“Nothing, my little man,” said one of the masked men in a gentle voice, putting his head through the window of the coupé; “nothing but an account we have to settle with the conductor, which does not in the least concern you travellers. Tell your mother to accept our respectful homage, and to pay no more heed to us than if we were not here.” Then passing to the door of the interior, he added: “Gentlemen, your servant. Fear nothing for your money or jewels, and reassure that nurse—we have not come here to turn her milk.” Then to the conductor: “Now, then, Père Jérôme, we have a hundred thousand francs on the imperial and in the boxes, haven’t we?”
“Gentlemen, I assure you—”
“That the money belongs to the government. It did belong to the bears of Berne; seventy thousand francs in gold, the rest in silver. The silver is on the top of the coach, the gold in the bottom of the coupé. Isn’t that so? You see how well informed we are.”
At the words “bottom of the coupe” Madame de Montrevel gave another cry of terror; she was about to come in contact with men who, in spite of their politeness, inspired her with the most profound terror.
“But what is the matter, mother, what is the matter?” demanded the boy impatiently.
“Be quiet, Edouard; be quiet!”
“Why must I be quiet?”
“Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
“The coach has been stopped.”