Montbar drove as if he had never done anything else in his life; as he crossed the town the windows rattled and the houses shook; never did real postilion crack his whip with greater science.
As he left Mâcon he saw a little troop of horse; they were the twelve chasseurs told off to follow the coach without seeming to escort it. The colonel passed his head through the window and made a sign to the sergeant who commanded them.
Montbar did not seem to notice anything; but after going some four or five hundred yards, he turned his head, while executing a symphony with his whip, and saw that the escort had started.
“Wait, my babes!” said Montbar, “I’ll make you see the country.” And he dug in his spurs and brought down his whip. The horses seemed to have wings, and the coach flew over the cobblestones like the chariot of thunder rumbling past. The conductor became alarmed.
“Hey, Master Antoine,” cried he, “are you drunk?”
“Drunk? fine drinking!” replied Montbar; “I dined on a beetroot salad.”
“Damn him! If he goes like that,” cried Roland, thrusting his head through the window, “the escort can’t keep up.”
“You hear what he says!” shrieked the conductor.
“No,” replied Montbar, “I don’t.”
“Well, he says that if you keep this up the escort can’t follow.”