. Here’s thirty francs. I’ll sleep at the Red Horse Inn and catch a coach tomorrow morning. Good night, friend."

He pressed six five-franc coins into the driver’s palm and jumped lightly onto the road. The driver pocketed the money happily and turned back toward the city.

Andrea pretended to walk toward the Red Horse Inn, but after leaning against the door for a moment until the cab disappeared from sight, he continued down the road. With a strong stride, he covered the distance of two leagues without stopping.

Then he paused. He was near Chapelle-en-Serval, where he’d claimed to be going. But he wasn’t stopping from exhaustion, he needed to think, to make a plan.

Using a stagecoach was impossible. Hiring post-horses required papers. Both needed a passport. And staying in this area would be suicide. It was one of the most open, heavily patrolled regions in France, especially dangerous for someone like Andrea, who understood criminal matters all too well.

He sat by the roadside, buried his face in his hands, and thought hard. Ten minutes later, he raised his head. His plan was ready.

He threw dust over the coat he’d managed to grab from the mansion, the one he’d buttoned over his fancy ball clothes, and walked to Chapelle-en-Serval. He knocked loudly at the only inn in town.

The innkeeper opened the door.