CHAPTER 234: THE THIEF’S FLIGHT: I

"My friend," Andrea said, "I was riding from Mortefontaine to Senlis when my troublesome horse stumbled and threw me. I need to reach Compiègne tonight or my family will worry terribly. Could I rent a horse from you?"

Innkeepers always have horses available, good or bad. The host called the stable boy and ordered him to saddle "Whitey." Then he woke his seven-year-old son and told him to ride ahead of the gentleman and bring the horse back.

Andrea gave the innkeeper twenty francs. As he pulled them from his pocket, a visiting card fell out, one belonging to a friend from a fashionable café. The innkeeper picked it up after Andrea left, reading the name and address printed on it. He was convinced he’d rented his horse to the Count of Mauléon from 25 Rue Saint-Dominique.

"Whitey" wasn’t fast, but he maintained a steady pace. Three and a half hours later, Andrea had covered the nine leagues to Compiègne. Four o’clock struck as he reached the coaching stop.

There was an excellent tavern in Compiègne, the Bell and Bottle Inn, well-known to anyone who’d traveled through. Andrea had stayed there before during trips around the city. He spotted the inn’s sign by reflected lamplight, dismissed the boy with all his small coins, and knocked at the door. With three or four hours before dawn, he figured he should fortify himself with a good meal and sleep before tomorrow’s challenges.

A waiter opened the door.

"Friend," Andrea said casually, "I had dinner at Saint-Jean-au-Bois and expected to catch the midnight coach, but like an idiot I got lost. I’ve been walking through the forest for four hours. Show me one of those nice little rooms overlooking the courtyard and bring me cold chicken and a bottle of wine."

The waiter suspected nothing. Andrea spoke with perfect composure, a cigar in his mouth, hands in his pockets, fashionably dressed, clean-shaven, boots immaculate. He looked like any gentleman who’d stayed out late, nothing more.

While the waiter prepared his room, the hostess appeared. Andrea gave her his most charming smile and asked if he could have Room Three, which he’d occupied on his last visit.

Unfortunately, Room Three was taken by a young man traveling with his sister. Andrea looked disappointed but accepted when the hostess assured him that Room Seven, prepared for him now, was in exactly the same location.

While warming his feet and chatting about recent horse races, he waited until they announced his room was ready.

The Bell Tavern truly had beautiful rooms overlooking the courtyard, a three-story gallery like a theater, with jasmine and clematis climbing the elegant columns. It was one of the prettiest inn courtyards imaginable.

The chicken was tender, the wine aged, the fire bright and warm. Andrea was surprised to find himself eating with good appetite despite everything that had happened.

Then he went to bed and immediately fell into the deep sleep that always visits twenty-year-old men, even those who should feel guilty.

Here we must admit, Andrea should have felt remorse, but he didn’t.

His plan seemed solid. Before dawn, he’d wake up, pay his bill properly, and reach the forest. Pretending to be a landscape painter, he’d accept hospitality from peasants, acquire woodcutter’s clothing and an axe, trading the lion’s skin for the workman’s disguise. With dirt-covered hands, hair darkened with a lead comb, and complexion browned with a special mixture an old accomplice had taught him to make, he’d follow wooded paths to the nearest border. Walking by night, sleeping by day in forests and quarries, only entering towns to buy bread occasionally.

Once across the border, he’d sell his stolen diamonds. Combined with the ten banknotes he always carried for emergencies, he’d have about fifty thousand livres, not a bad situation at all, he thought philosophically.

He also counted on the Danglars family keeping quiet about their own scandal.

These thoughts, plus exhaustion, let Andrea sleep soundly. To wake early, he didn’t close the shutters, just bolted the door and left an open knife on the table, its blade long and sharp, the weapon he never went without.

Around seven in the morning, sunlight streaming through the window woke him. In well-ordered minds, the dominant thought is always the last before sleeping and the first upon waking.

Andrea’s eyes barely opened when his dominant thought whispered. He’d slept too long.

He jumped out of bed and ran to the window.

A soldier in uniform was crossing the courtyard.

For anyone with a guilty conscience, that yellow, blue, and white uniform was terrifying.

"Why is that soldier here?" Andrea wondered.

Then he answered himself with characteristic logic, "There’s nothing unusual about a soldier at an inn. Instead of panicking, I should get dressed."

He dressed quickly, his two months of fashionable life in the city hadn’t robbed him of that skill.

"Now," he muttered while fastening his boots and tying his cravat, "I’ll wait until he leaves, then slip away quietly."

He crept to the window and lifted the curtain again.

Not only was the first soldier still there, but Andrea now spotted a second yellow, blue, and white uniform at the base of the only staircase he could use to descend. A third uniformed man on horseback, holding a rifle, guarded the main street door, the only exit.

The appearance of the third soldier settled the matter. A crowd of curious onlookers blocked the entrance, making escape impossible.

"They’re after me!" was Andrea’s first thought.

His face went pale. He looked around frantically.

His room, like all others on that floor, had only one exit to the gallery, in full view of everyone.

"I’m finished!" was his second thought.

For someone in Andrea’s position, arrest meant trial and execution without mercy or delay. For a moment, he pressed his head between his hands, nearly mad with terror.

But then a ray of hope glimmered through the chaos of his thoughts. A faint smile appeared on his pale lips and white cheeks.

He looked around and found what he needed on the mantelpiece: pen, ink, and paper.

With forced composure, he dipped the pen in ink and wrote:

"I have no money to pay my bill, but I’m not dishonest. I’m leaving this pin as collateral, it’s worth ten times the amount. Please excuse my early departure. I was embarrassed."

He removed the pin from his cravat and placed it on the paper.

Then, instead of keeping the door locked, he drew back the bolts and even left it slightly open, as if he’d forgotten to close it while leaving. Slipping into the chimney with the practiced movements of an experienced climber, he erased his footprints from the floor and began climbing, the only escape route available.

At that precise moment, the first soldier Andrea had spotted walked upstairs, led by a police inspector and followed by the second soldier who’d been guarding the staircase. The one at the door reinforced them.

Andrea owed this visit to the following circumstances: At dawn, telegraphs across the region had transmitted urgent messages. Every authority immediately began searching for Caderousse’s murderer. Compiègne, being both a royal residence and a fortified town, had plenty of officials, soldiers, and police. They began operations as soon as the telegraph message arrived, naturally directing their first inquiries to the Bell and Bottle, the town’s best-known hotel.

Besides reports from soldiers guarding the Town Hall next door, others had noted many travelers arriving during the night. The soldier who’d been relieved at six o’clock that morning remembered perfectly that just after four, a young man arrived on horseback with a small boy in front of him. After dismissing the boy and horse, the young man knocked at the hotel door, which opened and closed after him.

This late arrival had attracted suspicion. The young man was Andrea, and now the inspector and military officer were approaching his room.

They found the door ajar.