Some parts of France continued to be held by the royalists after the establishment of the Republic.

Insurrectionary war raged in the provinces, particularly the stubborn war of La Vendee, and certain loyal fortresses like Caen managed to resist capture.

It was thus as a prisoner of the royalist faction, and quite out of touch with worldshaking events, that our young hero Chevalier Maurice de Vaudrey lived through the earlier period of the Revolution.

A love-message from him through Picard to Henriette––an unsuccessful attempt to escape; a glimpse of the still handsomely frizzed and powdered head gazing through trefoil Gothic window on the outer sunshine and liberty:––such is all that we may see of de Vaudrey’s strangely trussed up life during this time.

He was still enshrined in the heart of the little seamstress in the Paris faubourg, still dear to his aunt the Countess who with her 137 husband was an emigre beyond the borders. Otherwise, no hermit nor solitary was more completely effaced from the world.

The first light of hope was brought to Caen by a messenger from the Countess, who had managed to smuggle through a letter or two and a small box of gold.

“I dare not advise you,” his kind Aunt wrote. “Escape into France would invite your death as an aristocrat. On the other hand, if you make use of the accompanying pardon signed by your uncle the Count, the Governor of Caen will probably enroll you for the inhuman and useless war of La Vendee. Take the money, my dear Nephew, and use it as you deem best––the messenger will secure it for you outside the prison until you need it!”

De Vaudrey pondered, as his Aunt advised. But, really, there was but the one course for him! To win through, disguised, at whatever peril, to Henriette; to find her and Louise; to save them from that black welter of the Revolution, and guide them out of the country to the loving care of the Countess and the repentant Count: yes, such was the course that both Love and Duty dictated. He would begin it that 138 night, aided by his faithful friend the messenger.

“Hand part of the gold,” he whispered the Countess’s agent, “to some rustic carter on whom you can rely. Bring another part here and give it to a keeper whom I shall point out to you!”

The impromptu little plot worked perfectly. The friendly keeper, having gotten a peep at the ex-Police Prefect’s letter of pardon, needed but the clincher argument of the gold in order to aid de Vaudrey’s escape. A rope over the wall, and even a plank across the moat, were mysteriously provided. In the last silent watch of the night, the go-between (who had been waiting) conducted the escaped prisoner to the carter’s cavern. Already the East was showing the ghostly light of the first faint streaks of dawn.

Having breakfasted in the cave and put his few belongings into a pack, de Vaudrey with the two others stepped out of the dark hole into the growing light.

The carter pointed to the Chevalier’s frizzled locks and elegant if faded dress. “They would take you up at the first village 139 crossing on that!” he remarked. “Your get-up gives you away.”

The Chevalier retired to a new toilette. Within, were the primitive resources of rustic wardrobe. As he emerged again from the cavern, old boon companions would indeed have been startled by the guise he now wore.

Beautiful apparel, cane, wig, lorgnette and snuffbox were in the discard. The frizzled locks were gone, revealing long straight black hair which was crowned by a shabby tricorne hat. The Chevalier’s elegant form was covered by an ill-fitting ragged black suit, which a pair of dusty shoes well matched. Across one shoulder he carried a pack stick, to which a thoroughly disreputable-looking small black bundle was fastened.

“You’ll do now,” said the rustic. “Remember you’re only a helper on a carter’s journey to Paris.”

Rustic and helper took their leave of the go-between by plunging through a wide but shallow stream. When they had emerged at the farther bank, they felt secure that their steps could not be traced. Waving good-byes to the other, the rustic 140 and his man hastened to a stable where they loaded a provision wagon and attached a country Dobbin to the thills. Presently de Vaudrey, in his new character of the carter’s assistant, was on the first stage of the long journey to the storm-wracked metropolis.

The carter’s load was of so little value, the whole outfit so poverty-stricken, that neither country Royalist nor provincial Revolutionary saw fit to bother them.

Gradually the carter sold his wares in the smaller villages en route. They wisely avoided the larger towns. The cart was nearly empty now. Saleables had all been disposed of except a few apples.

“How are you and I going to get into Paris?” said the distinguished young aristocrat, whose respect for the Reuben had increased daily.

“Trust me!” said the other. His broad, moon-faced physiognomy masked the cunning of the fox. “I have this apple here––”

The carter eyed his assistant intently and winked solemnly as if to say: “That will do the trick!”

As they leave the open country behind and jog through the better settled regions immediately north of Paris, let us take our stand beside the “barrier” or outer gate which they are slowly approaching.

Judge Forget-Not and his fellows are inspecting the barriers. The voice of the Chief is heard speaking.

“Watch strictly that no aristocrats escape. Our new law also condemns to death all who harbor an aristocrat.”

The Inquisitor’s face assumes a yet harsher expression as he addresses the guards: “Beware lest you yourselves be suspect!––Remember the sharp female ‘Guillotine’!”

Forget-Not draws a significant hand across the throat. A shudder passes through the more timid folk.

The coarse-faced guards applaud and promise to use the utmost precautions. The judges move on, inspecting another part of the barrier.